As deep as this night, the far stars tug at memory; old scenes rise like lanterns through mist.

Gerald’s face was set and storm-heavy; his days felt like a grinding stone wheel. Faced with an honored guest, sadness seeped in like cold dew.

“This world always needs someone to play the villain. If so, let me bear it all.”

Gerald’s eyes, deep as a well, locked on Medith. She smiled, yet her color seemed bruised like a wilting blossom. Their gazes struck flint; understanding flashed. Both folded their smiles away and stood like still blades in wind.

Soon, Gerald strolled down from the castle. Greetings flew like sparrows. In only days, goodwill toward these bold, unbridled mercenaries swelled like a spring tide.

Nameless felt it too: crude words, rough edges, yet a quiet warmth, like hands held to a brazier.

Iling and Milia most of all—one glance at them and it was the captains from Sia City’s Last Night again, banners tattered like dusk. They still hadn’t forgotten those soldiers who bled for Eunomia.

Jonathan, Oliver, Palmer, Noel, Bell… all of them the same—rowdy, grinning “bad men” masks—yet they settled the heart, invited respect, like solid oaks in wind.

And…

Delaia, the loyal general who carried Eunomia’s fate like a lamp in rain—young, tireless, and somehow cut down inside the safest palace. The sigh hung like a broken string.

“Ehehehehe—hahaha—” A chill laugh rose from the square’s heart, splintering the spell. Heads lifted. A woman in a crimson kimono and wooden geta danced to the song.

An epic swell rolled out; the horse-head fiddle throbbed like thunder in a gorge. It felt like a kill-field closing in. Fangge wore her familiar oni mask, veiling a face that would startle gods; lily-white hands drew a long, slender silver katana.

Under moonlight, the blade skimmed the sky and painted ring after ring of dreamlight. Her three-thousand strands were coiled high, a jade hairpin set like a moon, lending mature grace.

As the music rose and fell, Fangge’s sword dance shifted with it—now storm and pounding rain, now water-soft and tender, now surging tide, now quiet lake.

Yet her mouth spilled a cackling rasp, like night-haunting spirits. It pierced straight to the soul and raised gooseflesh. The mercenaries didn’t care; they sat cross-legged by the bonfire and clapped like drums.

The women gathered, drawn like moths. Yoru Ame showcased her homeland’s flavor to the hilt; abroad, culture travels best through habits of hand and foot.

Fangge’s ghostly swordwork and footwork held more beauty than Medith’s Death Dance, sharper to the eye and richer to watch.

Grace cloaked a buried killing intent. The crisp geta beats and that shrill, needling laugh lifted the Ghost Dance to the cloud-crest.

Nameless saw and flared. He snatched up his long spear and sprang; his brave ponytail snapped like a whip. A cold gleam crossed the sky, lunging for Fangge.

“Ee-hee-hee—ha-ha—” Fangge’s body flickered like a will-o’-the-wisp, grazing the spear tip again and again. It looked perilous, yet she stayed like a shadow to the shaft, sliding forward inch by inch.

Nameless spun the shaft, sweeping a wide death circle. Then the spear surged like a dragon; a driving thrust, weight like a falling mountain. It smashed into Fangge’s katana with a tooth-aching clang.

“Hm?” Fangge drew and kicked in one breath. Faced with the sudden switch, Nameless pulled the spear back by instinct, sparing her body like a gentleman. She seized the beat and skipped back, distance blooming like night-blooming flowers.

No time to praise his restraint—the katana snapped with a clean waist-cut, halves falling like broken moonlight.

“A powerful, focused pierce, meant to wreck the foe’s weapon? For a swordswoman, that’s death itself.”

Fangge sighed, voice low as midnight water. Generals are easy to find; a good blade is rare. This katana wasn’t top grade, yet it was her hometown’s craft, faithful till it turned ragged. To die under Nameless’s spear—retribution, or a wish fulfilled?

“I’m sorry it came to this. But I’ve wanted to fight you for a long time. Give me everything. You know what this bout means.” Nameless’s eyes were steady, intent set like iron.

Fangge raised a slender hand; the loose sleeve curtained half her masked face, like a pipa held half-hidden.

Moonlight spilled over her, making her feel distant and dream-bright. “Which is why… I don’t chat with men in ponytails. One after another, all the same.”

“Every time I see the soldiers of my clan they wear—

faces that disgust me, faces that frighten me!”

Clack… bzz—

Fangge’s white hand pressed; the oni mask’s forehead cracked like ice. A small mechanism hummed to life and swapped a new mask in a blur. The old one had looked only sinister; now fangs bared, brows speared downward, rage carved deep.

Her aura surged in the same breath, swelling like a storm front—stronger than the day she faced Medith.

“Oh?” Medith smiled, pleased as a teacher. Perhaps Fangge had woven her forms and steps into instinct, body and blade finally speaking as one.