“Ah!” Fangge hadn’t even braced before Medith struck. Clang—the hurried guard flashed like thin moonlight, but her force hurled him yards, a leaf torn by gale.

He caught his balance, then flipped back on instinct. Boom—the ground thumped like a war drum, and he slid past her soul-hunting cut like a shadow slipping a scythe.

“Oh? So you’ve done your homework on me, even felt out my rhythm.” Medith smiled, a fox by a snowy stream.

Crack—the ghost mask on Fangge’s face fissured like lake ice. That preemptive dodge had only just made it. Her sword had a law carved in blood: she strikes when you falter.

Show the faintest seam, and she feeds like a demon at nightfall, swallowing you whole. In every Medith bout Fangge had collected and studied, this never broke.

Miss the first guard, and she follows with a leaping cleave or a sweeping cut, each blow heavier, like waves stacking in a storm.

“Then how about this?” Medith wheeled her greatsword, eyes flaring like lightning. Fangge’s focus tightened; he ripped the big blade from his back. Clang—in a blink she slip-stepped behind him, yet he stood tall, right hand on the blood-red Bloodsword, left on a silver katana.

In the spark-snap between breaths, Fangge caught her charge clean, steel to steel, like flint kissing steel.

“!!” Sais shot up from her chair, thrill pricking her skin like rain.

Milia’s mouth fell open. Iling’s jaw hit the floor. “The Skirmisher’s… Flash… Medith’s most-used, most practical gap-closer.

“She closes with original footwork, then rides a Wind Sprite’s gift to steer air, slicing across at a speed the eye can’t hold. Normally, the target keeps consciousness for one to three seconds, because they haven’t realized they’re already dead…”

“The move itself isn’t scary—even I can do it. What’s scary is Medith. Her ghost-like steps and razor mind turn it into something else entirely.

“I’ve seen many slip it. But someone stop it head-on? First time.” Sais spoke as a founding shadow at Medith’s side, her words carrying winter weight.

“So this is… a monster against a monster…” The mercenaries rubbed their eyes, blinking dust. They weren’t Sprites; they lacked that hawk-cut gaze.

Medith eyed the dulled notch along her greatsword’s spine and looked honestly surprised. “I’ll admit, that’s beyond what I planned. I meant to swat you with the back. Didn’t think you’d read it.”

Fangge sank into a horse stance, sheathed the silver katana, and gripped the Bloodsword with both hands. The crimson point stretched like a thorn; he turned side-on to Medith. “Commander, I’m giving you everything. Meet me with the respect of your full strength. Let me lose with a clear heart.

“Otherwise… I might start doubting my choice.”

Medith chuckled, a spark on dry grass. “No can do. You’re mine. Join and think you can run? Sounds like I should break your legs, keep those crooked thoughts from sprouting.” Her smile folded away. She slid the greatsword into its scabbard and mirrored his side-on stance.

Only, she set for a draw-cut. Her aura surged like a tide under a black moon; the air seemed to congeal. Even twenty meters out, people felt a thread of winter slip under their collars.

“Medith Waheit…” In the shadowed edge, a mercenary captain stared at that terrible pressure, terror pooling on his face like cold dew.