Fangge tapped forward on long legs, hooked up her scabbard, and drew a blood blade that rose like a red moon and froze the air with fear.

“Ee-yaa—gaa—ga-ga-ga—!” Her voice mimicked asura wails, a grave-wind through bone, and every listener’s hair stood like frost in an ice cellar.

She poured killing intent into a field, a swamp of shadows; step inside and it drags at your mind, turning weak hearts to ash or hurling them into hellish illusions.

Even Nameless felt a jolt of cold ripple through his spine; resolve hardened like winter steel, his right foot slammed the earth, and doubt scattered like birds.

His spear hand snapped tight and drove a sky-splitting thrust, a storm screw that warped the air; the crosshead tip spun up spiral wind blades that devoured all ahead.

Fangge twisted midair like a willow in a gale, dragged the blood blade, and met the thrust head-on; shock flashed in Nameless like lightning. “That’s the Commander’s move!”

That airborne spin overlapped perfectly with Medith’s silhouette, a swallow cutting thermals; Medith used freakish coordination to step on air and torque her body into advantage.

Who imagines a human can twist in midair and flip defense into offense like a falling leaf catching an updraft? Habit and pride blind most to that sky.

Nameless didn’t linger on the thought; tension struck, wrist flicked, and he ripped the spear back, then snapped it up like a rising tide to crash into Fangge.

Sheer speed caught her off guard; his spearwork was a thunderclap, switching flow in a heartbeat, and he turned defense to offense before the echo faded.

As the crosshead lunged with a winter gleam, Fangge thinned into a wisp of black smoke, vanishing like soot; Nameless slid aside, and a blood streak scythed his old spot.

The whistle of it was a night wind through graves, cold to the marrow. “Men with ponytails are always monsters, huh...” Fangge sighed, helpless as rain, and they locked together.

While the iron song rang, Medith’s blood surged hot as a drumbeat; seeing her dear subordinates burn so bright made her chest warm like dawn on snow.

“Rita, Milia, go change and touch up your makeup. Tell Gerald to bring wine and sides. Tonight we don’t go home sober!” She swept both girls into an armful of laughter.

Iling and Yunita froze like startled deer and needed a heartbeat to return to earth.

Sais arched in a languid stretch, a cat in sunlight, her curves drawing every mercenary’s eyes like moths to a lantern.

Medith patted Yunita’s dewy cheek. “What’re you staring at? Move it! All of you. Tonight, I’m taking the stage myself!”

“Huh?! For real?!” The girls lit up like sparklers, while in the square’s heart the clang of steel kept ringing, a forge beat under an epic score.

As the music crested like surf, the choir’s male voices rose like horns at dawn, and the clashing grew wilder, a storm about to break in full.

“Of course. Change into your green-fairy outfits, dress to kill. Don’t shame us Wind Sprites.” Medith squinted with the grin of a sunny, bubbly girl.

“Okay!”

“Yay~!”

“Now that’s rare—our General handling the show herself. Guess you really fancy them.”

“Heroes are always a joy to watch, aren’t they?”

“Eh? Where are they going?”

“Don’t tell me...” Gerald, Gulo, and several burly men lounged in the front-row seats like stones on a riverbank, and noticed the women sneaking off like cats.

...

“Wow... those two can fight. It’s been over an hour—how are they still going?” Beer foam beaded like dew as the complaint hung in the smoke.

“How could it not take long? Look at ’em, they stare half a day before a move—kills me. Just grab a blade and cut his damn head off!”

“You don’t get it. This is masters trading blows, every move a guillotine. You’d be skewered like candied haw the second you stepped in.”

“True that. Ponytail bro’s spear is nasty; that spiral thrust could twist our armored crew into a pretzel, like a wind twisting rope.”

They drank and tore meat like wolves at a campfire, chewing over the duel; one attacked, one defended, switching like day and night since the Ghost-face miss turned to smoke.

To their eyes, this stare-ten-minutes-then-swing style was godly chess, clouds drifting slow; spectators felt dull, but the fighters were taut as bowstrings.

One slip meant a thousand-year fall; that’s how sharp the cliff felt under every step.

Whenever Nameless pressed, Fangge slipped away with a misty, uncanny footwork; the spear’s recovery was a heavy door, and he couldn’t always shut it in time.

A blink of error would spell defeat; even sparks die in wind, and he guarded that flame with both hands.

Fangge didn’t dare rush either; her sword was a winter gale, all ferocity and weapon-breaking snaps, but against Nameless both waves broke on rock.

No matter how swift she crashed in, his retreat-and-jab was a spring snake, keeping her at bay with a single strike of cold light.

Neither dared to open first; they side-stepped in circles like wolves in snow, hunting for a seam, ready to pour everything through a needle’s eye.

Elsewhere, the invited band had been sipping wine like idle rain; they looked up, set cups down in a hurry, and struck a bright, festive tune like lanterns flaring.

Gerald and the others startled, followed the band’s drifting gaze like leaves on a stream, and saw several graceful ladies gliding in like swans across a lake...