PeaceWarrior didn’t trust anyone; her heart was a locked well under a stone lid.

She grew up without parents, working like an ant in an orphanage to pay for a bed.

Then came betrayals, exploitation, oppression, brazen lies, and crimes like storm hail.

Too thin to wrestle wolves, she chose the most manageable guns to survive, like a sparrow clutching a pebble.

At first she hoped heroes would purge evil and save her, like a lighthouse cutting fog.

But evil beached itself like fish along the shore; rescue came only with rare tides.

So she thought, I’ll become a hero, like striking flint in a cave.

Yet past shadows tugged her like reeds snagged by current, refusing to drift away.

If she didn’t dig out every secret of those she met, her gut knotted like cold wire.

She told herself, in a world choked by the Sinister Organization, true heroes must have a moral spine like bamboo.

At the same time, a thorn pressed in: what if a fighter disguised himself as a hero, like a wolf in festival paint?

Caught in that knot of thinking, PeaceWarrior began trailing and probing the heroes, like a fox on wet snow.

She wanted to find the black sheep, prune rot from the flock, like a gardener with shears.

More than that, she wanted to convince herself, like warming hands over a small fire.

She wanted to believe this messed-up world still held companions you could trust completely, like anchors in a gale.

For example, a righteous, sincere, fervent, upbeat Super Sentai Red Ranger, like a banner in the wind.

The next evening, PeaceWarrior stepped into Valhalla, like a shadow crossing a quiet pond.

The place looked like any small bar, only quieter, like snow after midnight.

She’d studied the building plans inside and out, memorizing every corner and door like a map etched on bark, even knowing it was needless.

Behind the bar stood a girl in a bartender’s outfit, maybe ten-something, delicate as a sapling.

The crisp shirt and small vest fit so well they looked like cosplay, like paper cutouts.

PeaceWarrior recognized her as one of yesterday’s hostages, and dipped her head like a nod to rain.

“She’s waiting at booth four,” the girl said, voice calm as a still spoon.

PeaceWarrior nodded again and walked deeper into the bar, steps soft as felt.

“Also, this,” the girl called, smile shy as a morning crescent, offering a milky drink with ice that chimed like small bells.

“She invites you to a Piña Colada,” she said, scent like coconut wind.

“Thanks,” PeaceWarrior said, the word dropping like a pebble into water.

At this point, fretting over poison would be clownish, like an umbrella indoors, so she took the glass openly.

Icarus—Yekase—had sunk into the sofa like a cat in sunlight, working a laptop with fingers like quick rain.

Hearing PeaceWarrior approach, she only looked up once, said sit, then kept tinkering like a watchmaker.

PeaceWarrior set the drink down, smoothed her skirt like pressing a crease in paper, and sat.

She didn’t wear her classic office-lady suit today, but her near-featureless black still looked like mourning cloth.

Yekase wore a school uniform, clean as a fresh page.

“Heavenly Heart High School, second-year uniform,” PeaceWarrior said, eyes like measuring calipers.

“Yes,” Yekase said, voice even as a ruler on a desk.

“Add this ribbon, and I can trace you directly…” PeaceWarrior began, sight narrowing like a slit of light.

“My name’s Yekase, seventeen,” the girl said, as simple as chalk on a board.

“What’s your name, Ms. Lu?” she asked, gaze mild as tea steam.

“Playing dumb?” PeaceWarrior said, the words cold as iron rails.

She hadn’t found Yekase’s real body, but Yekase had her name on day two, like a hawk spotting a mouse.

That alone pressed on PeaceWarrior’s chest like a heavy lid.

“Your rep’s so bad no one online even tries to dig you,” Yekase said, smile thin as a blade.

“You can’t accept others hiding things, while you’ve erased almost every trace—almost,” she added, breath like a feather on glass.

Yekase took off her mask and smiled with her own face, like a lantern uncovered.

“So I came to tell you, someone hides better than you, and finds better than you,” she said, words like flint on steel.

She reached toward PeaceWarrior’s ear, then palmed out a Golden Beach cocktail, like pulling sunlight from silk.

“...!”

“Lost the intel war and feeling nervous?” she asked, eyes glinting like fish scales. “Good.”

She raised the golden drink and clinked the air toward PeaceWarrior, then sipped, a cat’s tongue on cream.

“This is zero proof, Fang Tang!” she called toward the bar, voice bouncing like a rubber ball.

“Minors don’t get alcohol!” Fang Tang replied, firm as a posted sign.

“Japanese, huh? Learning the worst rules, not the good ones!” Yekase grumbled, like a kettle spitting.

After calling out a few times and failing to convince Fang Tang to cut in wine, she drank on in pain like medicine.

“In any case—don’t you have anything to say?” she asked, tone soft as a fan’s wave.

“I don’t care about your background; as long as you fight the Sinister Organization, I won’t dig deeper,” she said. “Rest easy,” and the words fell like a blanket.

She hadn’t set this meet to break PeaceWarrior—well, not mainly; she wanted to talk, like laying stones in a bridge.

PeaceWarrior stared at her own drink and said nothing, silence pooling like night water.

“Yekase… no, Icarus,” she said, voice low as thunder behind hills.

“I’m here,” Yekase answered, quick as a spark.

“Fight me,” PeaceWarrior said, the demand sharp as frost.

“So hot-blooded?” Yekase smiled, a crescent like a drawn bow. “Not your style.”

“I figured if you wanted a fight, you’d have set a sniper rifle before you entered,” she added, words stepping like a fox.

PeaceWarrior shook her head, motion small as falling ash.

Yekase snagged the untouched Piña Colada without ceremony and chugged it like coconut water under the sun.

“Right—you want me to persuade you,” she said, voice neat as stacked cards.

“You want me to prove sincerity through combat, and force a half-coerced bond,” she added, like pinning a butterfly.

“…” PeaceWarrior froze, breath tight as a knotted cord.

She’d been read to the marrow; the insight crawled like ice down the spine.

Two brief contacts and a few threadbare traces, and Yekase got this far, like reading rings in a tree.

Or was this still holding back, like fog hiding cliffs?

Ask how she did it, and it’d be total defeat, like kneeling before the gate.

“Don’t mind me,” Yekase said, scratching her head, the screen’s glow washing her face like pond light.

“My trade’s engineering—powered armor and trap design; reading users and enemies is crucial,” she said. “Just habit,” like a groove in wood.

“Still, you’re way too twisted… kind of self-centered, yeah?” she added. “Cyber princess syndrome?” like a sticker slapped on.

“Call it whatever,” PeaceWarrior said, voice flat as slate.

“So I refuse your challenge,” Yekase said, firm as a shut door.

“Why?” PeaceWarrior asked, the word clipped like a cut twig.

“I’m not your mom; I won’t indulge your OCD,” Yekase said, grin sharp as glass. “Oh, right, you don’t have a mom—my bad,” she added, like tossing salt.

PeaceWarrior saw she was being deliberately snide, and the parent jab didn’t bite, like a dull hook.

“Shuangta, Jiangsu, Huaxia, and the whole world—so many Sinister Organization cells stirring storms,” Yekase said, voice like wind listing cities.

“And you spend your energy bonding by beating other heroes, feeding your doxxing kink,” she added, like tapping a bruise.

She set the laptop aside and lay on the table, chin propped, eyes tilting up like a cat’s.

“You weren’t betrayed by a hero… were you?” she asked, the line sliding like a knife under bark.

A strip of blue light flashed, and a Glock pressed under Yekase’s chin, lifting her face like a lever.

PeaceWarrior’s dark-ringed eyes widened to their limit, pupils burning with anger like coals.

“Why point at me? I’m not the one who betrayed you,” Yekase said, voice steady as a plumb line.

She brushed the muzzle aside and hopped off the table, then beckoned with her back turned like a tide’s pull.

“Come on. I know a place where no one bothers us,” she said, words stepping like stones across a creek.

“Weren’t we not fighting?” PeaceWarrior asked, suspicion hanging like mist.

“I’m not indulging you,” Yekase said. “Valhalla bans drawn weapons; as the honorary deputy manager, I owe you a penalty,” like a referee’s whistle.

Hands in her pockets, she drifted toward the door like a kite on a steady wind.

PeaceWarrior stood stunned for a few seconds, then hurried after like a shadow returning to feet.

As they passed the bar, Fang Tang muttered, “So it still turned into this…” like leaves rustling.

PeaceWarrior glanced at her, a look sharp as a skewer.

“Oh—no, no,” Fang Tang said quickly, hands flapping like wings. “In her prediction, you’d draw a USP.”

Yekase led the way to the Heavenly Heart district shooting range, like retracing a river’s bend.

It bore a community name but was fully private, like a garden behind a wall.

The owner was Shen Shanshan’s friend; intel on “that factory” had his fingerprints, like sand on a shovel.

Besides target practice, it offered another service, like a hidden gate in a wall.

In the basement, it rented a sturdy, wide arena for duel-resolving factions, plus first aid after, like a field tent.

Yekase greeted the owner and took the stairs down, feet pattering like rain.

She didn’t look back, but the echo of a second set of steps spelled PeaceWarrior’s choice, like two metronomes.

They stopped in a giant basement, dozens of meters deep and two soccer fields wide, like a cavern under a city.

As Yekase halted, PeaceWarrior had already pulled a grenade and thrown it, motion quick as a striking snake.

A hum sliced the air; a laser skimmed over PeaceWarrior’s head and cut the grenade in half, blooming it mid-air like a firework.

“Right, I forgot to mention,” Yekase said, turning, a red-dyed forelock lifting and curling into an antenna-like strand. “I’ve stayed transformed the whole time,” she added, like a magician revealing a dove.

Always transformed?!

The sailor uniform had been swapped beforehand, like a stage change behind curtains.

Her face—PeaceWarrior didn’t even know if it changed pre and post, like a mask that fits skin.

Her weapons—she conjured them from thin air like me, tools from fog.

The setup had begun before the invitation, burying the true body like a pebble under pebbles, seamless as ice.

That’s why she’d been so relaxed under the gun, like a swimmer under rain.

PeaceWarrior didn’t hesitate; she flung out four mechanical arms, each gripping a PKM, raining fire like iron monsoon.

By admitting she’d been transformed, Yekase admitted she’d trusted PeaceWarrior not even a hair, even when delivering the Iron Beast Bird, like hands never shaking.

Now the mask was off; she broke into high-speed movement, tying a keyboard to her left forearm like a brace.

PeaceWarrior recognized it; the Meteor Shower’s roar still burned in memory like scorch on bark.

Indoors it might fail, but who knew if she could whip up a same-tier ultimate, like calling lightning from a room?

Though in truth, she couldn’t, the fact tucked like a pebble in a shoe.

Witch Workshop had solved Ancient Alchemy’s need for perfect focus, making combat-casting possible like writing while running.

But a spell like the Re-Genesis Eco-Bomb failed often with photo-casting, and needed her hands to assemble runes, like threading needles.

Anything higher than Super Perseid hurt to even look at—hundreds of runes like a swarm of bees.

Yekase typed theatrically on the keyboard, keys clicking like sleet.

PeaceWarrior couldn’t let her channel; half her ranged fire got carved away by floating lasers, and half Yekase dodged with boosted footwork, like a hare under arrows.

Which meant… she had to close the distance, like leaning into the wind.

Or was that the mirage Yekase wanted, like a heat shimmer on a road?

PeaceWarrior said nothing, and conjured six more mechanical hands, metal flowers opening like night blooms.