Hearing someone wanted to steal Ling, Alicia slammed the table, anger crashing like thunder. “Who dares try to take my Ling!”

“I do—Rafi, third princess of the great Ailusen Empire!” Her voice rose like a banner in the wind.

Only then did Alicia notice the girl at the door, pink hair like Elusen cherry blossoms. It was Rafi, a diplomatic pawn between the Ailusen Empire and the Moser Empire, a piece moved like a chessman across cold marble, yet she wore her title like a crown and stood proud as a mountain, which left her as solitary as a lone crane.

“Tch. You’re just an imperial pawn. What’s there to be proud of?” Alicia’s words cut like frost on the blade.

“Who cares what you think—fight first, talk later. Ling’s mine,” Rafi shot back, her tone sharp as an arrow loosed into dusk.

“Silence, shameless thief,” Alicia snapped, her temper flaring like a wildfire. “This isn’t your Ailusen Empire. Not everything here belongs to you.”

At that, both reached for their weapons, motion smooth as swallows splitting the sky.

Alicia drew her ancestral Demonblade, Roar of the Fire Dragon, its black-red edge like molten dusk. Rumor said it was forged from the Fire Dragon Emperor’s mana core; feed it magic, and its breath became fire.

Rafi lifted a bow thin as moonlight over snow. Ling flipped open the Script, ink glimmering like a night river, and read aloud: a bow born from the frigid layer of the Underworld. Yes, the Underworld—no one knew why an infernal bow nested in a human girl’s hands like a raven on a temple gate.

The weapons leveled, two lines of winter and flame, the air heavy with the hush before a life-and-death duel.

Ling couldn’t bear to see Alicia hurt; her heart thudded like a drum, and she rushed between them, voice ringing like a bell. “Stop! Don’t fight! Don’t fight anymore!”

Some idiot orphan chimed in from the back, like a pebble plopping into a still pond. “If you wanna fight, go dance—pah—go to the training room!”

Both girls seemed to accept the suggestion; steel slid away like waves retreating, their eyes locked like crossing blades, and they nodded once.

“As you wish. Ten minutes from now, meet in the training room,” Rafi said, her tone crisp as a banner snap. “You know the rules: S-rank vs A-rank. A-rank may bring five sub–A-rank allies. Be ready.”

“When have I ever feared?” Alicia answered, a smile thin as a knife-edge.

They finished their oh-so-dramatic declarations, then turned and walked off back-to-back, cool as drifting leaves—if you ignored the black mist coiling off Ling like storm smoke.

Ling raised three fingers, a shadow spreading over her face like rainclouds. “You have three seconds. Find me that orphan, and I’ll spare you.”

Whoosh. The crowd parted like a tide, leaving one bewildered man bobbing in the middle like a lone buoy.

Ling’s gaze met his, and her smile curved like a hooked blade. “Good. Looks like it’s you.”

She lifted him one-handed, his fear fluttering like a trapped moth, and pronounced his sentence like a judge at dawn. “You. Go to Thailand for surgery. Then go to Japan and be an idol. If you aren’t famous in a year, you can play in the Underworld—indefinitely.”

She flung him out the window, his arc tracing toward Thailand like a thrown spear. He later became Japan’s top idol and founded the Golden Hound Syndicate through grit and glitter—but Ling didn’t care; that’s another tale drifting like smoke.

After disposing of the trash, Ling walked toward Alicia, footsteps soft as falling petals.

Seeing Alicia sharpening her blade, Ling felt a chill on her spine like frost. “Um… Alicia-sis, why’s your killing—your battle intent burning so strong?”

Alicia paused, lifted the blade to the sun, and watched a white-hot flare bite her eyes. Satisfaction warmed her like tea; then she turned, gaze sharp as a hawk’s. “No one steals my Ling.”

Her stare was terrifying, a winter wind through bamboo, yet Ling’s heartbeat sped like a racing horse at that domineering vow. “But no one can really take me from you. I won’t leave.”

Alicia lowered the blade and folded Ling into her arms, warmth settling like a quilt. “It isn’t about can or can’t. It’s principle. I won’t allow anyone to say Ling belongs to them. Ling belongs to me alone.”

Ling trembled, excitement sparking like fireworks. “Was… was that a confession?”

Alicia froze, thoughts scattering like startled sparrows—hadn’t she sworn to bury this feeling under quiet snow? “H-how could it be? It’s just a sister’s love for her little sister. I won’t let any woman claim Ling. Ling should live a normal life.”

The answer hit Ling like cold rain—so she should grow up, then marry a man? Ling bowed her head, gloom pooling like ink, while Alicia turned away to resume her sharpening, the rasp like cicadas, missing the weight of that sadness.

Maybe this feeling’s harvest hasn’t reached its season; the field stands green, waiting for a red autumn.

Ten minutes passed both slow and swift, a river that crawled and sprinted. Alicia found it hard; Ling stood behind her like a quiet willow, silent, and Alicia twisted herself into knots like vines—had she misspoken, was she now hated? Left unchecked, this odd misunderstanding would linger like fog and thin their words.

“Go, Alicia-sis! You’ve got this!” Ling’s cheer burst like sunlight through clouds.

Alicia’s gloom shattered, turning to fuel like oil to flame. Emmmm… okay, the misunderstanding didn’t last long.

With a loli’s blessing tucked like a charm, Alicia strode into the training room, feeling all her stats jump by a hundred, like wind filling a sail.

Rafi entered from the opposite side with five underlings, their steps like marching drums: two carried tower shields like walls, two bore sword-and-buckler sets like swift sparrows, and one mage held a staff like a lightning rod. It was a fine formation, though it lacked a healer, a missing spring.

They submitted the battle request, and a giant screen bloomed like a silver lotus, its numbers ticking down from 600 like dripping water.

In the stands, a cluster of women swarmed Ling like bees around nectar. Ling answered patiently, voice smooth as polished jade; to be a proper gentleman, you needed patience for trivial questions like rain on a roof, and the Yufan clan prided itself on that virtue for generations.

“Lord Ling, are you a sister-con?” a girl asked, eyes sparkling like stars.

“Yes.” His answer was clean as a blade slice.

“Lord Ling, can I be your maid?” Her hope fluttered like a silk ribbon.

“…No.” His reply stumbled like a step on loose gravel—fine, he hesitated. If Alicia didn’t forbid bringing people home, he’d have a personal maid today, shining like moonlight on lacquer.

“Lord Ling, can I draw a yuri book of you sisters?” Her grin curved like a fox’s tail.

“Approved, but I’m the top.” His tone landed like a stamp on wax.

“Lord Ling, they look like they’re fighting for ownership of you—are you building a harem?” Curiosity hummed like a cicada.

“What’s strange about that?” He shrugged, calm as a pond.

“Lord Ling, tell me your measurements.” Her voice lilted like a flute.

“No comment.” His refusal snapped like a shut fan.

“Lord Ling…” Their questions piled like falling petals.

…

Ling enjoyed being ringed by girls, warm as a pavilion in spring; it felt like a harem wrapping him in silk. Usually Alicia forbade this and that like a strict monsoon, so this was rare free time, a sunbreak.

When the 600-second countdown ended, everyone drifted back to their seats like birds returning to roost.

A mechanical female voice rang from the arena’s center, cold as steel on stone. “Final three-second countdown: 3, 2, 1—match start!”