“Well, I’m really angry right now,” Ling said, her voice a cold wind across black water.

“Do you know what you should do?” she asked, the words heavy like a stone sinking into a still pond.

A flicker of surprise lit the elder’s face like lightning behind clouds, then settled into calm as smooth as a quiet lake.

A hint of readiness to die showed, firm as rock weathered by rain.

“Since you’re so dissatisfied with us,” he said, his tone dusty like old roads, “we must have angered you a moment ago.”

“If it’s only my cheap life you want, take it,” he offered, the vow steady like a tree in wind.

“Just don’t pour your anger onto my people; they’re good folk,” he finished, his plea thin as reed-song by a river.

Ling felt the chill of distrust around outsiders, a frost hanging in their words like thorns under leaves.

A small, stray regret stirred inside her, a wilted petal drifting in a bowl of water.

Life wasn’t like the novels where a powerful name opens doors like spring sun melting snow into welcome.

It was very human: smiles like masks on stage, and backstage scripts running like shadows behind a paper screen.

Curses or rumors bloom like weeds after rain; they’re weather brewed by the heart, nothing more than storms passing.

She stole a glance at Alicia, a sparrow’s look from the corner of the eye, and found snow-still silence.

Alicia said nothing, as if she’d read the hidden current beneath the elder’s words like fish moving under ice.

That pleased Ling, a warm coal in the chest, because a soft “don’t do this” would swell her villain’s shadow.

She wove a small knife of green light from magic, bright as willow leaves in sun, and let it dance in her hand.

A few flower-cuts bloomed in the air like petals, then she tossed the blade toward the earth before the elder.

The knife slid into packed soil like rain into loam, its edge keen as frost on morning grass.

“Do it yourself, if you can,” she said, the challenge sharp as mountain wind.

The elder stared at the knife an arm’s length away, eyes fogged like mist over marsh water.

Two breaths later, his hand closed on the hilt, fingers settling like birds on a branch.

The blade was shaped entirely from Nature’s mana, grip included, a stream of green power braided like vines.

For those outside that flow, touching it snarls inner channels like roots tangled under stone, a turbulence that stings like fire.

He didn’t cry out, the silence a slab of granite holding steady in the rain.

Smoke curled from his hand in thin threads, yet his brow stayed smooth like glass under moonlight.

He treated the pain as if it were morning fog that burned away with sun.

“I still can’t be at ease,” he said, his voice a reed bending in wind.

“My lord, can you swear not to harm my people?” he asked, the request standing like a lantern in night.

His brow never furrowed, but Ling’s tightened like a knot; something clicked within her like flint striking spark.

“I promise,” she said, the words dropping like a stone into a deep well.

He let out a long breath, a wind leaving a hollow, and set the blade to his heart like a quiet drum.

His eyes were already closed, lids heavy like dusk.

“Everyone, take care,” he murmured, the farewell drifting like bell-notes over rain.

“Don’t offend the lord after I’m gone, or my death means nothing,” he said, the warning like a signpost in fog.

He finished without theatrics, a calm winter field, and he ignored death’s cold like a traveler who’s known many snows.

His hand didn’t tremble, a steady branch, and he thrust in like lightning spearing a tree.

Snap—the sound cracked like a dry twig in winter.

No spray of blood, no skin-crawling wail, not even pain, only stillness settling like snowfall.

So this is death, he wondered, a door opening without creak, with no pain and a body still moving like a sleepwalker.

Is this a soul stepping out, a moth slipping from its cocoon into shadowed air?

Perplexed, he stretched the hand at his heart, movement smooth as water, and found the knife gone like mist at sunrise.

Of course—who carries a weapon while their soul slips free like a leaf riding a current?

“What are you staring at?” Ling called, her voice a pebble striking a pond and rippling out.

He looked up, eyes full of questions like stars crowding a night sky, wondering how she could see his wandering soul.

Ling didn’t explain; she slid a glance at Edmund, quick as a fish flicking its tail.

Edmund drew back the foot he’d started to place, retreating like a tide pulling from shore, and the message shone clear.

“You passed,” Ling said, her verdict stamped like a seal in red wax.

She left that cryptic line behind like footprints fading in sand and turned away with light steps like drifting leaves.

Alicia hesitated, a butterfly pausing mid-flight, then followed Ling like shadow under evening light.

Edmund stayed, a steady stone in the stream, to explain on their behalf.

“My lord… what’s going on?” the elder asked, his voice thin as a dry reed in wind.

The elder trusted Edmund alone here, a single lamp on a dark path, and Edmund let the truth pour like clear water.

“Lady Ling was testing you,” Edmund said, his tone bright as noon. “Whether you’ve got iron spine or just smoke for words.”

It was true; their attitude was rough as grit, yet Ling had stepped beyond a child’s lens like a traveler leaving alleys.

She saw his behavior as ordinary sense, a straight road under the sun, nothing strange in wary hearts.

In fact, gushing welcome like in novels would be the odd thing, a summer rain inside a winter house.

Ling only wanted to know what kind of man this elder was, like testing metal under a hammer.

If he were a coward, she’d send him along like a leaf on the stream, no more than a last courtesy.

Instead, he proved a Beastfolk man of duty and backbone, a mountain with iron roots and steady hands.

So when the knife touched skin, Ling dispelled it at once, turning the blade to green mist that drifted into air.

The elder thought for a moment, ripples settling in his mind like rings on water, then lifted his gaze to Edmund.

“Then… what’s the result?” he asked, words stepping like stones across a creek.

Edmund smiled, not a goofy ram-head grin, but warmth like sunlight spilling through leaves.

“You passed,” he said, the answer solid as a milestone on the road.