Ten minutes ago, she wore a smile blooming like a spring blossom.

Now she lay on the ground like a fallen petal.

She hadn’t closed her eyes, like a candle snuffed mid-flicker.

Those eyes, clear as a still lake.

They still seemed to follow their master, like a faithful star.

"I want to stay by my master's side."

Was that the girl’s final wish, like a moth facing its last light?

Fulin felt hollow, like wind through an empty reed.

It was like a song meant to go on, cut off like a snapped string.

She felt a deep refusal, like a river dammed by stone.

Refusal became anger, like stagnant water turning to storm.

Once he grasped it, Lance roared like thunder, "You killed Yuna, didn't you?!"

Shock flashed on the elf mage’s face like lightning, shouting innocence. "How could I?!"

His surprise cooled to indifference, like frost on stone. "I used the Puppet Art. It’s nonlethal. She died on her own!"

"Is that so... died on her own." Lance’s voice drifted like ash.

While his words trailed like smoke, Fulin’s heart drifted back to meeting Yuna, like a leaf trying to return to its branch.

Guilt surged first, heavy as rain. She couldn’t bear to kill Yuna, yet fear gnawed like mice—leaked intel, future betrayal, a hundred creeping shadows.

So Fulin cast Silent Withering, a frost without sound, staking life as a wager, forcing obedience like a leash of ice.

Half a year flowed by like a cold stream. Yuna proved loyal, yet what use was loyalty against fate?

Fulin had underestimated this world’s spells—brainwashing, suggestion, soul-binding—hooks cast into a dark sea.

Before such crooked methods, will and love, no matter how iron, shattered like clay in a flood.

She felt lost, like mist crossing a ravine.

That mist deepened to despair, like night swallowing the last lantern.

But—like a blade catching dawnlight.

Fulin held one simple wish, like a pebble warm in the palm.

"I just want a quiet life," a whisper like prayer in dew.

For that plain, bright wish, she schemed like a spider, braved wind and rain like a reed, rode weary miles like a dusty horse, tasted bitterness like unripe tea.

The hardship piled like winter snow—

She wanted, a thousand times, to cry aloud like a storm breaking on cliffs—

Yet she held it in, like ice sealing a river.

A thin fear pricked like a blade. If she cried like a girl, would she be nothing but a girl?

Girls bloom like flowers in spring.

Without comfort, they wither like frostbitten buds; without care, they snap like hollow stems; without support, they stand alone like lone pines.

But—like flint struck again.

"I just want a quiet life," the wish rang like a bell in clear air.

That wish never wavered, like the North Star in winter.

For half a year she plotted and endured, tasted hot and cold like tea steeped too long.

Only her wish stood firm, like a stone in a strong river.

Hope lived in her chest, a small flame cupped against the wind.

Her will surged like a sea; her heart cleared like a mirror lake.

Fulin beat back the fog at last, like sun burning off morning mist.

Warm fire returned to Lance’s eyes like fanned coals. He turned and ordered, "Jasmine, go downstairs. Bring me Professor Carlos!"

"I’m afraid it won’t be in time!" Jasmine’s worry fluttered like a trapped bird.

"Don’t worry!" Lance said, then blew a long whistle that sliced the air like an arrow.

"Roar!" The answer came like a drum in a canyon.

Two breaths later, the big cat fell like a meteor from the sky.

"It’s urgent. Yuna’s life hangs on you," he said, voice like iron.

"Roar!" The beast agreed, a flame in fur.

"Yah!" The big cat clamped Jasmine gently, then sprinted like a loosed bolt.

At full tilt it blurred like wind. In four seconds, their shadow vanished at the grassland’s rim.

"All right, next—" Lance turned slowly. His gaze fell on the elf mage like frost. "Got anything to say?"

The piercing look struck like an arrow. The elf mage flinched.

Yet he shrugged guilt off like dust. "It was a human life, not a Celestial Spirit’s. What’s the fuss?"

"I see... a fuss." Lance’s tone cooled like falling snow, his head lowered like a drawn hood.

The air pressed down like a storm lid.

A few seconds slid by like slow drops.

When Lance raised his head, anger was gone like smoke, replaced by a killing chill like a winter blade.

In that instant—like lightning through dry wood—

Lance bent, hand on the hilt, like a hawk folding its wings—

Secret Blade: Swallow Reversal!

Whoosh—the cut zipped like a swallow’s turn.

Before the elf could move, two long searing lines bloomed on his chest like brands.

"You—you dare!" he shouted, then cast Flight and shot back like a leaf on a gale.

The spell carried him far; one retreat opened a hundred meters like a flooding river.

"A Tier-3 ward... huh." Lance tasted the strike like iron on his tongue.

He had prepared, it seemed. Without it, that single Swallow Reversal would have felled him like a tree.

The mid-tier battle mage proved capable. Landing, he cast the Puppet Art like a thrown net: "You hurt an elf male—kill yourself!"

By reason, Lance should have been snared like a fish. But—Lance only snorted, "Useless," his voice cutting like a knife.

"Impossible?!" The failure jolted the mage like a misfired spark.

The panic lasted a breath, like a ripple on a pond.

Seeing Lance still a hundred meters away, he smiled cold as ice. "Fool, you let a mage open the gap—"

"You’re already dead!" He began to chant Chain Lightning, words crackling like tinder.

Like other battle mages, he trusted this element, confidence hard as granite.

He needed only three seconds, like three drumbeats.

In three heartbeats, he’d fry the proud knight, soul scattered like ash on wind.

Three seconds weren’t enough to cross a hundred meters, a canyon of air.

He felt victory in hand, like a falcon gripping prey.

Alas, his read was wrong, like stars swallowed by sudden cloud—

because Lance could fly, like a spark riding an updraft.

Lance had mastered Blazing Raid, a war-fire sprint like a comet’s run.

With Blazing Raid, a hundred meters in three seconds was nothing, like a single stride over a stream.

Lance flared his Battle Aura, heat rising like a forge.

Underfoot, aura became a sky-piercing flame like a geyser.

He rode the blast upward, leaping into the air like a fired arrow.

Then he dropped like falling fire, a streak across dusk.

Locked on, the elf panicked, thoughts scurrying like rats.

Too late, like a door slammed in storm.

The comet with a great flame-tail fell—

Boom—the earth answered like a drum.

After the roar, smoke thinned like torn veils.

The impact carved a deep crater in the sunset prairie, like a wound in bronze.

Inside, scorched earth heaved up like broken crust, with embers biting like hot ants.

At the center, Lance rose on trembling knees like a battered mast, limping toward the mage.

The mage lay at the rim, charred and burnt, wailing on cinders like a wounded wolf.

Mid-howl, he heard judgment like a bell. He looked up and saw the Blazing Fire Knight coming like a shadow of flame.

"Don’t come!" he cried, fear sharp as ice. He braced blistered elbows on scorched dirt and crawled toward the lip like a crippled beetle.

At last, like a diver breaking surface—

He reached the edge and stretched a hand, joy budding like spring.

He dreamed of cool grass under elbow, soft as moss after rain.

He reached on, inch by inch, like a vine seeking sun.

But then—like a hammer from a clear sky—

Lance’s merciless boot fell like a stone.

The hand got ground back into the pit, onto earth hot as a stove.

The heat gnawed like fire-ants, turning ruins into dust.

"Let go! I’m an elf—!" He tried command, voice brittle as glass.

Lance didn’t relent. His weight deepened like a millstone.

"Please, let go. I meant no harm—!" His plea thinned like smoke.

Lance held fast, pressure rising like a tide. He even roused his Refining Breath Art—

Crack—the sound snapped like frozen wood.

"Aaah!" He shrieked as his radius broke, pain blooming like firecrackers.

The apprentices watched, faces bright at first, like children at a fireworks show.

Then they saw it was only torture and payback. Their hearts sank like stones into water.

No one knew how long; time drifted like falling ash.

When the elf could no longer scream, his breath a thread like spider silk—

Professor Carlos walked over at last, slow as dusk. He crouched, checked the faint life, then lifted his gaze to Lance.

His voice carried mixed weather. "Blazing Fire Knight, are you satisfied?"

Lance looked at weary Professor Carlos like an old tree, then at Yuna in Jasmine’s arms, her breath returned like a relit lamp.

He stepped aside in silence, like a shadow moving. "Satisfied, Professor."

"Good," the professor said, wrapping wounds like binding a cracked jar. He turned. "Go see your beloved maid. She should wake soon."