Adelaide released the hilt, and the Bloodsword melted into a puddle of red, as she back-stepped twice like a dusk shadow peeling off a wall.

You said you’d test years of work on me, yet that vial’s just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Toka.

Toka’s blurred features lifted, a grin showing like a crack in wet clay.

As the sister who snapped your sibling’s shin and watched her flail like a hooked fish, I figured Number Thirty-One meant nothing to you, Miss Adelaide.

Disgust pricked like thorns; Adelaide clicked her tongue in her mind.

She’d been careless; the thought should’ve bloomed earlier, like a late-budding flower. In the “script,” he chained his life to Crown Prince Samir’s, sand in the heroine’s gears, stalling them.

But Samir wasn’t here, so she hadn’t expected him to mirror the trick against her; being maneuvered tasted rancid, and her eyes darkened like stormwater.

Disgusting, like rot under the tongue.

Everything keeps straying from the “script,” fine, yet it copies the foul parts to a tee, like a damned god tugging her strings.

Curse all she wanted, she still had no fix for the life-synchronization array, a knot she couldn’t loosen; black tendrils she’d shredded regrew, lashing like ivy whips.

She slid aside like wind slipping past reeds, mind hunting a way to subdue Toka without hurting him.

Enwinding Vines? Blood Bog? Or just cage him with an Eyeball Tower?

A string of Blood Magic restraints flashed through her mind, but the thought soured; under her robe hung only empty vials, offerings gone like dried wells.

This venture cut her to the bone; she’d hauled out saved premium stock with grit, like carrying fire through rain.

In hindsight, wise; even with Hazel’s stash, her offerings barely fueled three legion-tier spells, three torches in a cavern.

It also meant she had nothing left; complex rites needed materials, and her restraints would carve Toka into a stump, like pruning a tree to a pole.

Of course she could do as Toka said—ignore Skela’s aftermath and cut Toka down like tearing cloth.

Temptation coiled like smoke; she was Adelaide, the one who hurt her sister, the climber who’d use anything to reach a crown—what’s one Skela?

Adelaide ground her teeth; tendrils had slithered up behind her while she wavered, and she flipped her blade, scattering steel petals, shredding them to scraps.

Toka’s hand-blade followed like a falling guillotine; she parried on reflex, catching a slit-mouthed grin on his face like torn leather.

In the next beat, the purple slime forming his blade dispersed, baring Toka’s skin like bark stripped from a branch.

Without its violet shield, that pallid arm, pale from years underground, was about to be severed—but the blood-red blade froze midair like a hawk checked in wind.

That heartbeat of hesitation opened a door; dozens of hidden tendrils surged from behind Toka like a wave of eels.

Adelaide snapped her blade back, dodging most strikes like a dancer in rain; a few speared her robe, shredding a gaping tear like ripped night cloth.

Her black bodysuit flashed—along with Blood Magic circuits pulsing atop it, exposed like veins thudding under skin.

Looks like Number Three was right… the Douglas Family’s eldest has gone soft-hearted, he said, eyes glinting like cold needles.

Soft-hearted—the words struck like a bell; before the soul-rending storm could swallow her, a sting shot from her wrist like a thorn.

She rode that pain like a bridle, tamping down the bucking emotion.

Maybe your organization just misunderstands me; I’ve always thought life’s a garden worth tending, worth anyone’s care.

Under her calm, hatred ground like grit; Adelaide let a proper smile bloom like porcelain.

No, it wasn’t mercy; it was pride refusing to bow, like a blade that won’t rust.

She’d already flashed her trump, the Crimson Frenzy; she wouldn’t accept ending with a corpse, cold as river stone.

And if Skela died, Hazel would sour against her—Hazel, her most vital, only supplier, like the lone spring in a desert.

Adelaide stacked reasons in her heart like stones, while she fed power into the metal bracelet on her wrist, a ring cold as moonlight.

Magic stirred; the inner band sprouted embroidery-needle pricks, sharp thorns pressing into skin, and pain drew her focus away from the soul-splitting rift like rain dousing sparks.

She’d forged this tactic after losing to the black-cloaked foe last time; self-inflicted wakefulness worked like cold water, crude but clean.

With the bracelet’s physical aid, she wasn’t dizzy to collapse like before, no longer swaying like a felled reed.

The thought sparked a thin joy, like winning a round in her duel with the god at a crossroads.

Of course, Toka couldn’t know; his gaze clung to the pulsing circuits on her slender limbs like moths to lantern lines.

“Godstride, Tanka’s Footwork, Cat Under Moonlight…”

He recited Blood Magic names in a row; each tightened Adelaide’s brow, each a thread in the circuits coiled round her like vines.

Brilliant, truly brilliant, he said, clapping, hands hollow like drums in a cave.

I was puzzled from the start; your heart’s a house of cards, yet you dance a knight’s blade, he murmured, voice slick as oil.

Without these arrays, standing would weigh like a mountain on your back.

Or maybe your medicine was sublime, and the old treatment finally cured my heart, gifting me freedom like chains falling?

Adelaide tried to muddy the water, but Toka seemed deaf, studying her legs—perfect for a noble, too slender for a fighter—like a collector eyeing glass.

Normally, these arrays last under ten minutes on average, candles that gutter fast.

You’re different; your candle keeps burning without a relight, a flame stubborn in wind.

As he spoke, excitement and a ribbon of envy spread across his slime-slick face like oil on water.

To keep them running so long, it must be… your priceless blood, like liquid rubies, right, holder of the Sacrifice Domain.