“It’s a cold‑joke contest.”

It hit like a bucket of ice water; the spark Ling had kindled sputtered out like a campfire in rain.

Her plan to cop a feel mid‑fight went up in smoke, like incense snuffed by a sleeve.

Ling barked, a thunderclap over still water.

“Hey! What happened?! How did a proper challenge turn into that? You must—absolutely must—take the fight seriously, okay?!”

Her roar only drew tears, bright as dew at a lash’s corner.

“But... but I really planned to use that for the challenge...” she sniffled, words fogging like breath on glass.

She whisked a thin blanket from behind her like a stage magician, clearly planning to hold the cold‑joke contest on that patch of cloth.

“But...” Ling drew breath to scold again, then froze at that almost‑crying face, like a blade halted a hair from silk.

If it were any kid, she’d dither, then hold her ground like a rock in a stream.

But this one wore Alicia’s face, a moon she couldn’t refuse, and that tied her hands like red string.

It wasn’t about whether she was the real Alicia; as long as that face was Alicia’s, Ling couldn’t say no, like a door barred from within.

“Alright, alright, hush now~”

Ling caved like river ice under spring sun, grabbed the little one’s cheeks, and kneaded them like warm dough.

That pudgy face was addictive, like mochi between fingers; every squeeze popped new expressions like bubbles rising in a pot.

“Stop it! No touching!” She flicked Ling’s hand away again, a sparrow darting off a twig.

But Ling wasn’t disappointed; she’d done it, like a kite catching wind—distraction achieved, tears gone.

“Okay, okay, no more squishing. How about a cold‑joke contest?”

“Huh?! Sis agrees?”

Ling nodded and set a hand over her chest, clutching at her heart like a falcon’s talon, wrinkling her shirt into waves.

“Mm‑hmm. Big Sis just loves cold jokes.”

They were lies stacked like dry leaves, but her palm muffled any prick of conscience like cotton on a bell.

The little one beamed and snapped the blanket open; it unfurled like a cloud, big enough for two to lie starfish.

A thought flitted by like a swallow: how’d she hide something that big behind her back?

It vanished just as fast, and Ling let it go like a leaf downriver.

They sat seiza, backs straight like bamboo, knees aligned, faces leveled across the cloth.

No need to argue who’d start; the kid launched first like an arrow from a bow.

“Hehe and Haha are best friends, super close. One day, Haha died. Hehe was very sad. He went to Haha’s grave and said, ‘Haha, you died.’”

...

Ling felt a chill crawl up her back like a north wind through pines; yes, that was literal cold.

This little lass had bite, like frost on steel.

To sling a cold joke that made the air drop a degree—stronger than a jab to the mind; time to take her seriously, like tightening a bowstring.

“Kiddo... want some fried snow?”

“Huh? Fried snow? Is that a dish?” Her eyes blinked like wet glass.

She didn’t know gambling, yet she nailed the word “dish” like a pin on silk; weird kid.

“Yup. Do you want it?”

“I do, I do!!!” Her voice bubbled like a spring.

“Great. One serving costs twenty gold coins~” Ling smiled like a fox behind reeds.

At the price, the kid’s head drooped like a wilted flower.

“But... I don’t have money...”

“What a coincidence. I don’t have snow either—hahaha!”

.....

The kid’s face twisted, the look you give an idiot, like a cat staring at a fallen cucumber.

Meanwhile Ling rolled on the ground laughing, a tumbleweed of dumb joy.

“Was that fun?” Her voice came out cold as hoarfrost, sharper than the joke itself.

Warm‑blooded Ling didn’t flinch; to her it was all one season, like summer under a pine.

“What’s wrong? Throwing a little tantrum? You’re the one who wanted a cold‑joke contest. Why’re you mad now?”

“Is tricking me fun, you big meanie?!” She puffed up like a pufferfish and barked.

She swung tiny fists into Ling’s chest; a flat place got flatter, like hammering a steel plate.

Unable to take the flurry, Ling planted a palm on the kid’s forehead and pushed, like an anime gag stepping off the page.

One hand held the little one at bay, while those two arms windmilled like a toy turbine, and every blow whiffed the air.

But the kid didn’t know the word “quit”; she kept repeating it, stubborn as a donkey in mud.

For no reason, guilt pricked Ling like a thorn; bully a fool long enough and heaven might clap thunder on your head.

“Alright, kid, new game—no, wrong word, new challenge. Pick something you’re good at.”

“Rock, paper, scissors!”

—Three minutes later—

The kid collapsed forward in despair, folded like a broken reed, fear scrawled across her face.

“N‑no way! How can you win six times in a row?”

“Because we only played six times.”

It was airtight, like a jar with the lid sealed; she couldn’t pry out a fault.

But she still refused to lose, fire stoked like a brazier.

“Next! Chengyu chain!”

“Do as you please~”

The games rolled on like a river, and that first bet about freedom drifted away like smoke.

Even if it floated back, both of them were flying too high on fun to care, like kites in a following wind.