By now, shouting or hurling a spell would be too late, like tossing pebbles at a tide.

It was over; if Wang Xiaoming died, the elder knew he alone was a candle in a gale.

Wang Xiaoming was spent, and his own mana wasn’t bottomless; he guessed barely a tenth remained, a last trickle in a cracked gourd.

If that ran dry, he’d collapse beside Wang Xiaoming, strings cut from a wooden puppet.

A brush with death, cold as river water in winter.

Of course. Comic-book heroes who descend in crisis are paper capes in a storm.

What’s real is profit, and the calculus between people, knives tucked behind smiles.

Yo~ nice to meet you~, a bell chiming in fog.

A thundercrack split the sky; yours truly—cough, Ling—made a dazzling entrance, like a comet peeling the night.

As if on cue, she caught the Daemon’s stabbing wrist, like plucking a thorn mid-swing.

She breathed power, gave a light push, and a crushing repulsion hurled it like driftwood.

It sailed dozens of meters and hit the dirt, a lamp snuffed in one gust.

The elder froze, dream struck real like rain on desert; aid from the heavens, perhaps the Empire hadn’t cast him aside.

But doubt sprouted like weeds; if she were Imperial reinforcements, why now, and why so strange to his eyes?

Hey, are you reinforcements from the Empire? he asked, voice thrown like a rope across a ravine.

Ask straight, not chase guesses; still, he braced like a leaf in current for a passerby’s mercy.

Nope, sir, I’m just a hero for fun~, a paper kite riding whatever wind blows.

Figures; a stranger saves me, while the nation I fought for leaves me like dust on a boot.

Kidding~, her voice skipped like a stone over a pond.

What do you mean? he snapped, a spark under wet kindling.

Still drowning in disappointment, he grabbed the line on reflex, like a man clutching a reed.

He took the little one for Imperial rescue, hope flickering like a moth at flame.

Maybe she was just too young and loved teasing at the wrong time, a cat batting string.

Her petite, doll-like look fit “young” perfectly, like porcelain under morning light.

I’m, like, probably, maybe, sort of with the Empire, but I really did just pass by, wind at my heels.

Ah. Figures, he sighed, like a reed bowing to the current.

So the dream of Imperial reinforcements was smoke, yet her being Imperial was at least a coal still warm.

He didn’t get all the hedging before “Imperial,” but whatever; she could help finish this round, then they’d run like shadows.

He’d haul her and Wang Xiaoming along, a night flight through alleys like silent swallows.

The Empire had drained them of hope; he wouldn’t let a girl this pure, white as blank paper, be stained the same.

Hey… little miss, what’s your name? he asked, voice soft as falling ash.

Me? I’m Yufan Ling, King Alex’s adopted daughter, she said, bright as a new coin.

Huh?! his surprise burst like a sparrow from grass.

Sir, stay here and don’t move; I’ll go play with these Daemons~, like a fox among hens.

Ling stepped forward alone and slipped into the Daemon pack, a lantern walking into fog.

Watching her back, the elder sank into thought, like a stone dropping through still water.

He’d heard of King Alex’s adopted daughter, but never cared, a rumor passing like wind through reeds.

He’d only heard she looked twelve or thirteen, a snowbud before spring fully breaks.

He wasn’t into cutesy childlike types, so he never went to gawk, and that’s why he’d failed to recognize her, face in a crowd.

But this girl was way too strong compared to him, a mountain next to a candle.

As an S-class mage, he trusted his mana sense, a compass steady in storms.

Yet this girl was strange; his probe reported barely enough mana to run her body, a lantern with only one wick.

He didn’t buy it; to swat a Daemon like that, her mana couldn’t be low, thunder hiding in a teacup.

That left one result: her mana was at least a hundred times his, a sun that blinds the stargazer’s lens.

Could King Alex really have an adopted daughter that strong, a dragon tucked in silk?

Ling didn’t care what the old guy was thinking; she had to deal with this lot, by any means, like sweeping leaves in wind.

By Rafi’s plan, once she cleared a few rounds, Rafi would show up to act with her, a play spun mid-street.

Then it’d be pure improv: no script, no post, no director; whatever got shot would be it, raw as rain on stone.

Shelve that for now; time to limber up, or these bones will rust like iron in sea fog.

She also had a few small experiments to try, fireflies in jars waiting to glow.

Alright~ let’s start the experiment~, she sang, like chalk on a fresh slate.

Plain melee bored Ling; she wasn’t a true master who could throw forms others couldn’t read, a crane dancing on snow.

Her fists were a kindergarten-tier grandmaster at best; she just pasted faces with speed and power, a storm before eyes could blink.

No technique, no beauty; unless needed, she wouldn’t use it, in case someone read her punches and laughed her to death like crows.

Since melee’s out, go ranged; be a proper mage for once~, like donning robes instead of gloves.

Game mode decided; let’s play bullet hell~, petals of fire filling the sky.

She raised a hand, and the surrounding mana curled to her side, tides answering a moon.

It grew far denser than the Daemon horde had mustered before, like clouds fattening before rain.

Nearly tangible streams of mana flowed through the air, silver fish in a dark river.

Twin Spell: Twin Sparks ~ Lunatic! she intoned, like flint kissing steel.