“Well said. I’m Layne—the Blazing Sun Knight!” Layne’s reply rang like a bell at dawn.

With Battle Aura armor flaring, he carried a pressure unlike before. The halo coiling his body blazed like the rising sun—dazzling, searing, yet warm.

Shelika flinched before that abnormal power, a step retreating on instinct.

She asked, “Layne, how did you find this place?”

Before he answered, she added, “By the plan, you should be striking the Silkworm Clan estate with the Silverwing Mage Corps. Why show up at the capital’s detached palace?”

She pressed on, “And you shouldn’t be wearing Battle Aura armor. This is the royal city. If anyone see you, they’ll call it the Iron Duke’s revolt. How dare you?”

Layne didn’t answer at once. He swept the hall with a cautious gaze, then—

“The Iron Duke’s Lionheart Legion has already suppressed Maple City!” His voice cracked like thunder.

“What did you say?” Disbelief stiffened her face.

If that were true, Maple City would’ve boiled into chaos. And today is the Knight Festival. The turmoil would spread from Maple City across Doran, then over the whole Nordland Continent. The Iron Duke couldn’t shoulder that fallout.

Though Shelika still doubted, Layne’s tone left no room to deny. “Those Night Disciples you used as claws in Maple City have been dragged out and executed on the spot.”

“Without pawns you can move, you can’t do a thing.”

“And soon, Gio Robel will be elected the next king.”

“Doran will become more independent, and more stable.”

“On such soil, your Dark Spirits will accomplish nothing.”

“Therefore, you’ve lost. Surrender yourself.” Layne’s words landed like a verdict.

Shelika stared blankly for a beat, then burst into wild laughter.

“Heh-hahaha~~~ Humans are surprisingly capable~~”

Her tone slid back into something low and venomous.

With a smile, Shelika purred, “But with just that, aren’t you underestimating me?”

Layne’s eyes widened. He slammed his greatsword down with a heavy thud and roared, “Don’t think to bluff me!”

The pressure was suffocating. Without guts, anyone would’ve bolted in panic.

Yet the mysterious Blood Clan woman before him didn’t blink. She said, “I meant to be gentle. To use your so-called schemes and coups, step by step, to carry Doran into the Earth Mother’s embrace.”

“But now I’ve changed my mind—” Her gaze sharpened. Her arms spread wide, like a beast baring its blood-red maw.

She laughed. “Now I’ll tear Doran to pieces and drown it in war. When your people have tasted the bitterness of a broken age, the Earth Mother will grace you at last.”

“How vicious. How vile…” Rage tightened Layne’s grip until the hilt nearly cracked. He raised his blade and answered, righteous and firm, “I, Layne, will never let you succeed!”

Shelika’s smile lingered. “Wrong. I can.”

“As long as that Sky Rank knight dies here.” She pointed at the Thunderlight Knight across the hall, as if plucking fruit.

“You dare?!” Layne didn’t expect a Blood Clan noble to be this brazen.

“Of course. No one stops me. Not even you~~”

Layne’s glare burned. He spat to the floor.

“Die, monster.” With that last glare, Layne surged forward.

“Mm-hahaha, struggle all you like~~” Shelika bared her own strength. The battle began.

At first, it was pure steel—one cut, one parry, cold and clean.

Layne’s greatsword hacked at blood-forged arms. Broad, ruthless strokes carved off crimson plates in sheets.

She countered with weapons in countless forms—blood blade, blood bayonet, blood longbow. Every strike sought the armored giant’s weak joints—a string of kill-shots.

Locked in a stalemate, they still couldn’t help themselves.

“Not bad at all.”

“For a human, you’re impressive.”

Cold steel spent, both reached for true power.

Layne, the Blazing Sun Knight, ignited his Earth Tier Battle Aura and unleashed his ultimate—Falling Sun. In a heartbeat—

A vast, blazing force burned the hall’s darkness to ash.

All of it flowed into Layne’s greatsword. He hurled that gathered sun forward, a star born in his grip.

At the same time, Shelika of the Dark Blood Clan surged blood and shadow. They braided together, tearing a raw rift in space—!

Dirge of the Nether River—Shelika’s signature.

As named, the torn space poured out like a broken dam. Near-endless blight erupted toward the onrushing sun.

Light against shadow. Heat against frost.

Two powers—vast and opposed—collided, tangled, split. Then crashed again. Tangled again. Split again.

Round after round of wrestling, the darkness began to thin.

“Die, monster!” Layne lifted his blade high. One more stroke, and her head would leave her shoulders.

Yet at that instant, an ominous black wind rose across the floor.

This wind was the Earth Mother’s power—no aura, no spell, but divinity above both. Mortals cannot resist divine force, and so—

“You can’t…” The light blew out around him. Layne fell, helpless.

Certain of victory, Shelika’s smile turned wanton. Her laughter rolled, indulgent and loud.

“Mm-hehehe…”

“Heh-hahaha…”

“Ah-hahahaha~~!!”

The black wind toppled not only Layne, but the Thunderlight Knight as well. Any mortal buckled. Only Lance remained standing.

Shelika and her retainer drifted toward the unconscious Thunderlight Knight. They raised a hand to cut her down—

Lance stepped in front and barred the way.

Shelika was surprised he hadn’t fainted. But the “boy” was torn and trembling, a candle guttering in the wind—no real threat.

She moved to slit his throat on reflex, then didn’t.

Because she saw it: a boy, dying, still guarding someone else. And Shelika felt an emotion strange, yet familiar—

Envy.

When such a boy guarded someone who wasn’t her, that emotion soured—

Jealousy.

She toyed with the words. “First you faked your death to fool me. Then you grew stronger in secret. Once a brat who’d run at the sight of me, and now—”

“The Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison. The hero of a nation. What a ringing title. What a daunting stance. And that Battle Aura swelling inside you—”

“To be honest, you are the first human I’ve admired this much.”

“You should’ve been a cold corpse. But now I’ll grant you a choice.”

“Abandon everything you have as a human. Submit to me. Offer all you are to the boundless night.”

The ruins fell still. No more clash and roar. Only pebbles skittering down the slope, whispering like falling sand.

In that quiet, Shelika waited.

“What happens if I refuse?”

Shelika’s face fell. Her voice threatened. “If you dare refuse, you’ll suffer without end. You’ll howl for a swift death. Only then will I let you die.”

“What do I gain if I accept?”

Shelika brightened, then promised, delighted, “Walk with me, and you’ll share the sweet world the Earth Mother foretold—forever veiled in night~~”

Silence.

Minutes passed in calm, a clock drinking each second.

Then she received his answer.

“I’ll pass. I want a quiet life,” Lance said, steady.

“So you remain foolish and arrogant, short-sighted and small.” Her words snapped. Shelika hurled a black javelin.

“Disappear!”

If the javelin pierced the boy’s chest, she could stop wasting time on humans.

A heartbeat later—thock—!

The javelin hit dead center.

Shelika smiled, assured. “This time, you won’t survive.”

Her smile froze.

Because the result was not what she expected—

When the black javelin struck, the knight’s figure and the weapon evaporated together, rising as black mist.

In their place stood a petite, charming silver-haired girl. Her eyes burned with a crimson not weaker than Shelika’s.

At such a sight, Shelika’s nerves frayed.

“Who—who are you?!” She shouted, stumbling back. Uneven rubble caught her heel. She nearly fell.

Seconds passed. The silver-haired girl didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed fixed—cool, and somehow terrifying.

Under that gaze, one felt like a chick pinned by an eagle, a calf before a crocodile, or prey bound by a serpent with no escape.

“Does Mother distrust me?” With no reply, Shelika blurted her most likely fear.

“No, no—Mother wouldn’t doubt me!” She denied herself as quickly. She was one of the queen’s three most favored children. Even with factions clashing over saving the nation, Mother wouldn’t send an assassin to silence her.

More seconds slid by. Then minutes.

Shelika cracked. “Who are you!?”

Time wandered on until the last blush of sunset sank below the earth, and night took the world.

Only then did Fulin speak. “I’m Fulin Belit. As you can see, a Blood Clan girl who longs for a calm life.”

“And you ruined it. Without your meddling—without your empty ‘ambition’—Lance Morrison might already be living quietly.”

“So you alive keeps me sleepless. But letting you die any way you want would leave me restless.”

“So I’ve decided. Be the stepping stone on my path to peace. You don’t get to refuse.” Fulin pointed straight at Shelika when she said it.

After a few minutes spent grasping the point, Shelika snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous!!”

It was pride. It was doctrine. It was the measure of her power—

She, the third princess of the Dark Blood Clan, carried noble strength. She was favored by the Earth Mother, baptized by the world of night. In power, how could she lose to a stray, nameless Blood Clan girl?

Besides, she was a Blood Clan powerhouse, and her powers were singular—

Blood Armament—Shelika’s battle form. Power to match any Earth Tier knight. She could shape weapons from blood, any she understood. With enough weapons, she never fell behind.

Dirge of the Nether River—a ninth-level Night spell, also her killing move among many. With that ninth-level spell, she could crush any non–Sky Rank knight, and any mage without a blessing of divine protection.

"Fertile Doomwind"—a godspell bestowed on the Earth Mother’s baptized, the deity’s favor made flesh.

It reaps all living things like a harvest wind, felling them inside nightmares.

Only those under equal godlight can withstand it.

Yet reality hit like cold iron.

Before Fulin, Shelika’s strength was a candle in a storm.

"Chaos Vampire talent—the Essence Transmutation Law, a rule like a black tide."

The weapons Shelika hurled touched Fulin, then vanished—as if absorbed, like pebbles sinking into black water.

"Arcane Mage specialty—Counterspell, a blade drawn before the strike."

Whatever Shelika cast, her foe moved first, shadow outracing flame, and answered with something stronger.

Her attack was a spark; the reply, a thunderclap.

"Dark Warrior technique—Shadow-Devouring Funeral Blade, a name like a gravebell."

Cornered, dread clawed her heart before her hands.

She invoked the godspell, "Fertile Doomwind," calling the earth’s breath to rise like a scything gale.

But her opponent melted into the night, a figure drunk by the dark.

The black wind blew itself empty, then fell.

Until... Shelika, drowned in endless regret, let her eyes close, helpless.