Adelaide’s headache wasn’t because Toka looked hard to beat; it stabbed like a needle behind the eye because she recognized that shape.

In the “script,” Skela had a mini‑boss before her showdown with Mira; the road was blocked by that thing wrapped in pale‑violet slime like rotting lavender.

He had nasty little tricks, like flies on meat, but he wasn’t truly strong; the point was, he shouldn’t be here now, and he shouldn’t be Adelaide’s foe.

The fight was already a storm you couldn’t outrun, and the heroine who should clash with him stood aside, trading blows with a childhood friend the script never wrote.

What a mess, like threads tangled in rain—was the story still running on its rails?

Adelaide exhaled a thin breath, sharp as frost; the spin of events scratched at her nerves, and something else pricked at her mind.

He did say “medium” just now, didn’t he? The word hung like a red stamp.

Last time, from the man in black, Adelaide thought “medium” meant she could decode Blood Magic scrolls; yet Toka said Skela was also a “medium,” cold as iron.

Adelaide was certain Skela couldn’t use Blood Magic; that pebble shattered her deduction like glass and fogged the path.

Her eyes narrowed, like shutters closing on a blade of light.

She hated the unknown, a blind river; unknown meant no control, and no control meant her plan would burn like paper.

Enough. Thinking was smoke; she’d end him fast and wring the truth from his throat.

She lifted her gaze to Toka, barely human, a warped silhouette; the Bloodsword in her hand glowed dark red, like embers under ash.

In the “script,” the heroine beat him by striking a weak point above his right chest, a nail in soft wood.

She stepped, and the black tentacles around Toka whipped out like spears, each thrust heavy enough to punch through stone.

Adelaide merely flicked her right hand; the semi‑fluid Bloodsword gave a mechanical click‑clack, like gears biting; dark slots popped, and the blade parted mid‑air.

Separated edges stretched like iron vines, shaping into a chain‑blade, red as a storm at dusk.

Her wrist moved, and the chain‑blade raised a blood‑colored gale through the room, shredding tentacles like wet paper, then coiling Toka’s right arm.

Metal screamed where chain met slime; purple slickness rasped like steel on steel, and the edges couldn’t pierce his skin’s mask.

Toka laughed, low and twisted, like a cracked bell; he grabbed the chain and hauled, trying to drag Adelaide into his maw.

The drug in him had built strength like bricks; Adelaide’s slim frame under her black robe couldn’t match that pull, and she slipped off balance toward the jaws.

His left‑hand blade stabbed, a hawk diving; she spun mid‑air, a falling leaf catching a breeze, and slipped past by a hair.

That, of course, was part of her plan, a card tucked under silk.

As the stinking violet slime skimmed her cheek like a slug’s trail, she stared at the hand beneath, and time froze like ice.

So, these hands… were the ones that turned Mira’s hair gold, like sunlight stolen?

Her heart thumped, a drum in a quiet room; a cruel, feverish smile curled unbidden, and red light flared in her empty left palm.

A second Bloodsword formed out of air like congealing dawn, and she drove it toward Toka’s right chest, straight as a needle.

A dull grunt sounded, thick as mud; blood sprayed in arcs like broken petals.

The “script” held true; the purple slime was iron everywhere but there, and her blade slid in without resistance like water through cloth.

She almost forgot she needed him breathing; hate flooded her, black and hot, and reason cracked like ice.

Even as the tip punched out his back like a thorn, she pushed deeper; her wrist turned, and the flipping edge tore meat with a thick wet rip.

The wound widened like a mouth, hungry and red.

No mercy; she pinned Toka to the wall like a specimen, and a normal man would have blacked out under that pain like a candle snuffed.

His enhanced body held, yet his slime‑masked features twisted, warped like wax.

Adelaide savored the pain on his face; she licked her lips, and strange satisfaction rose like smoke from a brazier.

Not enough; she wanted more—skin peeled inch by inch like bark, Blood Magic tortures tested on living flesh like knives on leather.

She wanted muscle and vessels to rot like fruit, until his soul shattered under twin grindstones of flesh and mind.

She was a breath from drowning in that sweet vision, a red sea—until she saw him smiling.

Why? In a pit this deep, why smile like a wolf?

A bad premonition beat like wings; she followed his gaze and saw they’d drifted to the screen with the projection array, pale as a shroud.

Hazel barely slipped past a sweeping lightning slash from Skela; her knees buckled like reeds, and she almost fell.

Their fight had lasted only moments, yet wounds bloomed on Hazel like thorns; her body pushed past its limits like a bow drawn too far.

Only fine water magic kept her muscles tuned like harp strings; without it, she couldn’t even run.

Even then, she couldn’t avoid the next combo; a fire‑and‑wood fireball burst in front of her like a blooming ember.

She raised a water shield and quenched the flames like rain, but debris slammed her chest, and she tumbled, undignified as a rolling stone.

Her helplessness wasn’t because Hazel was truly bad at fighting, as Adelaide had said with cold smoke.

She wasn’t weak; among her class, few could handle two or more Blood Puppets like juggling knives.

Aside from prodigies like Neprah, Hazel had few rivals at Holywell Academy, a shore with scarce footprints.

But her strength mattered only against normal folk; in the jaws of monsters like Adelaide and Skela, all she could do was dodge like a rabbit.

Worse, she was injured, a cracked cup carried through a storm.

Another wind‑and‑fire combo roared in; she was already stretched thin, and the gale tilted her center like a tipped scale.

One wrong angle, and sharp pain shot from her already fractured right calf, like glass in flesh.

She stumbled, and Skela’s assault didn’t pause; the next heartbeat put a blade of holy light in Hazel’s face like a sunrise turned spear.

In panic, Hazel grabbed the blade; water mana damped it like a wet cloth, yet light cut her palm open like a hot wire.

Blood steamed off the heat before it could drip, leaving a burnt smell like scorched wool.

“Wake up… Sanyi!” Her cry tore like wind through chimes.

Skela’s face was inches away, pale as moonlight, yet deaf to Hazel’s ragged plea; her eyes looked at Hazel, but her pupils diffused like ink in water.

Hazel saw the pallor deepen and bit down; her free right hand pressed to Skela’s chest like a seal.

A water‑magic array lit under her palm, and threads of blue dove into the silver‑haired girl’s body, hunting Toka’s tampering like hounds.

But, as before, backlash surged like a hot tide; warm iron sweetness filled Hazel’s mouth.

She met Skela’s gaze, eyes brimming with pain and despair like rainclouds heavy with storm.

Why, Sanyi… why reject my mana, like a door barred from within?

Cuts bloomed outside, organs rattled by that backlash like drums; Hazel’s grip loosened.

The lightblade slit her clothes like cloth under a tailor’s knife and angled for her chest, cold as winter.

Then Skela’s motion stalled for a single beat—not awakening, but a snag in a puppet’s string.

Crimson flushed wrong across her face; blood spilled from her lips like wine, and her right shoulder’s habit went red in an instant.

Skela lost balance and let Hazel go; she staggered back two steps, feet scraping like chalk.

Hazel didn’t understand at first; then she saw, under torn fabric, a blood‑hole that had appeared from nowhere, like a bite in air.

She remembered Toka was fighting Adelaide, and the reason Skela’s body rejected her mana flashed like lightning.

Life‑Synchronization Array—the name rang like a bell.

It’s one of water magic’s most complex, most powerful healing spells, a bridge of life between two shores.

It lets the caster share life‑force to keep a dying patient alive, a steady flame cupped in two hands.

It’s famous for its complexity and for the nobility of its users, robes clean as dawn.

After synchronization, the patient binds to the healer’s life source like a tether; if the patient dies, the healer is struck hard, like a felled tree.

That selfless virtue is the Healing Faculty’s creed, a song of clear springs.

Yet now the spell worked in reverse—Skela, deeply bound, was puppeted like a marionette and couldn’t help rejecting Hazel’s mana like oil against water.

The shared‑damage feature cut both ways; wounds on the caster echoed onto the recipient like mirrored scars.

Her sudden shoulder wound came from Adelaide and Toka’s clash, a ripple passing through a chain.

In other words, Skela was both Toka’s leverage against Hazel and his hostage against Adelaide, a blade held to two throats.