—[Crow on a Plane]!

It wasn’t Afu’s real move, just a barebones imitation—a paper kite without wind, all pose, no spirit.

She flung her arms wide like wings, held them level; both feet sprang and tucked. The layered ice, thick as winter archives, split open, and every obstacle along Ling’s ascent got shoved aside like reeds before a rushing river.

Bang!

She burst through to the crest; those stacked, bone-cold sheets couldn’t slow Ling a heartbeat—winter’s prison turned to brittle glass.

Ling rolled midair like a drifting swallow, then settled onto the floe. For style, she poured a little weight into her fall, thunder dressing silk.

Though she was tiny as a porcelain doll, her landing punched a crater. From afar it spread like a spiderweb across moonlit frost.

Satisfaction fizzed through her like hot tea on a cold night; she looked up to find Rafi’s face—dazed, fear pricking like thorns.

“What’s wrong?”

Had a stray storm hit while she was gone, some knot Rafi couldn’t untangle?

Apparently not. Rafi’s finger trembled at Ling, like a candle wavering before a ghost.

“Y-you… why are you fine?! Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a soul?!”

Ling had no clue what storm brewed in her head. Rafi paled, then folded into a full prostration, forehead kissing the floor like cold stone.

“S-s-s-s-sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t know you couldn’t take that attack! I swear I never meant to kill you! Please forgive me!” Her apology rattled like hail on a tin roof.

Even now, Ling wasn’t that kind of fool; it was obvious—Rafi had mistaken her for a wandering spirit, fog for flesh.

But what kind of absurd setup was that? A Demon King with five, six hundred ghosts under her banner, yet spooked by ghosts herself—like a tiger scared of its own shadow.

She stepped in and seized Rafi’s cheeks, old habit surfacing like tide. Both hands kneaded hard, squeezing out two pudgy little meatballs.

“Rafi, Rafi, Rafi, Rafi, Rafiii—look into my eyes. Tell me, do you truly think I’m some drifting ghost?”

Rafi obeyed, staring into her pupils. A living palette swam there—warmth and storm—unlike the hollow glass of a wraith’s gaze.

And the weight in her hands said flesh and heat, not the chill drift of something that only floats like mist.

“You… really aren’t one of those ghost-things?”

Her tone still carried a thread of doubt, like frost that wouldn’t melt.

She’d been fine summoning fiends mid-battle, no quirks, no shakes. Now out of combat she turned skittish—was there some toggle in this world, blade-on fine, blade-off foolish?

It was weird as a summer snow.

Annoyance budded like a thorn, then fell away. Ling shelved it—Rafi’s problem, not hers; if the view amused her, that was enough.

“Enough chatter. I say I’m not—a ghost I’m not. Believe it or don’t; that’s on you.”

That iron thread in her voice made Rafi nod like a reed in wind. Had she known, she wouldn’t have wasted soft words.

“So… what do we do next?”

Rafi’s question tiptoed out, careful as a cat. She’d need time; her tide hadn’t turned.

Ling’s gaze slid to Rafi’s hand. It was nearly ruined—deep, red gouges like claw marks on snow.

The healing crawled at a turtle’s pace; those lips of flesh stitched together like lazy clouds hardly moving.

She could guess the source. In a minute or two, no third foe appears—so it had to be backlash from the last strike, a shadow that lingered.

“Let’s drop the fight. Interest’s gone; that little episode smothered my battle heat like rain on embers.”

“But… if we stop, how do we arrange the plot?”

The “plot” was simple—both sides grind to a stalemate, then talk. Ling already had a few threads to weave.

“Do you remember your lines as the Demon King?”

“Hm? Oh, sure. I wrote them—how could I forget?”

“Then we’re good. From here, just improvise, ride the wind.”

She spoke, then shaped a dozen Magic Cannons like dark comets, shelling the ring. From afar it screamed of large-scale war, smoke painting the sky.

“Rafi, stick close!”

She raised her right hand and hammered the earth. Without damping the rebound, the ground’s kick sent her flying like a spring uncoiled.

Her arc scythed toward Wang Xiaoming, a swallow’s line to a lone tree.

Ling misjudged the force. To Wang Xiaoming, it was a blink—then a roar by his ear, and the little girl toppled at his side, the same fierce sparrow who’d helped them.

“Hey, little one…”

He reached out to lift her, when a shadow streaked in, charging at Ling like lightning.

Rafi had read the pattern in Ling’s moves. No daze, no pause—she slipped into the act like an actor hitting their cue.

Seeing Ling feign collapse, Rafi rushed in with a heavy punch. Ling sprang up, the blow whistling past—only Wang Xiaoming took the shockwave, a stray wave cracking against his shore.

Ling and Rafi had already opened space—perfect stage distance, the curtain of snow lifted.