Cerise smiled, a sickle moon. “Alright, warm‑up’s over. My turn.”

Her words fell; she flash‑stepped like lightning, a blur before Shelika, staff raised high, then slammed down like a falling comet.

Clang!

Shelika caught it with True Crimson Whirl, but not fully; the force pushed her back like a boat in rough surf.

After rounds of battle, Cerise had settled into her divine power like skin to rain.

Even in close quarters, she didn’t lose an inch.

Cerise seized the opening, those heartbeat‑long steps of retreat.

Her motion broke physics like a bent mirror; she yanked the staff back, leveled it like a spear, and drove it forward.

Clang again!

Shelika used True Crimson Whirl again, but the guard failed; the chain‑sword snapped like brittle frost.

She bled off some force, yet the thrust still blasted her away like a leaf before wind.

Thud.

She hit and sank into the wall, an ugly imprint like a shadow cast in stone.

Cerise admired the scene like a painter before a canvas, then walked in, unhurried.

As she neared, she lifted the staff a touch.

Its inverted‑cross head bloomed with dark‑blue fire like a winter sea, a heart‑shaped sigil floating within.

She came on with the staff, a faint smile glazing her flawless features like frost.

She explained the mark in the fire. “Hehehe... This is the Vassal Brand, a divine rite of the God of Blood. It lets the victor absolutely command the defeated—”

She paused, stepped in, and with a casual swipe tore the cloth over Shelika’s belly like paper on water.

Smooth skin shone there like polished jade under moonlight.

Cerise’s fingers traced her lower abdomen, touch light as drifting ash on snow.

Maybe because victory hung within reach, her angelic face shed its mask and curved into a wicked, playful smile like a cat’s.

She pointed at Shelika’s belly, voice sweet and crooked. “Know this. If I carve the Vassal Brand here, all of you is mine. That includes you... Do you know why I came close to you back then?”

Shelika turned her face aside like a shutter against wind. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

“Hehehe... To have you. Once I brand you, even your heart will belong to me.”

Her other hand brought the staff toward that belly like a brand to soft wax.

The head burned dark‑blue, the heart sigil pulsing like an ember.

If that mark seared down, Shelika would likely become Cerise’s slave, collar cold as iron, and suffer inhuman treatment.

Of course Shelika would never allow it; her resolve sat like steel under snow.

Her defeat was a feint, a bitter‑meat ploy to loosen the hawk’s grip.

Thus the shooter drone had already moved like a spider in the rafters.

Since moments ago it had erased its presence, nesting in shadow like ink, barrel turning, sight setting, patience packed tight.

Now Cerise stood steady before Shelika, a perfect target like a lantern in fog.

The drone aimed at Cerise’s back, the crosshair kissing her heart like a cold coin.

As soon as the staff hand crept one more centimeter, thunder would crack like a drum.

Blood would bloom on her chest like a crimson flower, and she’d drop silent.

This was Shelika’s plan to end Cerise, a knife hidden under silk.

And now, success hovered a breath away like dew.

However—

A door that shouldn’t carry sound leaked a frantic shout. “Shelika!!”

At the call, Cerise’s hand froze like ice. Both looked to the door like startled birds.

Crash!

The door blew inward, and two flashbangs skipped in like silver fish.

The fall of the door hadn’t finished rumbling when white suns and iron thunder ruled the room.

These flashbangs were tailored to strike the Dark Blood Clan like salt on wounds.

Light too cruel for Blood Clan eyes, noise past the limit, and indoors it worked like a hammer in a bell.

Even with divine shelter, Cerise couldn’t endure.

The blasts spun her like a top.

A second later she blacked out on the floor.

Ten seconds crawled by; the room settled like dust.

A squad of Demonic Human Race knights rushed in, fully armed, deep visors dark as midnight glass.

It was plain now who had staged it, like footprints in fresh snow.

They fanned out with drilled ease, a formation blooming like a steel flower.

“Shelika, where are you!!” the call came again from the doorway like a thrown rope.

As the knights poured in, the caller followed on their heels like a shadow.

He found Shelika fast. With hands helping, they eased her from the wall like freeing someone from ice, then laid her down gently.

He stepped close and crouched. Her chest rose and fell like a quiet tide, and he let out a long breath.

He shook her gently, voice tight with worry. “Hey, Shelika, wake up!!”

Shelika was Dark Blood Clan, so the flashbangs had stunned her too, a fog like wet wool.

But she wasn’t fully gone; inside, Fulin held the reins like a steady rider.

After a minute and that rocking, she blinked awake, a murmur leaking. “Mm... you are...”

Seeing her eyes open, the man took off his visor; a green‑brown face, features sharp yet soft, worry written like rain.

Shelika parted her lips with effort, confusion like mist. “You are... Rex?”

“Great, you’re okay!” The Demonic Human Race knight named Rex loosened at once, tension untying like a knot.

Instinct moved him. He gathered Shelika into his arms like shielding a candle.

“Let this one... lie on the ground, please.”

“Ah! Sorry.”

Rex released her at once and set her down lightly.

The others took the hint, fetched a stretcher, and placed her on it like laying a reed on water.

During that almost tender reunion, Cerise came to as well, like a sleeper surfacing.

But she’d been restrained before waking; two Demonic Human Race knights held her like clamps.

Cerise shot Rex a hateful look like a thorn, then glanced at Shelika, voice between puzzlement and scorn. “Heh... relying on a man, are we.”

Like spending the last breath, she finished, and fainted again, a candle snuffed.