Trouble swarms like hornets—big, stinging trouble.

The goat‑headed Yokai’s tricks are filthier than Alicia guessed, like oil slicks under heat. His strength isn't towering; her spells just don't bite.

They both carry fire in their bones, like kilns facing kilns. Don't think fire fights fire so easy; neither side checks the other, so the grind burns long.

A fire mage lives steeped in flame from day one, like a hearth that never goes cold. That daily soaking hardens your fire resistance, like calluses grown on the soul. Otherwise you'd try a "Big Fireball", and the heat would fog your focus before the sphere forms.

Alicia knows this firsthand; the lesson sits in her bones like ash. But the real problem now isn't theory; it's her grip and her burden.

She's got Ling cradled in one arm and the Demonblade in the other, like moon and sun in separate hands. She can't string a full combo, so the moment stalls like a cart in mud.

Why not lay Ling down and rush in? She does think it, but cold sweat beads on Ling’s face, like dew on stone. Her brow pinches; nightmare shadows flit across Ling’s features. Alicia discards the plan and holds tighter, offering arms like a harbor.

ROAR—like thunder ripping canvas.

It sidesteps and slashes; claws rake past Alicia, like sickles through wheat, and shear a couple red strands.

Beat it! "Song of Great Samsara"!

The Demonblade’s tip sketches afterimages in the air, like fireflies dragged into lines. A flame vortex surges out with a heatwave, a whirl that bites only light but shoves hard.

He roars again, layering fury like drums. Both hands spear into the ground, five fingers like nails in wood. He holds his ground against the gale and keeps the gap steady.

Berserk, sure; but he’s got no common sense, like a bull that sees only red. He really thinks because she cast, she can’t cut? Does he take this blade for a wand?

She’d been chewing on how to close without nicking Ling. Now the fool wedges his only hands into dirt, like stakes. At this range, she’s got recoil and room; every sign flashes one word—Go.

She dips low, cocooning Ling in her arms, and springs like a bow loosed. Five meters vanish like mist. His pupils mirror her shape, a ghost on glass. The nerves don’t report in time; her long blade comes down—with the spine.

Thud—like a stone dropped into clay.

The weight drives him to earth; even with the dull spine, yokai-forged force can topple an elephant. That’s where Alicia’s calm grows, like iron roots.

He groans, his head sunk deep, like a boulder half-buried. Through little cracks, a muffled growl leaks up like smoke. His hands wrench free and plant; all his force floods his arms, straining to pry his skull from the dirt’s embrace.

Alicia watches and sighs, helplessness fluttering like ash. "Not blacking out is your bad luck," she murmurs, voice cool as rain.

She strolls to one bracing hand, boots whispering like brush on sand. Credit where due: for a behemoth, that hand’s thick, like the tallest pillar in her own palace. But this "pillar," veined like crawling vines and glazed a bruised purple, looks uglier than red clashing with green.

She sighs again. She draws the Demonblade back. Her free hand shifts Ling, settling her across both arms like a sleeping cat. Then her right foot snaps out, a hammer-kick at the Yokai’s arm.

Thunk—like a mallet on wood.

The supporting arm jolts away; his balance skews like a tipped cart. The head, almost free, sinks back into the earth’s wet embrace.

She knows he’ll try again; the pattern is a tide. So she doesn’t hesitate; she hops onto his skull like a rider mounting a stubborn ox. She plans to "tell" him a bedtime story—one that ends in deep sleep.

Clap, clap, clap—like dry twigs snapping.

The clapping rings again; no question it’s that same man, smug as a cat. "Not bad, not bad," he purrs, voice smooth as lacquer. "You sisters seem ripe for study, like rare herbs plucked at dawn. One’s fluent in uncanny healing, and one can floor this monster with raw force. How about it? Name your price. Help me with my research."

Heh. He still can’t read the room, like a moth admiring the flame.

"What if I say no?" Alicia’s words are cool as a blade’s shadow.

The man actually bows to think, head bent like a reed, as if refusal never existed in his world. "Ah… if you refuse, then—die~," he says, a smile carved in ice.