On the night of September 1st, Medith and Gerald sat knee to knee, their words flowing like a river from south winds to northwest sands. They recognized kindred iron, and the talk’s floodgates burst like a dam in spring. Gerald’s blunt warmth was fire in the cup, which Medith admired. Medith’s own poise showed steel under silk; she wasn’t the simple blossom she seemed.
The others carried their own abacuses, eyes like foxes in starlight. Some wanted to tour the inner halls, lamps and gears humming like bees. Some were intrigued by Dawnlight itself, moths circling a pale dawn. Some came hunting duels, blades itching like thunder under skin.
Fangge wore a ninja’s garb, shadow stitched to shadow, an odachi riding her back like a crescent. A katana hugged her waist, and anyone who neared felt winter bite through bone. Her black-horned demon mask turned her silhouette into a night specter, inked horns hooked like moon claws. Many mercs touched their hilts without thinking, barn cats hearing the wolf at the fence.
If Medith’s people were cloud-born fairies untouched by cookfire smoke, Fangge was an asura wading a red river. Her presence was a whetted edge, cold enough to still a drumbeat.
Bold as thunder, she asked, “Who’s the strongest among you?” and planted her feet like stakes. Her body dipped like a drawn bow; her right hand gripped the katana, tremor coiled like a snake.
Uh… well… the air rustled with whispers, reeds around a midnight pond. The mercs ringed torches, speaking in hushes that popped like embers.
The women heard and came, laughter bright as wine, dragging chairs and a round table like rafts. They’d somehow “borrowed” fruit, dried meat, and wine, and sat grinning to watch the play.
Merc groups did spar, usually showpieces, drums for festivals. Sometimes real grudges forced a duel between men of iron, but never to cripple or kill. Even when someone got bloodied, next day they’d laugh and share bread, rain washing the dust.
They were hard men, bones like knotted roots, yet Yoru Ame’s shadow pressed the camp silent. No one answered; the night held its breath like a sealed jar.
“Hey, lively bunch,” Gerald murmured, eyes shining like coals as he leaned at the window. He took a swig of spirit, breath steaming like winter, then clapped Medith’s shoulder. “The Commander's men ain’t cowards, sure, but kids poking the sky can get burned.”
“Rest easy, Lord of the keep; my warlords measure their blades,” Medith raised a brow like a lifted fan. She didn’t soften; her voice held a smile like a drawn veil.
Gerald laughed twice, big as a bell, and threw his arm wide over the window ledge. He shouted, “Hey, you fluffy chicks! Someone knocked on the door—why ain’t you out?” “Boge! Os! Hell! Where’d those loudmouths who boast they’re the strongest crawl off to?”
The call fanned the fire; talk surged like surf. “Ooh—ooh—fight! fight!” the Lina Sisters waved while chewing apples, sparrows heckling hawks.
Fangge cut a glance at the castle where Medith stood; a spark jumped across wet wire. Since no one dared, she said, “Then I’ll settle this in-house. Medith! Dare you fight me?”
The mercs gasped, a tent full of wind; “What? What?!” rose like startled birds. Guards who could slip their posts slid into the yard, faces lit like metal under flame.
The Lina Sisters yelped, apples thudding like stones; even Nameless widened his calm eyes like moons. Milia and Yunita were mid-drink and sprayed wine like broken pipes. Sais arched her lovely brows, pleasure pooling like tea in a warm cup.
Iling forgot the watch and bounded back to the yard, steps tapping like rain on tiles. Under the steel beast, the open ground heaved with bodies, bonfires became red rings. The crowd formed a circle, clearing a wide patch for Fangge, raking sand for a dojo.
“Ho ho! Your own hand challenges the officer!” Gerald’s voice carried mischief like fox-smoke. Medith pinched a plump purple grape, bit, and swallowed, sweetness bursting like dusk on the tongue. Her smile bloomed, and she stepped off the castle, falling like a green spark.
“Whoa—” people saw a lithe figure drop, a green meteor skimming the dark. She tapped with long legs, toes finding air like invisible steps, and slowed to a neat landing. The pose wasn’t pretty, but it was clean and sharp like a carpenter’s mark.
She’d used a sliver of Lawbreaking Energy to kick against gravity, bleeding off most of the fall. It looked easy, but it showed terrifying micro-control of her Lawbreaking Ability, fine as calligraphy. When skill peaks, all climb the same ridge; the gap lies in the footwork and breath. That’s the road between kings and bronze, thin as a blade’s shadow.
A cold prickle climbed Fangge’s spine, fear blooming like frost before thought. Watching Medith walk over smiling, she almost blurted, “I was joking.”
“Heard you were looking for me, so I came,” Medith said, voice calm as rain. I’ve got time, and I want to test where your line breaks—let everyone see your strength. Every “you” cut her own force out of the picture, a painter erasing a mountain.
She knew no one could read where her floor sat, deep as an ocean trench.
“Wow—wow—this is a duel in the keep!” Iling hopped, excitement sparking like firecrackers. On the day Medith got ambushed, she’d seen Fangge’s talent turn scary as a storm. Fangge adapted fast to Iling’s Wind Magic, turning the buff into power that fit like skin.
Sais had said straight that she’d lose to Fangge one-on-one, clear as a bell. In that fight Fangge hardly pressed, yet Sais was stuck blocking, waves against a cliff.
Medith needed no intro—she was a top-tier blend, a spear wrapped in velvet. She unhitched her sword and tossed it to Sais, metal flashing like a dragonfly. Then she kicked, hooking a nearby merc’s greatsword into her hand with an iron arc.
“Don’t say the officer’s bullying you—I won’t use Flame Lady,” she said, silk over steel. “But don’t relax; give me a hundred and twenty percent, or…” “You might die.” The words fell like snow, quiet and cold.
Before the echo cooled, Medith flickered like a ghost and whooshed to Fangge’s face.
