“So, they’ve already reached Proudmoon City,” the words fell like a feather settling on still water.
Asasaya set down his teacup like placing a small moon on its saucer, then looked to Aisha, calm as winter stone. “Then what should we do?”
“Mmm, this one’s easy,” Aisha said, voice like silk rustling in a quiet grove. “Send a mage corps to harass them first.”
She touched a finger to her lips, her tongue a flash of scarlet silk, the motion serpentine and wickedly sweet.
“But the other side has someone at the Holy Peak of the Sacred Realm,” Asasaya said, worry coiling like smoke behind steady eyes. “What use is a mage corps?”
“It’s fine,” Aisha replied, confidence like a cat in sunlight. “Back in the Latvis Empire, our eyes said it was mostly that youth who acted. The Holy Peak only moved when he faltered.”
She picked up a cake and crumbled it like snowflakes between pale fingers, feeding herself piece by piece with lazy grace. “So, Patriarch Asasaya, just send a mage corps to hang a charge on them, then arrest them. If they resist, we have a clean excuse to strike.”
“Mmm. That makes sense,” Asasaya said, his agreement falling like a gavel against oak.
Without a charge, he had no righteous banner to lift; this wasn’t children brawling, but a storm that could pull in many branches.
“Where are they now?” His gaze tightened like frost on glass.
“Let me see,” Aisha murmured, her eyes dimming like embers behind smoke. “Got it—southwest of Proudmoon City, in the Crescent Pavilion, eating.”
“Good. Fulaitu, go call Intela to me,” Asasaya said, his tone flat as a blade’s spine.
“Yes, but…” The old butler in a housekeeper’s coat glanced at Aisha, hesitation hanging like mist. “Patriarch, are we really doing this? Crossing a Holy Peak is like poking a sleeping tiger.”
“I know,” Asasaya said, helplessness like a sigh in a long hall. “But Larr’s ruined arm has already spread across the Eastern Moon Empire. If the Kage Family does nothing, we become a public joke.”
His head shook as if shedding rain, yet duty clung like wet cloth. For a house like the Kage Family, face was a banner in the wind; a slap left it torn.
“Very well. Let’s hope the storm doesn’t break too hard,” Fulaitu said, his breath a dim lantern, and he left the hall.
A minute later.
“Patriarch, you called?” The voice entered like a bright trumpet before dawn.
Fulaitu returned with a strikingly handsome youth in a lavish magus robe, silk flowing like water over armor.
This was Intela Kage, the Kage Family’s most famous prodigy, an SS‑rank Magister at eighteen, talent blazing like a comet.
“Correct, Intela,” Asasaya said, resolve like ice in the marrow. “Take a mage corps to the Crescent Pavilion.”
He took the crystal ball from Aisha’s hand, its light like a caught firefly, and passed it over. “Seize that youth. If you can’t, pin a crime on him. We need a handle.”
“No problem!” Intela’s smile flashed like steel in the sun. “Leave it to me, Patriarch. I’ll see it done.”
“Good. No delays,” Asasaya said, his words marching like boots.
“As you command!” Intela bowed, crisp as snapping banners, and departed.
Outside the Crescent Pavilion.
“The food here’s great,” Hill said, contentment warm as a hearth. “But it still can’t beat Boss’s cooking.”
“Agreed,” Xinuo said, her voice cool as moonlight on a lake.
We’d wandered until our legs felt like lead, then the Crescent Pavilion appeared like a lantern on a snowy street, so we went in to rest and eat.
This time I paid, of course, and when I handed over a Purplegold Coin, the waitress’s face bloomed like a firework—priceless.
“Really?” I asked, my heart rising like a kite in a soft wind.
“Really!” Hill beamed, trust bright as spring. “Boss’s food is the best in the world!”
“I don’t know about ‘best in the world,’” Xinuo said, serenity like a quiet garden. “But Servant’s cooking is the best I’ve tasted.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, joy opening like a flower after rain.
“Then let’s find a place to stay,” I added, plans unfolding like a map. “We’ll be in Proudmoon City for a while.”
“Yeah! Let’s go house hunting!” Hill chirped, energy crackling like sunlight on waves.
“Mhm,” Xinuo nodded, calm as a willow.
We were about to move when a cold voice cut in like sleet. “No need to find lodging. Be smart and come with us.”
Dozens of mages closed in like a tightening net, most at B‑rank or higher, and their leader was a boy, an SS‑rank Magister, chin lifted like a spearpoint.
His eyes slid to Xinuo, first with shock like a struck bell, then with greed pooling like oil.
“Beautiful miss, I’m Intela Kage, son of the Kage Family’s Grand Elder Jiafa,” he said, smile coiling like a snake. “Would you be interes—”
“You’re annoying,” I snapped, disgust flaring like sparks in dry straw before the words left him.
My bracelet flowed into the Shattered Light Sword, silver light like a crescent river in my grip, and I sent a Sword Aura slicing like a lightning arc.
“What!” Intela’s face drained, his wand whipping like a reed in gale. “Triple Magic Shield!”
Three round shields bloomed before him like stacked disks of glass.
Crack!
Sword Aura met shield, and the shields shattered like thin ice under a boot.
“Not good—Hand of the Fire God!” he shouted, panic beating like wings.
A massive arm of flame surged forth, tendons writhing like lava, and hammered down on the Sword Aura.
Boom!
The impact burst like thunder in a canyon, fire and light tearing the ground open like a split seam.
“Puh!” Intela flew back like a broken kite, blood spattering like plum petals, and his lavish robe hung in scorched rags.
Silence rang. The surrounding mages stared at me, shock frozen like frost on their lashes.
“Cough, cough.” Pale as paper, Intela dragged himself up, fished a vial from a wide sleeve like a conjurer, and downed it in one pull.
He tossed the bottle aside, glass skipping like a stone, and glared at me with eyes like burning coals. “You bastard!”
“How dare you attack the Kage Family’s mage corps in public!” his voice cracked like a whip. “All of you—on him!”
“Seize that bastard!” he roared, cruelty cold as iron. “Alive or dead—doesn’t matter!”
