Melia, Milia! Stall the White Tiger. His blows land like falling boulders, but his swing crawls; every hammer drop must reset, and that recovery freezes him for two heartbeats.
With your quickness, he’s a target painted by the wind. He’s wounded. You two finish him; I’ll kill the Tooth Tiger.
Medith spoke crisp as a blade. She moved sword-and-boot in one breath, booting the Tooth Tiger tens of meters like a tossed log. She broke away like a gust to switch fields.
Damned woman! The White Tiger hopped high like a furious cat; her words swept him like trash, and worse—they nailed his weakness in daylight.
Don’t think that gives you a chance. Even a starved camel outweighs a horse—you know that. He raised his warhammer, white light spilling cold as moon frost.
The two women turned and vaulted onto a high platform. We know. But you’re no camel—you’re a dog, a cur borrowing the tiger’s roar.
You filthy bitches! Veins braided up his neck like ropes, and he slammed the hammer down. The platform blew apart like wet paper under thunder.
Milia backflipped midair and loosed an arrow upside down. Just before it kissed his chest, the White Tiger spun and smashed it. He whipped up a gale with his hammer and dragged both women from the sky.
The wind hurled them toward the city wall like leaves; they staggered and barely found footing. The White Tiger was already charging, hammer low and legs like pounding hooves. Rend! He brought a killing blow down toward the closer Milia.
Milia lunged aside like a startled deer, but the shockwave hit. Blood sprayed from her lips, and she flew more than ten meters, crashing to earth, life or death unknown.
Melia didn’t look her way; anger throbbed first, then resolve. She bit down, teeth cold as frost, and gathered a wind lance in a heartbeat—her arrowhead hardening into a long spear point.
Boom—air cracked the way only an A-class Sprite could make it, and her shot streaked toward the White Tiger like a hawk.
He was still locked in recovery, his body stiff as iron; defending was impossible. He planted his hammer and flipped into a handstand midair to skirt the killing line, but his right hand wasn’t so lucky. He tried to shrink it, yet the wind tip punched through his wrist.
Ah—! He clutched the wound and screamed, voice raw as torn cloth. The wind lance had gouged wide, churning the whole wrist; only two tendons hung like frayed cords, ready to tear at a breeze.
Ah—ah—ah... ah... Ruthless, he ripped the dangling hand free and hurled it aside like a broken branch.
Melia saw him sagging toward blackout and knew the river of blood would take him in minutes. Chest and wrist poured red, painting the ground; his eyes fluttered like dying moths.
She ran to Milia, breath ragged like bellows, and poured recovery magic into her. Damn it—no trees or leaf-fall nearby; I can’t borrow more life force. The pale green glow was thin as spring moss.
Cough... cough... Milia spat threads of red and blinked awake. Mel... sis... did we... win...?
Silly girl—we won. In the wind they had spoken before: I’ll sell him an opening. I’ll bend the air and put myself on the knife’s edge. He’s blind with rage, and the captain carved a gash that won’t stop bleeding. He’s more pressed than we are.
Then, Sis, go all in on him.
Why not let him bleed out? Why risk it?
End it fast. Captain Medith drilled it into us. This is war—every heartbeat steals a variable. Move.
I’ll go!
No time—the strike’s coming! Stick to the plan!
Mel-sis... Milia’s weak voice cut her memory like a thin blade. Fi... finish... Her slender index finger lifted with effort, pointing at the White Tiger, still bleeding like a broken spring.
Melia’s face flickered with mercy, then hardened. She raised the bow and sent an arrow through his skull like a winter spike. Medith stepped in, checked the shot, then still drew her sword across his throat, neat as a butcher.
Medith stared at the White Tiger, maybe dead already, blood geysering from head and wrist like twin fountains, and her expression tangled like storm grass. She had thought she’d gag. She had thought she’d fear.
Instead she felt nothing but anger and relief, and a bite of pleasure, sharper than any craving of the flesh.
Only devils can deal with demons. Devils savor the kill. So savor it—don’t think. Thinking will get you killed and doom what you’re sworn to protect.
But... like this... am I still me? Melia looked at her hands, glazed in blood like lacquer, and the revenge on humans tasted less sweet than her imagining—guilt and pity rose like fog.
Mel-sis... the Mountain Bandits... still haven’t pulled back... Milia’s words drifted like wind-bells. Lightning snapped through Melia; she pulled her cold mask on again and set to healing Milia’s wounds.
Your White Tiger brother’s already by my hand... Medith spoke as she slid the back of her blade across her own soft neck, a gesture cold as autumn.
Bitch! You filthy sluts! The Tooth Tiger roared, voice like a mangy wolf. I’ll kill you! I’ll smash your limbs, tear your clothes, rip your pants, and stomp you into the dirt in front of my brother!
I’ll show you hell, show you despair! His eyes glowed red inside the mask like coals, and his grip on the spiked club tightened until the wooden haft cracked with spider lines.
Medith tossed her hair, a stream of silk in the wind. Then come. If you can do it, I’ll kneel before your brother and moan myself senseless, and he’ll claw back from hell to watch our little show. Well? Try me.
She lifted a sultry gaze, slim fingers to her buttons, and slipped three free—white skin blooming like snowlight.
The tease and that white gleam, the buttoning—seductive yet elegant, soft and even—each little pop struck the Tooth Tiger’s soul like rain on a drum.
At the third, a curve stirred under the snow, and a hint of white lace shone like frost beneath.
The blood-red haze in his eyes thinned by half, and in that breath Medith exploded. Forced March: High Song! She spun through the air like a wind dancer, then drew the longsword and shot forward like a falling star, her lunge a streak of fire toward him.
