Ling’s Demonblade wasn’t at his throat, yet an itch crawled like nettles there, as if her gaze had turned to cold steel resting on his neck, the blade itself a lacquered prop.

“Uh…”

Gulp…

Ling hadn’t even spoken, and the soldier swallowed again, mouth a leaking well in a drought; if he couldn’t die full, he’d at least be a ghost swollen with spit.

“Then I’ll kill you~”

The Demonblade thrust, a silver fish flicking from her hands; on Ling’s small frame the blade looked oversized, the stab an awkward motion, a crane trying to peck.

Against a mere grunt, mismatch meant nothing; the thrust still flew true, threading the needle, and it struck the soldier’s hair atop his skull.

He had already closed his eyes, heart heavy like wet cloth; he silently wished the swaggering “Sajia” a happy future, then stood waiting for his own dusk.

Death didn’t come; instead a cool breeze skimmed his scalp like dew; he thought fear had painted a mirage, but he snapped his eyes open into knife-clear truth.

The Demonblade had pierced his hair, hanging one centimeter from skin; eyes saw ice, skin felt ice, both the same frost-bitten proof—only…

“Why not kill me?”

“Because… I’m kind?”

She tapped her cheek with her index finger, head tilted like a sparrow, eyes peeking up-right; the pose said she was thinking, the line said she wasn’t.

That near-death chill wouldn’t lie; he’d rather believe this was a loli’s performance, a grin behind a fan, a mockery spun like silk.

And it was, in part; Ling had said she wouldn’t sow more “evil,” but that vow was wind on water; the real anchor was usefulness, heavy as iron.

She wasn’t a saint; she knew when to cut and when to stay the blade; this soldier had value—intel like hidden roots, infiltration like ivy climbing walls.

If he wouldn’t yield to hard steel, who knew if he’d bend to soft cloth; Ling had no taste for honeyed games, so she reached for the most common hammer.

Someone once said, “Seize what a person loves, and your threat grows fangs,” plain as night: steal the beloved; Ling had no interest in seducing his lover.

Taking what he loves isn’t only about being the other woman; thorns have more than one way to draw blood—hurting what he loves works too.

Well… even she wasn’t sure what she was saying; let your brain nap under a tree; the only thing that mattered was that her hands were already moving.

While the soldier stared, having walked a circle to Yama Hall and back in his mind, Ling glanced at “Sajia” laid at her feet, felled by a righteous backstab.

She bent her knees, a reed swaying, and caught “Sajia’s” hair; she lifted his slack head into a clear line of sight like a lantern raised in fog.

Her other hand fanned open, five petals unfolding; at each fingertip, natural magic sprouted sharp nails, thorns blooming where no cat like Nina would pop claws.

“Really won’t reconsider? I’m afraid your answer might startle me,” she purred like warm wine, “and my nail might slip across this gentleman’s face—not just a little scar~”

The threat carried a sultry heat, smoke curling along cold stone; even Alicia, who was controlling the soldier, shivered like a string plucked too hard.

Alicia raged inside, sparks biting dry tinder, and vowed to make Ling drop that voice later—at least save it for Alicia alone, a whisper kept in velvet.

Ling had no idea what they thought; to her, her tone rang with thunder and pressure, yet the soldier’s eyes floated, dull fish in a bowl, and annoyance bit.

“Hey! Why are you spacing out? Decide, now!”

She pressed her index finger to “Sajia’s” cheek, nail like a crescent blade; the magic thorn kissed skin and settled there, a winter leaf on flesh.

And this “Sajia’s” face… tender as steamed bun; this world refused to follow common sense—a man who speaks like “Sajia” yet wears baby-soft skin? That’s not how gap-moe works.

In her mind, the butcher-strong “Sajia” collapsed, a statue turned to clay; she had seen clips of men bragging “Sajia” while whining, but never this level of tilt.

Luckily her stray thoughts were fireflies, brief and gone; outside, only her expression flickered, nothing more than a moment’s cloud crossing the moon.

The soldier watched the sharp nail rest on “Sajia’s” face, pain folding inside like paper; as it sank into that soft skin, fear pooled, dark and oily.

“Wait! I… I…”