Sword-qi slammed into the far wall; the stone thudded like a muffled drum. Medith’s strike failed to break through, yet it carved a shocking trench and a ribbon of blade marks across the floor.

Cecilia’s carefully groomed golden ponytail blew apart like scattered wheat. Strands fell, veiling her flower-bright face; her cheeks were scored with blood.

The skin between her thumbs split; pain bit deep. Fresh blood welled and ran down her pink fingertips in steady threads.

“Ha… ha…” Breath ragged like torn bellows, Cecilia reeled. Medith leveled her greatsword, unhurried, at that pale, soft neck. “If this were a battlefield, you’d have died ten times.”

“Your strikes are fierce, but your stance wobbles.” “Your judgment’s thin; you’ve got skills you can’t fully unleash.” “What a waste of raw strength.”

“Kh—” Fury choked Cecilia, then shame cooled it. She’d botched a sneak attack, and Medith had speared the sore spot; there was nothing to rebut.

“Such terrifying battle sense…” Sweat beaded the ghost-masked man’s palms like dew. “Fighting Cecilia, she wasn’t hindered by the anomalies; she chose the best path and method in a heartbeat.”

“No—call it instinct, honed on a blade’s edge for decades.” “Her power, her sword, and her body flow as one river.” “Every ounce spent, every motion made, strikes with perfect economy.”

“Her footwork doesn’t look like the Elvenfolk at all.” “Elvenfolk stances are often unstable; most are bowmen.” “Some use swords, but rarely as a primary weapon.”

“Yet her steps drift and feint like mist, then snap like a ghost.” “Matched with the traits of the Elf Clan, she moves like a wraith.”

“Worst of all, she’s been holding back.” “Her attacks are swift and savage, yet she filters doubt and hesitation in an instant.” “Her fight intuition might be unmatched on this continent.”

“Who is she, really…”

Their hearts chilled as they listened to the ghost-masked man. In battle-worn miles, he stood far above them.

They replayed that minute of chaos. Aside from Cecilia’s one explosive burst, Medith pressed her from start to finish.

Medith never left her time to think. She chained rapid, ruthless cuts and surges, even took the Magic Breaker Circle into account, slipping back ahead of its effect.

They could do pieces of that, sure. But—

Medith did it with zero thought and zero overt judgment. Her body’s instinct ran the whole chain. That wasn’t just strong; it was god-tier.

It felt like she had a combat-assist chip wired in, auto-dodging, auto parrying, and locking onto your weakest point.

“Good… good… No wonder they call you War God and War Marshal, Medith Waheit. Seeing you today, the name rings true.” Gill clapped from the dais, smiling without warmth.

“Hmph.” Medith lifted the greatsword from Cecilia’s throat and slid it home in a blur.

Haywood’s titan steps shook the hall; he strode in and caught Cecilia as she sagged.

“Normally, anyone who ambushes me loses at least two hands.” Medith planted herself in the center of the great hall, a storm-still pillar. “But for the sake of your command, I’ll let it pass. Guildmaster, don’t stand on ceremony.”

Those cold eyes cut like winter wind; people met them and stepped back without thinking.

Vice Guildmaster Gus blinked, dazed; sensing the air stiffen, he hurried to smooth it over. “Guildmaster Medith, don’t misunderstand. We wanted these brash pups to learn there’s always a higher peak.”

Medith’s smile was frost. “Heh. Vice Guildmaster Gus, don’t you know some peaks only let you in—never out?”

“That’s not certain.” Gill’s gaze was flat as iron. “We’ve got numbers. Unless a mountain god walks the earth, even a titan-hewn mountain, I’ll flatten it.”

“How do you know you’re not facing a mountain god?” Medith’s palm tightened on her greatsword, hungry for motion. The ghost-masked man set his hands on the twin long swords at his waist. Red tassels trembled. He watched her like a stalking hawk.

The tension snapped taut—bows drawn, blades bare.

After a silence that stretched like winter, Gill barked a laugh. “Medith is Medith. Seems nothing in this world can threaten you, can it?”

“That’s right.” Medith tossed her head, arms folded, mischief and divinity in the same line.

Breaths eased around the room. When Medith got serious, the air seemed to drop a few degrees. Hair bristled; bodies locked up, as if a predator’s shadow fell over them.

That was naked animal instinct—danger flashing, death near enough to taste.

Seeing the mood loosen, Gus pushed while the iron was warm; if Medith’s fire flared again, trouble would follow. “Guildmaster Medith, our guild’s Chief Steward, Herbert, was in Sia City.” “It was a routine ‘rent collection.’” “Why were you so furious you drew blood?”

At the name, Herbert’s face flushed hot. He stared at Medith like he meant to swallow her whole.

“I don’t care who Lord Herbert is. He insulted me. ‘I’ve had plenty of women.’ ‘You’d scream loud in bed.’ My girlfriend was right there. So his finger broke.”

“I won’t apologize. And between you and me, even if we ended up in bed, who’d be the louder one is far from settled.” Medith’s eyes played over Herbert like a cat with a mouse.

“I—I only said the first part. I didn’t say the rest!”

“Of course you didn’t.” Medith snorted. “Hard to finish, when the finger snapped mid-sentence.”

“You—”

“Enough! Haven’t you shamed us enough?” Gill’s shout cracked like a whip. Herbert clamped his mouth shut.

“Guildmaster Medith, he’s my brother no matter what. And we have our rules and our proofs; no one can touch us.” Gill’s gaze burned. “You can’t slice off my brother’s finger on your word alone and pretend nothing happened.”

“When a blood coin is cast, blood answers blood. I don’t want to fight you, but I can’t let you go clean.” Gill’s light brown eyes never left Medith. “Tell me—what should I do?”

Medith’s smile fell away; she stood sober and straight. “You’re the Guildmaster. Do as you think right. Say the word.”

“I’ll see it through to the end.”

Gill stared her down, a long moment like a blade held at the throat. Then he threw his head back and laughed, wild-eyed. People froze, unsure what to do.

“Bring them in!” Gill roared. Ten minutes later, heavy steps beat outside the door. More than a dozen Kuso members, in black-and-red cloth, were marched in.

They were fog-eyed and slack. Dragged from sleep and bound, they hadn’t caught up with their own fear.

“Your Highness—!” Herbert half-understood and blurted. Gus cut him off with a sharp gesture and a dim shake of the head. Don’t push it.

Herbert turned away, teeth grinding.

“Medith, do you still have the blood coin?” Gill’s voice wove odd currents.

Medith had an inkling. She pulled out the crimson coin and tossed it to him.

Gill caught it, then threw it into the furnace. Under the high heat, the blood coin softened and bled away; flames turned scarlet, swelling high, a blood spring geysering in the grate.

Gill flicked his hand. “Jade. Do it.”

The dozen stared first in daze, then at that scarlet fire. Terror seized them; knees knocked, and one lost bladder and bowels. “No—please—Guildmaster, we didn’t do anything…”

“Steward—Steward, beg for us…”

“Lord Jade, I…I’m begging you…”

“In the next life, pick a better master.” Behind his mask, Jade’s face was unreadable; his voice was level as slate, no ripple of feeling.

They tried to form more words. Jade’s twin blades whirled; a cold flash cut the air. Their throats opened like slaughtered fowl, and blood jetted in pulses.

The spray came warm, a brief rain that kissed Medith’s face.

“Blood for blood—” Jade raised both swords high, as if basking in the storm.

“Blood for blood—” The crowd in the hall opened their arms, as if welcoming the red rain.

Cecilia’s eyes dimmed; she bit her vermilion lip. Unwilling, she made the gesture and whispered the chant.

“The debt is paid. Our grievance ends here.” Gill slapped the armrest, anger thudding like a drum. “May this not sour our friendship. That’s that. Guildmaster Medith, fare you well. I won’t see you out.”