Medith drifted down the midnight avenue like a lone leaf on a black river, stars pricking the sky like cold embers, torch-glow speckling the hushed street like dying fireflies.

Now and then, nameless patrolmen slid past like shadows cast by a blade, boots scuffing the stone like sand over a drum.

Tap-tap-tap—her long legs kissed the wall like dragonflies skimming a pond. She sprang to the roof in one breath, then swept toward a lone tower that speared the night like a spear of obsidian.

Cloaked in night, her phoenix eyes combed the scene like lanterns behind silk. The defense looked watertight at a glance, black-and-red figures planted at each corner like iron stakes.

Yet a hundred tight stitches hide one loose thread, and her smile was a thin crescent moon.

She became a gust, a slip of wind against stone, and hit an unremarkable niche at the tower’s edge like a raindrop on eaves.

Her legs flashed, light as down, and she ran the wall like a gecko racing the dawn, arrowing for the rear like a swallow to its nest.

The sentries chatted like frogs by a marsh, never seeing the black shadow skittering up the wall like a spilled stroke of ink.

Soon she’d circled behind them. She crouched in the corner like a cat by a threshold, leaf-green eyes sweeping the structure like a surveyor of spiderwebs.

“Your Highness, she’s here.” Cecilia stood on the rooftop like a blade on a scabbard, the view below spread open like a scroll. Medith’s stealth was a veil in wind, already seen through.

“Pull them back. Let her in.” The man spoke like a calm tide, then walked into the great hall like a king returning to his seat.

Medith reached the top and kicked a window like breaking ice. Light burst across the hall like a struck gong, washing the floor bright as noon.

Dozens of men and women stood in neat lines like twin banks of spears beside a path.

“Welcome, Guildmaster of Crimson Sun.” At the throne sat a blond man, features carved like jade and smile smooth as oiled silk.

Medith straightened like a willow unbending and shrugged off black cloth like a shed night. The pure white of Crimson Sun gleamed like frost.

Her hair, green as fresh leaves, fanned in a small breeze, and her face held a playful look like foxfire dancing low.

“Hmm?” Cecilia clasped her hands behind her back like a bow drawn to a perfect arc, her curves traced by the light like ink along paper, yet doubt clouded her beauty like a thin mist.

“Ss—” The man on the throne drew a breath as Medith glided closer like a swan on dark water.

“Elf Clan… the tales weren’t just wind,” he said, gaze bright as a struck flint.

“Word was Medith went white-haired in the battle at Sia City. Who are you?” The golden-haired Cecilia tightened her hidden hands like a knot in silk.

“I’d suggest you don’t twitch, little girl. Folks who try to jump me never end well,” Medith said, a sidelong glance like a knife taken half from its sheath.

Cecilia’s shoulders trembled like a ripple, then stilled; her clenched fingers uncurled like petals.

“Seems rumor’s only half a lantern,” the man said softly. “So, Guildmaster, what brings you here at midnight like a hawk to a dovecote?”

Medith flicked her chin like a proud mare. “If you’re asking, common courtesy says you offer your name.”

He chuckled, sound light as beads on a string. “As you see, I’m Gill, Guildmaster of the Kuso Guild.”

He pointed to a sharp-eyed man whose gaze flashed like steel. “Vice Guildmaster, Gus.”

“As for him, you’ve met once.” He indicated a man clutching a broken finger, face storm-dark. “My brother, Herbert.”

“Behind you are five of my S-rank. Each is a mountain on their own, each with a dedicated team like banners under their wind.”

“Cecilia,” said the long-ponytailed blonde, eyes cold as winter glass.

“Eddie,” said a gloomy man, voice like damp wood.

“Jade,” rasped a figure in a fanged ghost-mask, tone as androgynous as smoke.

“O’Neil,” said a stubbled bald man in his thirties, his leering gaze crawling like oil.

“Haywood,” rumbled a giant built like Mount Tai, more than two meters tall, dignity heavy as bronze, yet his curious look on Medith shone like a boy’s.

“Oh?” Medith cocked a brow like a hooked feather. The five felt like coiled storms, especially Cecilia and the masked one, pressure thick as thunderheads.

Any one of them could likely stand even with Sais in a duel, a peak against a peak.

“How about my people, Guildmaster Medith?” Gill smiled, eyes glinting like fish under ice.

“Not bad,” Medith said, arms folded to lift her chest like paired moons under silk.

“Not bad?” Gill’s eyes flicked like sparrows. Cecilia exploded forward like a released arrow, twin fists howling with wind like a reef in storm.

Medith had her back to them like a door left ajar, no hint of awareness on the face of it.

At the last heartbeat, she bent, willow waist folding to the floor like grass in a gale.

Their eyes met like crossed blades. In Cecilia’s gold-bright irises, she saw killing intent honed to a sword-tip, cold as winter water.

Cecilia snapped her arm and dropped an elbow like a hammer. Medith slid aside in a parallel step, body light as paper in wind.

Bang—Cecilia’s elbow punched the marble like a falling meteor, leaving a small pit blooming like a crater.

Clack-clack—the debris slid off her fair pink elbow like gravel down ice.

Cracks spiderwebbed out on the floor like frost racing glass, the force frightening as a breaking dam.

“Hm?” Medith blinked, a flicker of surprise like sunlight on steel. A human, and without invoking Magic Breaker—how does she crush stone?

A guess sparked like a struck match. Her blade flashed out at lightspeed, leaving an afterimage like a ghosted moon, and she surged in.

“So fast!” flickered through Cecilia’s mind like a swallow’s shadow. A cold gleam followed like lightning after thunder.

Clang—twang—Cecilia met the overhand cut with her bare fists like iron wrapped in silk, and the clash rang clear as a bell in winter.

“Ah—ha—” She lifted both fists and knocked the greatsword aside like a cudgel nudging a gate.

Medith stepped back two paces like a dancer resetting her stance, doubt flashing in her eyes like a fish turning in deep water.

Then she spun, body flowing like cloud over a ridge, dragging the greatsword into a round, singing slash like a white arc of moonlight.

Her rhythm was water and brush, no hitch, no drag. Almost the instant the sword was batted away, the next stroke chased in like a wave after a wave.

The white slash was about to bite like a scythe to wheat. Cecilia’s gaze hardened like set gold; she bit down and breathed, “Regido.”

Almost at once, as if expecting the thunder, Medith hauled a blade-wind that kicked her back several meters like a sail catching a squall.

Thud—Cecilia’s Magic Breaker Circle didn’t balloon. It thumped like a muffled drum, leaving floor and bystanders a few meters out untouched, calm as a pond under rain.

Only her pink fists changed, dressed in brown gloves like earth-wrapped thunder, matching her hot dance gear until she looked like an idol geared for war.

Vmmm—vmmm—the greatsword hummed like a hive. A white-clad blade-storm came screaming in like a winter gale. Medith hovered and spun from afar, a wheeling arc of steel, carving the floor to ribbons like a field after harvest.

She gathered, then raised the world-ending sword overhead and cleaved down. If it landed, even a sacred mountain like Mount Tai would split.

Cecilia’s thoughts spun like prayer wheels. Dodge or take it, the choice flipped like a coin in fire.

She saw Gill’s expectant look from afar like a lantern held high, and she bit down, choosing to meet it head-on.

Oooo—her brown leather hands gathered a golden glow like dawn pooling on a ridge.

Then—thrum—vmm—vmm—

Clatter—

The hall let out a wretched groan like a ship in a storm. A razor of sword qi punched through Cecilia’s guard like a white meteor, and carved the far wall a hundred meters down the corridor like a comet trail in stone.