The blood-red man raised his glass, watching the crystal sphere’s scene—a white-haired girl at her desk, face in her hands like a wilted lily.

Seeing her pain, his smile unfurled like a scarlet blossom in winter frost.

“Before fate, everyone’s just a gambler with no cards,” he murmured, voice smooth as oil on black water.

He glanced at the woman kneeling beside him, lifted her chin, and bent down; his fingers toyed with her soft skin, while the human-fat lamp cast shifting shadows like slow waves.

“See? This is what you get for defying fate… oh, my poor fiancée. Until she learns she’s got no stake, she won’t escape her useless struggle.”

“…Yes, master.”

“So, Firefly—you won’t make her foolish mistake, will you?” His words coiled like smoke.

“O-of course, I—”

Her mouth was stopped; his long, wet tongue slid in like a venomous snake, locking her tongue as if strangling prey.

The suffocating kiss lasted minutes, like he wasn’t a living thing, needing no air under a starless sky.

He truly didn’t worry; his life didn’t lean on animal breath, only on a darker tide beneath the skin.

They held that pose until the living carpet of human hide beneath them shrank like drying bark, its last life wrung out.

Only then did he release Firefly’s face, fingers leaving behind heat like embers.

She stared, dazed, mind fogged like a rain-soaked window, and only slowly returned to herself.

She could see it—his mood was bright, brighter than usual, like dawn on a blood-red sea.

Mockery glimmered in his eyes, just like that kiss, a blade hidden in silk.

It wasn’t the usual kiss that sought pleasure; it was a taunt aimed through the crystal at that other woman, a thorn pressed with a smile.

What she couldn’t do with the one she loved, Firefly could do at a whim—comparison as a lash, simple joy as crude as snapping bones.

She’d seen better sport—make someone’s broken bone spear his kin—yet tonight his delight bloomed like a wicked lantern.

Only because it was her—because that woman was a magnet, drawing him the way moonlight draws tides.

Whether she suffered or rejoiced, he always found his joy in her, as if her mere being were incense smoke curling toward him.

This truth lit Firefly’s chest with a jealous flame, a kiln burning without a heart.

Even if she had no heart to burn, the heat still clawed at her like a red fox under her ribs.

“Oh, Firefly—what are you doing?” His voice flicked like a fan in summer.

Her arms looped his neck; her perfect curves pressed to him, a river meeting stone, teeth grazing his ear like a playful cat.

She licked down—jaw, throat, chest—each touch a warm brushstroke on cold marble.

“Master… look at me,” she breathed, her heat rising like steam from rose-pink skin.

Everything in her sent signals, fireflies at dusk calling toward a dark grove.

Irony pricked her—she suddenly understood that pitiable blond human, the way an echo understands a canyon.

She wanted his gaze only on her, no more drifting to those two humans, like shutters closing against a storm.

Luck favored her; he didn’t refuse or glance back at the crystal. He cupped her head and pressed down, guiding like a hand on a reed flute.

Joy flooded her like a mouthful of hot blood, savage and sweet; in her mind she mocked the blond silhouette like a crow on a fence.

She forgot she’d just scorned this low joy of contrast, and sank into a victory of spirit, a needed warmth like a blanket at night.

She didn’t know that pulling his gaze away would mark the wheel of fate with another line, a stroke that would turn like a hidden gear.

The farce called the Flower Dancer election in the Elf capital swelled like a storm, its wind blowing all the way to Sanda.

On the roads, Nacha Tribe folk carried papers, chatter rippling like market flags; they bought updates twice a day, coin clinking like rain.

Little bronze coins filled patched satchels, and the newsboys grinned like sunflowers turning toward noon.

That wind spiraled into the quiet orphanage too; at sunset, Pengpeng sat on a half-broken swing, reading aloud like a bell.

“Breaking! From our frontline reporter: Miss Lian Ke announced her vote at a family banquet—full support for the Illuin Family!”

“A new force that once always abstained has joined the Flower Dancer race. Is it for power or love? And our dark horse, Miss Adelaide—what role does she play?”

“How will this shape the coming Trial of ‘Truth’? Stay tuned and keep your eyes sharp!” Her voice rose like a hawk, high and bright.

Carried by the printed mood, Pengpeng’s tone climbed until it became a broadcaster’s brass, pulling the kids into a tide of smiles.

“Hooray! Lady Adelaide will win!” came the chorus, little hands flying like sparrows.

“Teach those bad long-ears from the Carne Family a hard lesson!” said another, cheeks puffed like drums.

“Right! Bring back our young lord’s easy days! I don’t wanna eat the old hag’s boiled Kapa greens—ow, ow, pain!”

Tigalin tried to slip in his private gripe, but Pengpeng grabbed his cheeks and lifted him, his face stretched like dough.

“Kapa greens are full of good stuff. Keep yapping and you’re skipping dinner,” she snapped, voice crisp as a bamboo slap.

“Hurts, hurts—my mouth’s gonna split!” he wailed, legs kicking like a hooked fish, strength gap laid out like a river bank.

He struggled and squirmed, but habit ruled; until he yielded, his feet wouldn’t touch earth, like a lantern hung high.

He finally gave up his noble dream of resistance, ready to apologize, when Pengpeng suddenly let him down like a rope slipping free.

He blinked, off balance, then saw Pengpeng frozen, staring at the door like a deer at the edge of a clearing.

“It’s Teacher Mira! Teacher Mira’s back!” Copato shouted first, twin tip-ears twitching like grass blades in wind.

All the small ears trembled with him, including Pengpeng’s; mercy had a name, and it stood at the orphanage gate—Mira.

Just like last time, the shadow under her hood shocked Pengpeng, a cold splash like well water; she grabbed the kids before they swarmed.

With threats of no dinner like a shepherd’s crook, she herded them into the canteen, patching order like stitching a torn sleeve.

Order held, but then—silence fell between the two, heavy as mountain mist.

It felt like the day Anta and Copato were attacked, replayed with a dim theater lamp, only now Mira carried no smoke and no torn clothes.

Her face was tidier, but her expression was worse, hollower, pupils drifting like a boat with no oar.

“Uh… Miss Mira?” Pengpeng offered, voice small, a pebble tossed into a still pond.

“…” Silence again, dense as wet ash; Pengpeng’s tongue stuck like gum on a shoe.

She remembered—Mira had said she was going to the Elf capital to see her sister; the thought rose like a bubble and popped into words.

“So, did you see her? Is she okay?” She asked without thinking, a foot landing on a buried snare.

Mira’s face darkened fast, thunder over a dry field; Pengpeng wished for a wall to bang her head against, to undo the step.

Before she found a joke to dodge, Mira stepped closer and lifted Pengpeng’s collar with one hand, a motion neat as a blade.

Was she finally mad enough to hit her? Two heavy slaps? Pengpeng flinched, eyes shut, bracing like a small drum under a stick.

No blows fell; fingers only tugged the collar, a light pluck like lifting a leaf.

“Whose is this?” Mira asked, voice flat as winter stone.

“Eh?” Pengpeng cracked one eye and saw Mira staring at her collar, gaze fixed like a nail.

On the white cloth lay a dark red smear, stark as rust on snow, not part of any simple design.

Pengpeng’s eyes widened; the mark had been hidden inside, but now it breathed air again like a moth from a seam.

She stepped back, turned fast, fixed the collar, then scratched her head and forced a smile like a crooked crescent.

“Ha, haha… that’s… a cooking stain! Nothing serious!”

She tried to pivot—Mira must be tired; let her drop her bags; dinner first, then talk—words rolled like marbles.

Mira’s unfocused eyes didn’t ripple; they stayed on that brownish spot like a hawk on a field mouse.

“Whose blood is that?” she asked, the question falling like cold rain.