Dawn sifted in like pale silk, and Ling drifted up from the fog of sleep to find her world full of Rafi’s chest—small hills, yes, but there, warm and tender as new milk. She knew it was tender because her cheek was glued to it, like dew clinging to a petal.

Ugh—why do girls get such ridiculously soft things? Sinful, trouble-making things, like sweets left out for ants.

Petulance pricked like a thorn, and Ling smacked that soft little mound. No bounce, no comedy, just a jolt that sent ripples through the quiet and woke Rafi.

Rafi’s eyes opened to a tiny girl glaring at her chest with the severity of a temple judge; mischief sparked like flint.

“Morning, Ling. All fired up at sunrise, huh?”

Her voice brushed the air, and Ling’s hand froze. Heat bloomed across Ling’s cheeks, a peach touched by the first blush of dawn.

“I—I wasn’t! It was an accident.”

Rafi wasn’t about to stop there. She hooked her fingers under her eyes, wrung out a drop or two, and put on a raincloud of fake tears, her tone flat as a script read offstage.

“Then… then… Ling’s not interested in me? Boo-hoo, I’m so heartbroken.” (deadpan)

Ling saw through it, of course. The acting was flimsy as paper. Chivalry whispered she should comfort a crying girl; guilt murmured she’d made those tears. Reasons stacked like tiles, all pointing to the same tender gesture—

You thought I’d say that? Naive.

She slipped free of Rafi’s hands like a fish through water, spun, opened the door, walked out, and shut it. The smoothness of it was a sword-dancer’s flourish.

Rafi lay blinking on the bed, watching Ling leave, confusion drifting like smoke.

Ling stepped into the hall and, by habit, turned toward the living room, already tasting Alicia’s breakfast in her mind like steam from a hidden spring.

The emptiness met her like wind through an abandoned courtyard. Alicia was gone. They had parted; that was the cold truth set on the table.

—Well, I went all the way. How could she still be making breakfast for me?

Regret pricked like sleet. Her stubborn choice looked less like spine and more like dull stone.

—No, no. Alicia and I are nothing now. I can’t be thinking about another woman. That’s scumbag weather. Though… didn’t I have a “build a harem” goal? Whatever. Park it. I’ll win those two slaves when the time comes. Breakfast first.

She moved into the kitchen’s belly and threw open every cupboard. Each one was a treasure chest spilling instant noodles, endless as a grain field—backups she’d bought for her old-life habits. Visionary, honestly.

“Mmm—hmm-hmm.” She hummed like a little kettle and set two cups of ramen on the table, steam curling like white snakes. Rafi drifted into the living room as if the clock had called her, catching the moment perfectly.

“Oh la la—dear Ling-chan, settling into the model housewife role so fast?”

She reached for a cup, but Ling slapped her hand away, a winter gust across a warm palm, her face a sketch of pure disdain.

“You’ve got three seconds to drop that gross nickname. Then go brush your teeth and wash your face. Otherwise, no noodles.”

Rafi put her index finger to her mouth like a child nibbling sugarcane and looked up with puddle-wide, wounded eyes.

“Mooo—so cold.” Then, like a sunbeam breaking cloud, the pout flipped to a sugary smile. “But I like it.”

She laced her fingers with Ling’s and tugged her toward the bathroom, laughter flickering like water.

By the time they finished washing, five slow minutes had baptized the noodles. They sat across each other, steam rising between them like a small foggy valley, and dug in.

Rafi took one bite and lit up like she’d struck a hidden spring of nectar. “Ah—so good. Better than anything I’ve had.”

“Idiot,” Ling scolded softly, her voice a feather trying to be a knife. “Which instant noodles don’t taste like this?”

Rafi waved it off and tipped her chin toward the ceiling, solemn as a priest and twice as shameless. “No, no, no. Ling’s noodles are seasoned with love. Love’s the best spice under heaven.”

Corny? Beyond cornfield corny. Most people would choke on the syrup. But it was the first sweet line aimed at Ling in eighteen years, and in her ears it sounded a little like music through rain. Her face heated, a lantern behind thin paper, and her words tangled like reeds in a stream.

“I-idi-idiot! How can you… say something so… so… argh! Enough! Do you have no shame?”

Rafi locked eyes like a hunter setting a snare. Their gazes crossed, a bridge strung tight over water, and the resolve in Rafi’s look ran straight into Ling’s chest.

“If it’s for you, Ling, I can do without shame.”

Ling, face burning as if the bowl itself were a brazier, bent over her noodles and fled into chewing. She didn’t dare look up. Still, a small spring bubbled warm inside.

Seeing that blush, Rafi knew more teasing would lower favor, not raise it. She shifted the wind.

“Hey, Ling, what’s your plan for the five-on-five today?”

Chopsticks paused mid-air. Ling lifted her head and found battle-light in Rafi’s eyes, sharp as a drawn blade.

She understood in an instant and nodded. “Got it. I’ll handle the other two. You and Alicia fight together. Whatever happens, I’m in your corner.”

“Thanks. I’ll come back with victory.”

“Didn’t you lose last time?”

Rafi shook her head and tapped a finger toward Ling’s small, glossy lips, a sly crescent smile cutting across her face. “I didn’t use full power. If I get a cheer-up kiss, I might pop off.”

She’d promised herself not to tease, but Ling’s flustered face was a ripe peach begging a bite. The line slipped out. Ling’s skin burned hot; she glanced away, eyes fluttering like moths from a flame.

“T-that kind of thing… shouldn’t be necessary, right?”

“Nope nope! It’s the key item for a power burst!”

Ling hesitated, the seconds ticking like drops from a leaky eave. Then she caught the expectant light in Rafi’s eyes and caved with a sigh only her heart heard.

She leaned in, slow as a petal falling, and planted a quick “mwah” on Rafi’s cheek. She retreated at once, words tumbling like marbles. “G-good luck… f-for… for me, win for me.”

Shame painted her cheeks deeper, and even bending over the bowl couldn’t hide it.

Rafi touched the kissed spot and felt a slick shine, a heat like a small ember. A grin stole across her mouth.

“Little dummy, the oil from your lips got on my face. Not grossed out?”

Ling’s chopsticks froze. The meaning clicked like a latch, and she puffed up, fur bristling like an angry kitten.

“Idiot! You asked me to kiss you, and now I’m the gross one? Big bully. I’m not talking to you.”

A sulking girl is a hurricane in a teacup. She hoovered the remaining third of her noodles, cheeks swelling like a hamster’s, then hopped up, fled to her room, and slammed the door. The sound boomed like a drum.

Rafi watched her retreat, desire sharpening like a blade, a red glint kindling in her eyes like an ember in the dark.

--------------------

Alicia stood before the old man who tended the library’s bones and dust, and impatience fidgeted in her like a restless sparrow. “Grandpa Librarian, have you found it?”

He set down his book; the candlelight struck his lenses, throwing a strip of gold across his eyes. His expression was a weathered lake, calm as ever, the look of a man who’d seen many winters.

“Don’t rush, child. You gave too little. The other side’s no weakling. ‘All-Seeing’ is strong, but it doesn’t always net the big fish. Like last time, when you asked about someone named Ling—she couldn’t be caught by the magic at all.”

“But, Grandpa—”

Before Alicia could finish, the magic came to a boil. The old man adjusted his glasses, stared into the scrying sphere, and the moment he saw, he jolted back as if burned, stumbling several steps before dropping to the floor. His mouth opened and closed, words flapping like startled birds, and nothing flew.

Alicia rushed to help him. He clung to her arm and forced his trembling legs to stand, fear crawling over his face like frost.

He fixed her with a grave look, the kind a man gives when the tide turns dark. “Child, they’ve appeared. This time, we’ve kicked a hornet’s nest.”

Alicia blinked, lost in the fog of it. What could rattle a man who’d weathered so much?

“What is it, Grandpa?”

“That pink-haired princess you named Rafi—if ‘All-Seeing’ didn’t lie, she’s a Daemon.”