Boom!

Another collision of energy; the tiger-faced hulk drives a fist into the back of the man in black, and the shock ripples like thunder over a storm-lake.

But the tiger-faced hulk doesn’t flinch; he lets the force crash over him like surf. He snaps out a furred right hand, swift as a hawk diving, clawing for the stumbling figure ahead.

"Thief! Where d'you think you're going?" the giant roars; his voice rolls like a drum through a canyon.

That roar, a wave with teeth, flips the already-blown crowd again like leaves in a squall.

The man in black forms seals and scrawls a spell, awkward as a fox slipping on frost; he slaps his inscribed palm to the ground.

A thick surge of natural power wraps his body like moss climbing a stone.

"Thief! And you still claim you're not one of those bastards from the Elf Race!" the giant growls, low as distant thunder. "If I hadn’t been training in the yard like a rock in rain, I wouldn’t have caught you today!"

"Quit tossing the Elf Race at me," the man in black says, voice frayed like a torn cloak. "When did I ever say I was one of them?"

"Facing death and still mouthing off! I’ll beat you till you admit it, like a storm pounding a cliff!" The giant’s right hand closes on empty air, and a long spear blooms in his grip like cold moonlight.

"Brain-dead, the lot of you," the man in black snaps, anger like a spark in dry grass.

Pain burns in his back like hot iron. Tiger King’s punch shattered his shield, then hammered straight into flesh and bone like a smith’s mallet.

He holds himself up by will alone, a reed in river wind, refusing to fall.

"Die!" the Tiger King roars, slinging the spear across his chest; one hand on the butt, he thrusts like lightning splitting a storm at the airborne man in black.

The man’s face tightens like a drawn bow; his hands fold like prayer. Emerald energy pours over him like a jade waterfall, and slams into the spearpoint.

The spear doesn’t pierce clean through, like a fang stalled by bone. The green bulwark takes the Tiger King’s monstrous force like a sail catching a gale, then hurls backward.

The speed is jaw-dropping, a comet ripped from the sky.

When the Tiger King drove that thrust, it felt like plunging the spear through layer after layer of cotton; then that green lump shot away like a kicked gourd.

He stands stunned for a beat, expression lost like a traveler in fog.

"Elf Race! Just you wait. It won’t be long before I come knocking—all-out war!" The Tiger King finds his voice, and bellows toward the Elven City like a lion at dawn.

The man in black flees far, then hides only when he reaches a safe hollow; he sinks into shadow like a fish under ice.

He lifts his cloak; on the shoulder of his right arm gleams a golden cross with filigree, the emblem of the Holy Court Church, bright as a flame.

He coughs up two mouthfuls of blood, then stares toward the Beastkin encampment with taunting eyes, sharp as a falcon’s.

"One of the seven leaders of the Beastkin is only this level," he says, voice cool as night. "If the others are the same, His Holiness alone could wipe their top fighters like wildfire through dry grass."

He pulls a clear glass vial from a pocket, springwater bright as morning rain.

He pours the water over the back the Tiger King struck, a chill like mountain snow; then he drinks the rest from the bottle like a thirsty wolf.

Moments later, a golden power surges through him like sunlight over wheat, stitching and mending his body.

He smiles, a blade under silk. "Now we’ve got our casus belli against the Elf Race, right? Our Church values this operation—don’t mess it up, or the tide turns."

He drapes the black cloak back on and walks away, slow as dusk sliding down a hill.

About five minutes later, he appears on that ground again, brows furrowed like storm clouds; he looks around, then moves off like a shadow.

After he truly leaves, someone coughs and steps from the dark like a pine emerging from mist.

"Haah, as expected. Good thing I came myself," he coughs, fingers sketching a rune in the air like a crane’s stroke, and the rune sinks into the earth.

Nothing stirs; the land lies quiet as a sleeping pond.

He coughs again and departs, his figure fading like smoke in rain.

"Outrageous!" Back at his camp, the Tiger King tears a roast pig’s shank, anger biting like frost.

"Tiger-uncle, don’t be mad," says the violet-eyed little lady, her smile like a crescent moon. "We were gonna fight anyway. Now you’ve got a perfect excuse, never mind if he’s Elf Race."

"I’m just unhappy," the Tiger King sighs, his breath heavy as a bell. "Some unknown power’s got fists that strong."

"That punch of mine wasn’t lethal, but no common thief could take it," he mutters, brows knotted like roots. "He ate it, and barely flinched."

"With a guy like that lurking, it’s like a venomous snake in the grass—no one sleeps easy." He shoots a sidelong glance at the snake-woman sipping wine, eyes cool as a river.

She meets his look and tosses him a sultry wink, a ripple in warm water.

The Tiger King shivers as if a cold wind cut him. "Forget it, forget it."

The little lady laughs sweet as honey. "You’re no fun, Tiger-uncle. I’m not chatting if you’re just sighing."

"Uh… my bad, my bad." The Tiger King scratches his head like a bewildered bear. He shifts in his seat like a restless tiger. "Uh… then what do you want?"

"I wanna go out and play." Her big eyes flutter like butterfly wings as she looks up at him.

"Uh… look, little ancestor, if something happens to you, I’m done for," the Tiger King says with a bitter smile, words heavy as stones. "Spare a thought for me."

"Mm-hmm, Tiger-uncle, even if you say no, I can still sneak out," she says, eyes spinning like quicksilver, voice sly. "So, is it safer if you let me out and guard me, or if I slip out alone?"

"…You’ve got me," he sighs, helpless as a river meeting the sea. "What’s in that little head of yours is a whole tangled forest."

"Heh-heh, Tiger-uncle, I knew it. You’re the best." She beams, sun-bright, and hands him her juice like sharing spring dew.