“The kind get bullied; the gentle get ridden. Predator eats prey—that truth holds in any world. I won’t pity scum like you.” Murder flickered in Medith’s eyes, her fingers clenched tight around the longbow like claws clutching frost.
Rage surged first—then she rolled hard to the left. A Wind-Cleaving Arrow whooshed through and bored cleanly through the tree she’d just occupied, like a spear drilling the heart of old wood.
Her boot kissed bark. She stepped up the trunk and rose light as a nightingale, her motion a shadow skimming moonlit leaves.
She half-crouched on a branch, pressing down the hem of her skirt like shielding a flame from wind. The bowstring drew back; her left eye closed to sight the far distance. “Good. Your vision outstrips what I imagined—must be an Elf Clan trait.”
Her irises, two green agates, gleamed with an uncanny light. Leaves around her stirred without wind, whispering shhhh—shhhh, a hush like rain on silk. Fallen leaves began to spiral upward, a small Cyclone weaving itself from earth’s breath.
The arrowhead kindled with a point of emerald, bright as dew under dawn.
“Holy Elf?!” Melia’s beautiful eyes almost split with shock. Medith’s archery had climbed to a peak she would never surpass; her focus and will stood at the top of their race.
Just by drawing the bow to gather power, she set the grove and ground humming in resonance, lending her their strength. Melia stared at Medith’s small frame, her face filled with awe, as if a sapling had called a forest to war.
That single green spark also painted a perfect target for the hunters. In an instant, a rain of arrows came side by side, their lines aiming straight for Medith’s chest like black reeds driven by storm.
She didn’t flinch. Her right pupil snapped wide, then the arrow loosed. Thud— The release shook the air; the recoil flung Medith back over three meters, as if thunder had slapped her midflight. The arrow surged on, the emerald point streaking far ahead like a comet.
Clang—clang—clang—snap—snap—snap— Her green shot chewed through every Wind-Cleaving Arrow in its path, breaking shafts and severing heads, the sounds a chain of steel and splinter.
Whooosh— The green arrow carved a line across the sky and fell. Where it struck, a towering Cyclone rose, rabid and tearing everything within—trees and weeds lifted, shredded to confetti by a mad gale.
Look closer: blood spattered and flesh fragments wheeled in that wind, making the storm a red-toothed maw.
No one knew how long the world paused. Medith crashed to the ground, pushed herself up, and shook her dizzy head, her mind a bell rung too hard. Through the blur, human voices reached her, ragged with panic: “Fall back—!”
She stood again, legs quaking like reeds by a river. Strength fled her; hands trembled; her knees buckled and she dropped. Her dress and skirt had been ripped to tatters by the gale, leaving her disheveled, raw from wind and grit.
Cuts and torn cloth mottled her skin; her chest was suddenly bared to daylight. Even she, shameless by necessity, gave a soft “Ah!” and covered herself with one arm like clutching snow.
“Ah—ha.” Melia, finally regaining strength, wrenched the arrow pinning her free in a single brutal tug. She took it like iron—no groan, only sweat streaming down her brow like thaw.
She pressed both palms to her injured leg. Green leaves gathered from around, layering over her wound like scales. A radiant emerald light pulsed from that living bandage, while she closed her eyes and leaned on the tree, face slackening into rare rest.
Medith felt her strength get sucked dry in an instant, her vision fogging, the world tilting end over end like a boat in a whirlpool. Fine sweat beaded across her skin.
Balance snapped—up became down, down became up—and the nausea churned almost a minute before she gagged and spat out a mouthful of fresh blood.
Relief followed like cool rain. Her body obeyed again; strength seeped back, slow as sap rising.
“Your mana burn’s too severe. You drained yourself, then started pulling from your life force. Honestly—who runs themselves that ragged?” Melia came over and set both hands to Medith’s brow.
Medith looked frail now, her thoughts scattered like leaves. A soft cool washed over her forehead, and then her vision went black. She slipped into sleep’s deep river.
“You finally chose to use it… didn’t you?
I… in the name of the Western Expanse… order you… to annihilate yourselves where you stand.
No one’s ever seen… hair… like that.
I declare it! The seventh…! Official…
For freedom!
For faith!
For…
Our will shall endure forever!
May the world know no slaughter!”
“Ah—” Medith jolted upright from the bed. Sweat slicked her brow; her mouth was dry as dust. She glanced to the side, grabbed a handkerchief, and wiped her forehead like blotting storm from glass.
She snatched a cup and downed water in one long swallow. Hoo— Breath came back; life rushed in like sunlight through shutters.
It had to be a dream. After a flash of white, she’d arrived in a world unknown—a vast plain stretching endless, horizon swallowing horizon.
To the east, she’d seen the shadow of buildings, colossal and grand—taller than anything she’d ever imagined, spires like spears punching the sky. People in white and people in black filled the edges like chess pieces facing off.
Among the black, one figure wore dark armor, a shade that seemed to swallow every shred of light. He gripped a skull-greatsword in his right hand, and from the sealed helm gleamed a pair of eerie blue eyes.
Those eyes flickered like candle flames in wind, always on the verge of dying.
Then came the roar of battle, a chorus of screams, blast after blast, and pillars of white light spiking upward like frozen lightning.
At the end, a youth in white fell from high sky, broken words flooding her ears. A massive white flash followed, blooming into a giant mushroom cloud—the kind of pure white that brands itself into a soul. The spectacle was so fierce she almost stopped breathing.
She shook her head, trying to peel her mind away from the memory. Even now, sketching that scene in thought raised gooseflesh along her arms like frost.
She glanced down. She’d changed into a white shirt—wrong size, sitting oddly on her frame—and a chill brushed her lower half like night air.
She looked—and realized she wasn’t wearing pants. Her long, pale legs shone, the only cover a pink little pair of underwear. The shirt at least was long enough to drape to the tops of her thighs.
“This might be worse…” Medith eyed her not-small-not-large chest and the smooth curve of her waist. She admitted it—she was a little smitten with herself. Still, no strange thoughts; she was a woman now, after all.
She took in the room. Wood everywhere, warm as sun-baked bark. The windows were shut tight, yet daylight poured through, bright and gentle, filling the space with quiet gold.
Just then, the wooden door creaked—eeeya— Someone pushed it open. Medith, instinct pricking like a thorn, tugged her shirt tight with her right hand and crossed her left arm over her chest.
