Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Like war drums beating under a cliff.

Fists and shins collided, dull and fierce, like stones hammering stones.

The echoes ran down the narrow alley like rain in a gutter.

Power smashed into power, then burst like a storm cracked open.

Ripples spread through the void, gray gusts rolling like ashen surf.

This clash began when the red-haired woman folded herself into Ye Weibai’s chest like a fox slipping into brush.

Their battlefield shrank to half a meter, a knife-edge of space like a blade’s width of moonlight.

Yet in that cramped cage, the danger bit harder than any brawl Ye Weibai had survived, like a wolf trapped in a pit.

Every strike of hers hunted a vital point, like a hawk stooping for a throat.

Her fist-wind shrieked so sharp it was glass being shaved by a blade.

Tall as a pine at one-point-eight, with arms and legs like branches, she still curled into a tight knot.

Her attacks were delicate, secret, and lethal; not a Warrior, but an assassin’s shadow swimming in night.

Silver, the one the continent priced like a treasure, had crumpled under Ye Weibai like wet paper.

That blond youth whose casual strike was Saint-tier fenced a heartbeat, then fled like a startled deer.

Yet she could trade with Ye Weibai for this long; the Empire held its breath and called her the Crimson Blossom.

The title wasn’t empty; her strength bloomed like a blood-red peony in frost.

“But…” The word fell like a pebble into a still pond.

Thud! A stone plunged through dark water.

Ye Weibai reached out and caught the hand-knife that stabbed from her own embrace, neat as a needle through silk.

His gaze speared the blood-red eyes behind her helm like moonlight spearing a pool.

Doubt thickened beneath the icy film of her pupils, like stormwater trapped under ice.

Strike after strike broke on him like waves on bedrock; even a veteran heart faltered like a drum missing a beat.

“Strong,” the black Demon King murmured, “but only human-strong, like a bonfire before a mountain.”

His left palm turned down, fingers splayed; he stroked the air like a harp over the void.

Her scalp prickled like marching ants; her red eyes pinholed like a lens under noon.

Her bare foot dug into shattered bluestone like a sprinter in gravel, ready to spring back.

“Too slow.” The words fell like a guillotine through fog.

Boom—half-transparent darkness closed from all sides like a collapsing tide at dusk.

She held it for half a heartbeat, like a reed in a flood.

The black surge slammed her to one knee, a mountain landing on her spine like thunder on pine.

“Gah!” Blood burst from her lips, a red banner in the night.

She knelt on one knee, back bowed like a hunted stag under a yoke.

She could shoulder a mountain in this state, like Atlas braced in a storm.

Yet his attack outstripped every strike she had ever tasted, like lightning beyond thunder.

A mere Imperial Tutor—how could he be this strong? The thought hit like hail on iron.

Ye Weibai watched her fight to lift her head, like a swimmer facing surf.

Most of her crimson armor had drifted away like leaves in wind, exposing wheat-gold skin.

Only the helm and torso remained; both arms lay bare, long legs washed in moonlight like polished jade.

Her rounded thighs, half-squatting, drew curves like bows; the edge of her hip flickered like a crescent.

She had no room for modesty; left knee bit stone, right foot and both palms pinned earth like iron stakes.

Even so, the weight pressed her spine until she folded on her own knee, like bamboo bowing under snow.

Teeth bit hard enough to draw blood, a rose blooming behind steel.

The seam between helm and cuirass creaked like ice in thaw.

She strained to lift her head and failed, forced to stare at Ye Weibai’s legs like a prisoner at bars.

He extended a foot and tapped her calf with his toe, light as a cat’s paw on silk.

The touch burned worse than flame; shame and rage rose like smoke, and she growled low like a caged wolf.

“Ah. As expected.” His voice fell like quiet rain on slate.

It wasn’t lechery; that wasn’t Ye Weibai, whose mind ran like a compass toward the north of puzzles.

It wasn’t that women bored him; priorities ruled him like stars steering a ship.

Puzzles charmed him more than perfume; riddles shone brighter than silk, like lanterns in fog.

Since arriving in this World, he’d chased one knot above all: how to break the tragic brand of the Hero King on Aerin, like cutting a curse-thread.

The other girls carried Misfortune too; each one was another riddle, thorns beaded with dew.

In their exchanges, he’d glimpsed the gift Misfortune carved into the redhead like runes in bark.

“Reflection,” Ye Weibai said softly, like a mirror catching dawn. “That’s your ability, isn’t it?”

Her growl died like a snuffed candle; disbelief flooded behind steel like a pale tide.

“When you shed armor, a certain breath flowed out,” he said, voice calm as winter water over stone.

“It wrapped you. My strikes hit, got swaddled, then thrown back—fascinating, like a river returning to its spring.”

She was silent a long time, then rasped a single word from her throat, sharp as a thorn. “Interesting?”

“Yes,” he said. “You reflect more than blows and energy, like a lake returning stones.”

“You turn back subtle, ill-omened things as well, like crows scattered by a scarecrow.”

His Eyes of Misfortune opened, gray fire in his gaze like ash-born stars.

Then he saw her Misfortune, a sky of Crimson Moons like coins of blood across night.

No—thousands of thumb-sized red-haired women, Doll-like and bare as newborns, fairy-lights circling her like fireflies.

Those in sight whirled in open air; others hid under heavy armor like mice in corn.

When he looked, they were frantic, tiny hands scooping his black pressure like children baling a sinking boat.

They tossed it back, canceling less than one ten-millionth, like dust against a tide.

They were too small; each grasp held less than half a fingertip of the dark, like thimbles catching a waterfall.

His power kept pouring, a river beyond their dam like a monsoon river.

One noticed his gaze, tilted her head like a sparrow, then froze with mouth round as a seed.

She forgot to throw the dark stream, still as a leaf in frost.

Ye Weibai smiled; gray flame flickered in his pupils like cinders under wind.

He mouthed, “I see you,” like a hunter greeting deer in snow.

“Eep?!” “Eep-eep?!” “Eep! Eep! Eep-eep-eep!” Their cries rang like silver bells kicked into air.

The tiny things boiled up like water at a rolling boil, panic bright as sparks.

For the first time, someone saw them; instinct felt a pressure like a crown, a rule like gravity.

All Misfortune bowed when it saw Misfortune at its peak—the Demon King, condensed like a black star.

It was natural suppression, a food chain’s top jaw closing; reverence etched into soul like law on stone.

That was the Demon King, like an eclipse over the sea.

They were diligent even in panic; tiny hands kept working like bees in wind.

But efficiency dipped, a thread fraying on a loom like a tear in silk.

In a battle at Demon King level, a thread means a wound, a hair means a canyon.

“Puh!” Blood surged again, a crimson arc like a comet through dusk.

The leg that had held finally bent; the other knee hit stone like a hammer on anvil.

On all fours like a hounded wolf, she held herself off the ground by will like iron wire.

She roared, “What did you do?!” The demand rang like steel on steel.

For an instant, her Reflection misfired, like a mirror fogging under breath—the first time since her Blessing took root.

As a child, power had overflowed her guard like floods breaching a bank.

As Crimson Blossom grown, such times had faded; even Saint-tier blows met her like rain on lacquered wood.

This man’s force was terrifying, vast enough to drown her like a black sea, but fear hadn’t bitten; she hadn’t used her final state.

That flicker of failure carved a notch of dread in her heart, like a knife under a rib.

After the blood, the tiny sprites jolted and hurried, hands blurring like whirling leaves.

They tossed the dark back and shot Ye Weibai furtive, fierce, fearful looks, like fox kits promising a bite.

If he weren’t the Demon King, they’d have swarmed him with tiny fists, like sparrows mobbing a hawk.

These little Misfortunes were adorable, like kittens that carried thorns.

Ye Weibai couldn’t help but laugh, a sound like a bell under cloth.

She couldn’t see him, but she heard and flinched; “What are you laughing at?!” she snarled, like a blade scraping a whetstone.

That gentle laugh cut her ears like a thin knife through silk.

“Nothing.” Ye Weibai shook his head, a leaf drifting in still water.

He crouched until their eyes met, level as two moons over a lake.

He looked into the rage and shame in her red gaze, smiled, and said, “I just think—you’re pretty cute.”