“Oh? So you already know death has its hand on your shoulder, and you still want to fight me? Remember, I’m the Demon King; mercy’s a season that never comes.”
“Of course I don’t need your mercy. In fact, if you dare hold back, you’ll regret it like ash stuck in your throat!”
Those lines weren’t in the Script. They drifted in off-script, like sparks blown past the stage lanterns. But Ling knew how to catch them.
Why? That hot-blooded rush swept her up, like drums rolling under a storm. It sounds mystical, yet it was true.
Watching Ling and the Demon King square off, the old man felt a stone drop in his chest, heavy as rainclouds.
Fear first, then resolve. He wasn’t worried for them; he was worried for himself, a reed in a rising flood.
One look into Ling’s eyes told him this wasn’t a scene he could stop. Fate had already painted the backdrop.
All he could do was whisper a blessing for her, then grab Wang Xiaoming and slip away like shadows before dawn.
He had to get them clear of the splash, away from any stray thunder. That was the only thing left he could do.
Once the old man hauled Wang Xiaoming to a safe distance, Rafi loosened up again, like a cloak unclasped. No outsiders, no need to overact.
If she remembered right, the next beats were simple: she and Ling would trade a few pretty blows, split the difference, then talk peace behind the curtain.
Whoosh—
The air split like a drawn arrow, snapping Rafi out of thought. She looked up. Ling was gone like a candle snuffed.
No need to search. A heartbeat later, Ling bloomed in front of her like lightning.
Nothing filled her vision but a fist, close as a rising moon.
“Ling, you—”
Pain knotted in Rafi’s gut, a cold hook in the tide. She felt herself fly, but it was only a shove, a warning gust.
The ache said Ling had used a little strength. The lack of damage said she hadn’t meant to break anything.
“What are you doing?!”
Rafi’s confusion buzzed like hornets. The Script called for bickering first, a warm-up storm, not a hard cut to the clash.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t it obvious? We’re fighting, duh~”
Her tone stayed impish, a bell tinkling over a blade. That, at least, ruled out some random berserk twist.
“No, I’m asking why you skipped straight to this part.”
“The reason? I’m willful. That okay? Also, I’m curious about the Demon King’s real weight. If you don’t get even a little serious next…”
“…you’ll die~”
“You—”
In a blink, Ling was there again, swift as a hawk diving. 0.037 seconds was enough for Rafi to read her eyes like cold stars.
Serious. That promise of death wasn’t theater. It had edge and winter in it.
Fear swelled, then clarity settled, like ink in water. Rafi quit plotting. Dying here, meek and weird, would be pathetic.
She chose to fight for real. Ling’s strength would dwarf her full power, like a mountain over a torch, but resistance was still heat.
Ling’s fist cut in. A breath before impact, Rafi blinked out, a short-range step like a stone skipping.
Against brute force, the best counter is wind. Don’t block; don’t be a bull. If the fist can’t land, it means nothing.
As the Demon King, I command you.
Heed my call.
Make foes of those I behold.
Advance and strike.
[Revolving Souls of the Underworld]!
She gathered every thread of moving mana, a river drawn tight as a bowstring. She risked stiff casting lag like frost on joints, and unleashed a high-tier spell.
Against a foe like Ling, she wouldn’t hold back, even without the warning. Mercy would only invite death, like leaving a door open to the night.
[Revolving Souls of the Underworld] wasn’t a blade meant to kill. But as shackles, it was iron tide. Its pull was absolute.
If she fixed eyes on an enemy, wraiths without number would claw up from the earth like smoke through cracks.
Most were wicked spirits exiled to the Underworld, chains clinking like sleet. Their grip could pin a dragon, and no one argued with that.
There was only one clean counter: holy light. Steel and flesh did little to minds made of mist.
For Ling, who wielded only natural mana, this was the most effective net, a web of winter over wild grass.
As expected…
A flood of wraiths burst from the ground, grabbing Ling’s calves like cold vines. More followed, clutching and clinging, until she was fully bound.
Only… why wasn’t she struggling?
Rafi shook her head, banishing the doubt like birds from a field. She told herself Ling knew she couldn’t break this spell.
She started shaping the next working. [Revolving Souls of the Underworld] had a time limit, sand slipping in an hourglass. Don’t waste the opening.
She raised her arm. A gem the color of frozen wine lit on the back of her hand like a small sunrise.
In a breath, a blood-red crystal longbow formed in her grip, sharp as winter glass.
Bound by spirits, Ling looked at that familiar bow. Something sly flickered in her pupils, a fox-fire in a well.
O weapon that often drinks my blood,
now, with my blood as tithe,
show your true strength before me—[Bloodmark Unbound]!
The blood-red bow sang, a clear, cold note like ice ringing. Shards of crystal frost gathered around the limbs.
A red crystal arrow settled on the string. Blue lines crawled over it like living veins, a river-map pulsing.
—Bloom!
