Tap-tap-tap...

In the dark, a faint green orb glowed like a lone firefly trapped in a cave.

Its halo carved a small island of sight, revealing two beautiful sisters on the move and, beside them, rows of Beastfolk corpses like storm-toppled trunks.

A sour wave rose first in Alicia’s chest; she’d watched the bodies the whole way, but the gagging wouldn’t numb like salt washed by rain.

Don’t let me find who did this, she hissed, a coal under ash spitting sparks.

Ling’s voice came cool as a night stream: One line won’t fix this. Who’s the killer? What drove the strike? That’s not a one-breath answer.

Alicia knew it, and still her anger burned like a brazier under snow, steady and hot.

Hmm?

Ling halted at the bend, a bowstring tightening mid-step; Alicia didn’t blunder into her, holding herself like a cat at a threshold.

What is it?

Shh.

Ling raised a finger to her lips, then slid forward like a shadow testing moonlight past the corner.

Their long-bred rhythm moved like twin swallows; Alicia didn’t ruin it with talk and peeked with half a head, quiet as grass under wind.

Tap-tap...

The vault wasn’t theirs alone; past the corner, two patrol guards drifted like moths sweeping a lantern’s edge.

Luck rode Ling like a tailwind; the guards were patrolling with their backs turned, their eyes wandering elsewhere like clouds.

Bro~ (rolls tongue) tell me why the guy made us patrol this dead box where the ceiling smothers sky and no beauties bloom?

The goofy lilt was clown-red yet not hateful; the other guard’s reply came sharp as a thorn, soaked in contempt.

How many times? Stop talking to this lord! And if you must, don’t ask sand-dry, useless questions!

Yo yo~ little bro, don’t say that—this is about our bed-bliss, right? You build bonding by chatting, unless you’re into daily head-pats like a pet.

Get lost, pervert! This lord’s a real man, iron as a cliff; if not for the pay, this lord wouldn’t babysit your madness.

From now, this lord cuts ties for sixty sticks of incense; talk to me, and I’ll pound your junk to pulp like a pestle in a mortar!

Black veins of irritation drew on Ling’s face like ink; she’d hoped for protagonist luck, eavesdropping a few lines to net a heaven-sent secret.

Instead, no secret, only a gross harvest, like catching a toad in a silk net.

Sis...

Mm?

Which one do you want?

Mmm... the left one.

Then we go now.

No plan, just muscle and trust; they kicked off the floor like arrows leaving the string, bodies springing full-force toward the bickering pair.

Righteous Backstab!

No blade at hand, so Ling flipped her small palm and chopped down, giving “this lord” a hand-knife as a bedtime gift, heavy as a falling slate.

Alicia skipped the frills; she dipped low and swept like a wind through wheat, scything the other guard to the floor.

She popped up on one arm like a seal on stone, and with the other hand pressed his head down, firm as a millstone.

One knocked out, one captured; it suited Ling like a plan written in frost—an awake mouth might leak a stream of intel.

Sir Pervert, you get three seconds to decide if you’ll answer our questions; one chance only, like a shooting star—don’t miss it.

Shut up! I’m the friend of the cousin of the neighbor of the bodyguard of the Fourth Minister of the great Elven Queen! Touch me and choke on it!

Call it pride in the bones or a brain gone soft; a handled guard spits threats first and refuses after, like a rooster yelling at dawn.

Ling expected it, so her patience sat like calm tea, and a playful idea fluttered like a sparrow to her shoulder.

Really not talking~?

Her voice was sugar-sweet, a lilt like a bell; even if he preferred men, that lure tugged like silk—yet why did ice crawl his spine?

N-no way! I won’t say a word!

Heh-heh~

The chilly chuckle slid over him like winter rain; he guessed he had value, so the loli wouldn’t kill him first, and his fear thawed like frost.

Sis, lend me your Demonblade for a moment~

Alicia, puzzled, summoned the Demonblade like night pulled from a sheath and set it in Ling’s palm.

Ling raised the blade like a moon above her head, her other hand’s thumb and forefinger measuring air like a carpenter sizing timber.

The watching guard swallowed, throat dry as sand; the blade’s glint flickered, and his neck itched like ants under bark, yet his stubbornness held like a rooted pine.

Hey! Don’t think I fear death! Kill me if you dare—you’ll never learn the secret here, not till the river runs backward!

Ling stopped, her gaze settling on his throat like a hawk on prey, amusement coiling like smoke.

Oh? Really?

The Demonblade didn’t rest on his neck, yet the itch surged like nettles; her eyes felt like a blade already at his throat, and the steel in her hand was just décor.