—Where is this?

Curiosity pricked. Ling scanned the strange scene. She’d seen that uncanny arrow perfectly; its aim lined up with her knee.

Usually, she’d pour mana into the wraiths coiled around her, pop them like overripe gourds, then grab the arrow and fling it back.

Not this time. A reckless whim bloomed for no reason, bright and fatal as a spark.

She wanted to test it—see what kind of damage Rafi, now the Demon King, could actually do to her. So she did nothing. She waited for an arrow in the knee.

And the so-called ultimate move let her down.

The arrow came in faster than sound. The instant it kissed her knee, a crisp crack-snap rang out, and it shattered.

Only the shaft broke. The arrowhead stayed whole. The rebound must’ve hammered the shaft harder.

She thought that was the end of the “strongest strike.” Then, the moment the tip touched down, the air around her dropped to winter.

Her body lagged a beat and shivered. Her eyes shut by reflex.

In a heartbeat, her tough flesh adapted. The cold peeled away. Her temperature slid back to perfect.

She opened her eyes. The world had flipped.

A space of absolute white. Stare too long and it spins. Direction bleeds away. Nausea and a quiet fear creep in like fog.

Still, Ling’s built-in optimism tugged for the bright side. At least it’s not a pure black void, right~

She swept the blank horizon and didn’t forget to check underfoot. Luck—there lay the broken arrow. Most of it was junk. The arrowhead, though, was surprisingly slick. A neat little toy.

She picked up the very tip that had sent her here and tossed it from hand to hand, defying common sense. It had lost its shine; no harm in fiddling with it.

“Pierce [One Meteor Streak]!!”

Her thought was simple and dumb: I’m just cribbing the name and added two words, so I definitely won’t die.

She went brute force. Thumb hooked the tip. She flicked it straight up into the white vault, a clean vertical launch.

Calling out skill names while playing with a trinket—Ling, in her way, was a prodigy.

The only toy in this void shot upward. It shrank to a dot and vanished overhead. This time, it didn’t come back on cue.

Don’t tell me Newton doesn’t manage this place?

The thought formed, and the black dot swelled in her vision. Ling exhaled in relief. Mr. Newton’s jurisdiction was still wide.

She raised both hands above her head, ready to catch it at the instant of landing.

“Aaaaaaaaah!”

A girl’s scream? Auditory hallucination?

Eh… whatever. No way a woman is more fun than tossing an arrowhead.

“Aaaaaaaaah!”

It’s real?!

She’d thought she was hearing things. She was wrong. In this pure white, sealed-off space where no one should know what you do—there was a woman.

Ehehe~

She focused, tracing the sound.

“Ah↑ ah↑ ah↑ ah↑”

It came from right above her.

“Ah. Ah! Ah!! Ah!!! Ah!!!!”

It was dropping toward her.

“Hey! You down there! Help!”

Here!

She tipped her chin and reached up, smooth as a dancer. Five slender fingers found the girl’s back. A 360-degree spin bled off the force, so Mr. Newton wouldn’t bruise the girl in her arms.

Mr. Newton isn’t always a villain, anyway. While Ling spun, the girl’s long hair floated on inertia and kept flicking—no, stroking—Ling’s face.

Silky strands carried an indescribable fragrance into Ling’s nose. The scent had a strange magic. Clarity bloomed inside her; every stray wicked thought burned away.

It was addicting, like iced lemon tea. Ling lifted a lock, laid it under her nose, and took a deeper breath, greedy for more.

She wasn’t looking at the girl’s face, but her palm on that back felt the girl’s shyness.

Very shy. She was touching a back, yet heat pulsed through the fabric like a blush.

Most people blush to their ears. This one flushed all the way to her back. If she isn’t an easily-embarrassed young lady, Ling refuses to believe it.

She’d kept her eyes closed the whole rescue, just to let the girl see how cool she looked saving someone without even looking.

Now it was different. The rescue was done. If she kept her eyes shut, the girl might think she was a poser who didn’t know how to pose.

Opening your eyes takes technique. First, open them slowly.

Ling’s lashes trembled. Her lids lifted, bit by bit.

Then, don’t look at her first. Let your gaze drift toward her.

She glanced at the hair in her hand—red as a sunset, a red that tugged her eyes to linger. But she had to look.

Remember: meet her eyes. Speak with your gaze.

She obeyed that sudden voice in her head and looked at the girl in her arms, and—

“Eh?!”