Medith blurred into a phantom, her blade flicking faster than sight; one struck, one guarded, so still it looked like she passed through Robert.

Ting—clang! Two heartbeats later, Robert’s sword sang with a bright clash. “Oh? You’ve got some bite?” Medith sneered. She whipped her greatsword back, her body folding like a willow in wind.

Thud—. The greatsword hit as if five sacred peaks weighed it, carving a deep pit. Medith crouched low, hands set to pull; Robert jolted—his gut warned not to take it.

But her guard was wide open too. His mind spun like a wheel and set in a breath. He wiped his orange-red blade; heat bloomed, shifting to lava red.

It looked fiercer, a sun in his hand. “I know you’re strong. Maybe I’m behind in swordplay, but don’t forget—the greatest nation stands with me. Yanliu…”

Shhh—hiss—. Robert’s longsword flared, dripping viscous magma. The scorching air warmed the far lake; pale steam uncoiled like ghosts.

Fish and shrimp boiled at once, thrashing like trapped eels, fighting to flee the simmering hell.

“You underestimate me!” Medith didn’t flinch at the omen. Fury lit her eyes, killing intent like frost. “Be a man and take my blade head-on, Robert—”

She roared. Coiled muscles snapped; she exploded off the ground, hauling the greatsword into a leaping cleave. Robert’s mouth ticked up, as if he’d read her weather.

“Then I’ll take it—Purgatory.” His words fell, and she hung not far overhead, the earth-shaking strike inevitable. Power surged like a tide and was swallowed by his sword.

Then four chains of molten rock bored from the ground, lunging for Medith. Soil shriveled and cracked like old clay; a raging flame current lit the trees into roaring fire.

Medith stood at the center; billows of flame rushed her. If those magma chains cinched, death would be instant. At the brink, she air-stepped, sliding like a swallow skimming rain, missing by a hair.

Robert jolted, still unready, when Medith dragged the greatsword down from the sky. BOOM—! Her swing made the mountain crest heave; stones rattled; leaves spiraled like storms.

Far off, Iling started, nearly falling from her tree. The women’s loose nerves snapped taut; they sprang up, glancing left and right, hunting the source like deer.

Fangge reacted first to the rumble, eyes cutting to the forest’s depths. She bounded from branch to branch. Iling blinked, then hurriedly rallied the others and rushed.

“Ugh—ah…” Robert clutched his burning chest. A thin thread of blood traced his lip. His right hand trembled; the web at the thumb split like torn bark.

Medith staggered three steps back, then steadied. She wasn’t hurt. Her cloak and clothes had caught flame, so she slashed them off in one stroke—like a phoenix singed, yet unbowed.

But her Blood Drinking Sword bore an irreversible wound. The forward edge had been melted off, like a jaw missing teeth—ugly, uncanny, and cruel.