This baffling rescue folded like fog after rain, ending under a baffling hush.

Ling Yi first bled the building’s Spiral Force away, like unwinding a coiled storm, and the destruction stilled.

Under Fang Tang’s pointed finger, Ling Ya knocked the waking fighters out again, like tapping lanterns dark, and freed the remaining real hostages.

MAYA helped ferry the fighters to the police, like herding wolves in daylight, to stop PeaceWarrior from putting them down on the spot.

Mobile Warrior ZX peeled off, and PeaceWarrior drifted away, like two shadows splitting at a crossroads.

When the dust settled, Ling Yi, Ling Ya, and Fang Tang slipped back to the bar, like birds homing, for a post-mortem and repentance.

Yekase wasn’t in the bar; that absence sat like an empty chair under lamplight.

Liu RuoYuan, alone in a booth, saw them return safe and smiled her teacher’s standard smile, like a paper fan opening. “None of you are hurt, right?”

“A bit banged up; sleep will smooth it out,” came the answer, light as steam.

Ling Yi had eaten a direct Spiral Force injection; her muscles and soft tissue were bruised under brutal torsion, like rope bitten by wind, and once she shed the Blade Armor, the pain bloomed.

But injuries a night of Mind Energy could warm away were no injuries at all to her; Ling Ya and Fang Tang shared that calm like still water.

“Where’d the Doctor go?” The question hung like a long bell note.

“She said she had something to confirm and just ran out,” Liu RuoYuan replied, words falling like beads.

Just ran out? We didn’t see her on the way back, like looking for a gull in clear sky. Did she lift off and slip away above the clouds? Did she spot something that needed lightning-swift proof?

Ling Yi sank into the sofa and dialed, the ring tone ticking like rain on eaves; naturally, no one picked up.

Doctor’s secrets... fine. She’ll speak when she’s ready; Ling Yi pocketed the phone like tucking a letter, and began to share her feel and take from the fight with MAYA.

…

So where did Yekase go? The question drifted like incense.

She hadn’t gone far—she lay on the rooftop of Valhalla’s building, leaning on the railing, and looked down at the old-town street, a slow river of people.

She waited for someone, like a lighthouse waiting out fog.

An engine growled overhead, and a figure dropped like a hawk from sky to concrete.

“...PeaceWarrior.” The name landed like a pebble in a pond.

“Magical Girl Icarus.” The answer struck like a bell.

Yekase turned her head, and PeaceWarrior met her eyes, steady as winter glass.

PeaceWarrior wore the office getup from their first meeting, the fabric neat as ledger lines; Yekase’s white sailor uniform made a subtle contrast, like snow beside slate.

“I need to confirm a few things with you,” PeaceWarrior said, voice straight as string.

“What a coincidence. I’ve got things to ask you too,” Yekase smiled, light as spring sun through blinds.

PeaceWarrior’s hands were empty—no weapons—yet Yekase, knowing her style, let no slack in her guard, like a cat under a quiet eave.

Well, she herself wasn’t exactly pure either; the thought flicked like a fox tail.

“Besides ‘Magical Girl Icarus’ and ‘Pauli Incompatibility,’ do you use any other codenames?” The question cut clean, like a ruler’s edge.

“Forget the second one; I made it up on the spot,” she said, tossing it aside like straw.

PeaceWarrior kept silent, breath flat as a lake.

“‘Mechbreaker’ is me too. But there’s a copycat now, so let’s say it’s no longer me,” Yekase said, dropping the name like a shell.

She’d given up fussing over that codename; better to be blunt than to pretend—PeaceWarrior wasn’t someone you could cloud with smoke.

“What about ‘Dr Ika’?” The name fell like a heavy coin.

“...” Found it, didn’t she? The pause thinned the air like frost.

Yekase’s eyes lowered, and she cast out her prepared line, like a net in a dim river: “I’m his apprentice; he’s my master.”

“...Is that so.” Her face stayed even, like a calm mask; it was hard to tell how much she believed.

Both came armed—each held unfixed intel, like shadows in jars—and both tried to pry a loose brick from the other’s wall.

Unlike the melee earlier, this was a battlefield without smoke or fire—only breath and blade-thin words.

Yekase knew that seizing initiative mattered most now; keeping on her identity was a bad current, and she couldn’t let PeaceWarrior chew on it too long.

“Then my turn,” she said, stepping forward like a heel on a board.

She paused and, with a tone crisp as a cut, spoke a wild guess that had sparked minutes ago, like a match in wind:

“—What are you to Luzhixing?”

PeaceWarrior’s mouth corner loosened for an instant, like a leaf tugged by breeze.

...Oh? There’s really a tether? The shock pricked like a fishbone.

Yekase had only seen her up close in daylight and found a faint resemblance in her brows to the Luzhixing on TV; she’d tossed the line like bait.

PeaceWarrior and Luzhixing—really? PeaceWarrior and Luzhixing—what does that even mean? It means exactly that, and Yekase was surprised, like a thrown stone finding a bell.

“I have no relation to her,” she said, yet her tone rippled a touch, like a stirred cup.

Yekase had guessed blind and had no evidence; she hummed with a feigned depth, like clouds pretending to be mountains, and pressed on:

“I heard you’re evaluating other heroes?” The words probed like a needle.

“...Merely observing,” she said, cool as shade.

Just observing—yet you dug up Dr Ika too, didn’t you? The thought clinked like hidden keys.

When heroes had surrounded and shot her down, Yekase had planted a fighter she’d knocked out earlier into the pilot seat as a decoy, and slipped out under phase stealth, like a fish through reeds.

She then took the hidden Infiltrator with optical camouflage and ghosted away, like heat shimmering off road.

Later, the news said no corpse was found; she’d wondered, like a bird pausing mid-flight, but couldn’t intervene and let it go.

That body—heroes reclaimed it privately, right? The logic stepped like footprints.

They likely ran DNA, found the fighter’s real identity; the other heroes bought that public face, but cautious PeaceWarrior kept a knife of doubt.

Talking to smart people is a hassle; the line sighed like wind through bamboo.

“Then about that Magical Girl MAYA—what do you think?” The question rolled like a marble.

PeaceWarrior shook her head slightly. “There are issues, but no smoking gun. The inside is likely complicated,” she said, like someone reading fog.

“By complicated, you mean MAYA herself might not be part of the ‘star-making plan’?” Yekase asked, lifting an eyebrow like a feather.

“...?” The small sound hung like a moth.

“Flashblade Red’s probe was my instruction. From MAYA’s reactions, I judge she genuinely just wants to be a hero. So why did it turn into this?” Yekase rubbed her temples, the ache pulsing like tide.

“Subjectively?” PeaceWarrior didn’t see that layer; her brows knit, like twigs crossing, and she pressed.

“Assembly-line branding, weapon loadout, PR shaping, and the whole agency’s machine—are you saying she didn’t get involved?” Her words strode like soldiers.

“She did, but I don’t know the structure, or how deep she’s in,” Yekase said, truth stepping soft as dust.

She felt the talk had run its course; she needed to hurry back and hunt threads between PeaceWarrior and Luzhixing, like tracing silk, and load ammo for next contact.

“Putting aside the fencing, discussing the ‘truth of the case’ with you was unexpectedly pleasant. We might be the same kind,” Yekase smiled, warm as a kettle.

Both lacked a sense of safety; both liked to lock information tight, preparing for imagined storms—the difference: Yekase leaned toward a gentler reading, while PeaceWarrior stayed strictly objective, even a shade pessimistic.

They were both Omega Ray users, yet Professor F was much cuter; her headlights were bigger, the joke flashing like neon.

Yekase pulled a small thing from PeaceWarrior’s blind spot and tossed it; it slowed and hovered, flapping metal wings toward her like a shy bird.

PeaceWarrior reflexively conjured a Glock, lifted it like a clean blade, then saw a cartoonish mechanical sparrow.

“Relax, it’s non-lethal. It’s called the Ironbeast Sparrow. It copies bird motion, chirps, reacts to people. No feeding—just an occasional charge,” Yekase said, voice easy as breeze.

“Why...” PeaceWarrior watched, wary as a deer, then broke down the Glock, parts melting like sand, and hesitated.

She reached out, and the Ironbeast Sparrow landed on her finger, light as a petal.

“Take it as a friendly gift. Think of it like a dove of peace,” Yekase said, the image floating like a white wing.

“...” Silence sifted like ash.

“Oh, and there’s no tracker! Really!” The assurance waved like a flag.

PeaceWarrior nodded, small as a drop.

...Why does this mood feel familiar, like déjà vu across a mirror?

She remembered—this coaxing, edging-close approach was exactly what Ling Yi had used on her back then, like a child offering candy.

And the coy, half-accepting attitude she’d had then wasn’t much better than PeaceWarrior’s now; the recognition clicked like a bead.

After that dawn, Yekase looked at PeaceWarrior—a haggard thirty-year-old office lady—and found her even a little cute, like moss on stone; but allies, they were not yet.

“There’s a bar named Valhalla in this building’s basement. The owner is the Beast King Squadron’s commander, Omega F. Flashblade Red and I will gather there often,” she said, the invite laying like a card.

PeaceWarrior stared at the Ironbeast Sparrow, lost like a boat in mist, and didn’t answer.

“...Omega F,” she said at last, the name echoing like a corridor.

“Yes,” Yekase replied, crisp as chalk.

“She’s the Beast King Squadron’s commander,” PeaceWarrior repeated, words pinning like tacks.

“You know her?” Yekase asked, the hook shining like silver.

“Don’t interrogate me,” PeaceWarrior said, stiff as wire.

“You know her?” Yekase asked again, the question gliding back like a boomerang.

PeaceWarrior turned; Yekase’s smile was mild as spring, but her eyes were cold as an Antarctic glacier.

“If Flashblade Red hadn’t figured out a counter to Spiral Force, before the armor twisted her into mince, did you have a fallback to save her?” The words landed like iron.

“...” Silence pooled like ink.

“You owe her a life. I’ll keep that for you,” Yekase said, filing it away like a ledger line.

She sat on the rooftop’s edge and dropped backward, her body rolling and slowing in air like a falling leaf.

Her feet touched down, and not even a dust mote rose, the landing neat as a pin.

PeaceWarrior watched the flourish, eyes steady as stones.

Yekase looked up from the street, threw her a playful smile, and brought two fingers to her temple, like a soft salute.

A goodbye gesture, perhaps, drifting like a paper crane.

Then her wrist turned, and the friendly sign became a gun barrel pressed to her head, dark as a thundercloud.

Bang. Her mouth shaped the word like a ghost note.

“...” PeaceWarrior’s instinct flared like a siren—she would really do it.

She was a madwoman in a hero’s skin, like her master who had killed indirectly by the handful; the warning lit red.

Yet PeaceWarrior couldn’t find a single reason to defend herself; her stance toward Icarus stayed undrawn, like a blade left in scabbard.

“If only I could trust you,” she whispered, in a volume no one could hear, the confession fragile as silk.

The Ironbeast Sparrow perched on her shoulder and chirped, a small, bright sound like seeds on a plate.