“Hey! You over there, the one calling yourself the Demon King!” Her shout skipped across the ruined ground like a pebble skimming water.

Ling wore a playful look, her tone glinting with mockery like sunlight on a thin blade.

“I’ll say it again. Not self-proclaimed—an actual Demon King.” Rafi’s voice struck like iron on stone.

She sounded proper, yet the gash on her hand blanched her face like chalk; pain or theater, it was hard to tell.

“Doesn’t matter either way. I think we could have a little negotiation.” Her smile curled like a cat’s tail.

“Why negotiate? It’s obvious you lost.” Her verdict fell like a judge’s hammer.

The sides weren’t equal; Rafi’s arm was ruined like a broken wing, while Ling’s clothes were only scuffed like scraped bark. Calling that Ling’s loss felt hollow.

Still, Ling had to stitch the topic back together like thread through torn cloth.

“True enough. My magic and stamina feel dammed, clogged like a river behind silt. But don’t forget the other thing. You can’t lay a finger on me. And look at the two beside me—do you think they’re just decorations?”

Rafi’s gaze swept the elder and Wang Xiaoming like a slow brushstroke; she clicked her tongue, a sharp tsk like a flint spark.

“Tsk! Despicable wretches. Are humans all like this, using cheap tricks to taint a righteous fight?”

Ling laughed once, light as chimes in a wind.

“Lady Demon King, get two things straight. First, humans aren’t despicable—that’s called strategy, and in war, deception isn’t a sin. Second, a Daemon preaching justice—doesn’t that feel absurd, like a wolf praising the moon? Third, the scales are tipped our way; you’re badly wounded. How do you plan to win?”

She turned, looking back at the elder and Wang Xiaoming like a reed bending with the breeze.

“Hey, sir—and you, Wang Xiaoming, the one who loves snatching other people’s game cartridges and carting a camera around—can you still fight?”

“We can… but—” His hesitation drifted like morning mist.

“If you can, that’s enough. So, Lady Demon King, seems you’re stuck in a loop, a snake biting its own tail.”

Ling didn’t need to guess the rest; the justice debate would tangle like weeds, so she cut it off like a clean shear.

Rafi stayed silent, locking eyes with Ling; two storms pressed together like thunderheads.

After a moment, Rafi looked away, her gaze sliding off like a cloud leaving a peak.

“Interesting. Very interesting. So that’s why you wanted to negotiate from the start?”

Ling spread her hands, her smile smooth as porcelain, calm as still water.

“Of course. You see the situation. I can’t fight you, and you can’t do anything to us. That wound on your hand shackles your power like rust on a blade; you can’t even draw out more than a slice of it. If you don’t treat it, you’ll carry a nasty shadow injury that clings like winter frost. Think it through—your loss is bigger. I could skip the negotiation entirely.”

“Heh. Little one, you’re good at baiting a hook.” Her chuckle was a low ripple.

“If you don’t agree, fine. I’ll just work these two beside me harder, grind them like whetstones.”

Rafi said nothing. She lowered her head, face hidden like a moon behind cloud, as if truly thinking.

“…Fine. I agree. A talk, then. But it’s on my turf, and only you come. Got it?” Her terms drew a line in the sand.

Wang Xiaoming bristled, his temper flaring like sparks from dry twigs.

“Why? We can go to your place, but we won’t send the kid alone. What if it’s a Daemon trap?” His worry crouched like a snare in tall grass.

Rafi rolled her eyes, lazy as a cat flicking its tail.

“Get this straight: you humans are the despicable ones. We Daemons aren’t your fever dreams. If you think it’s a trap, don’t come.” Her voice frosted the air like hoarfrost.

She flicked her hand, and a portal bloomed, same shape as before, a black mirror rippling like ink; one foot stepped in.

Wang Xiaoming stayed defiant, distrust thorns deep in his chest like brambles.

“Let’s all step back. Maybe we could—”

“Enough!” Ling’s word cracked like thunder splitting a slate sky.

She raised a hand to stop him, and confusion misted Wang Xiaoming’s face like fog over a lake.

Ling didn’t answer him; she looked to Rafi, already half swallowed by the portal, like a silhouette in a whirlpool.

“I accept your terms. Tomorrow at this hour, open another portal. I’ll come.” Her promise fell like a stone set on a marker.

Rafi had no trace of reluctance; she vanished into the black vortex, swallowed like ink in water.

A heartbeat later, the portal snapped shut with a soft whoosh, a curtain drawn across the night.

After Rafi left, Wang Xiaoming finally voiced his doubt; he felt they could have called her back, could have seized more advantage, like grasping a rope before it slipped.

“Why stop me? We could have—”

His words drew cold sweat on Ling’s brow, beads like dew on a leaf.

Credit where it’s due—she thought—the general’s insight is sharp as an arrow; luckily, it flew the wrong way and not toward me.

“Well… General-who-steals-game-cartridges, you don’t truly think you can face that Demon King just because you’re here, do you?” Her tone was a soft drizzle over brittle leaves.

“What do you mean?” His brows knit like tight stitches.

“Even a wounded lion isn’t prey for ants, and that wounded one is a Demon King.” The savanna image burned like sunset under a storm.

“…Fine. Then I have one more question.” His hand lifted like a leaf testing wind.

“Ask.”

“Why keep saying I steal other people’s game cartridges? What does that even mean?” His question curled like smoke from a small flame.

“…I’m hurt. I need sleep. Good night.” Her words lowered like a curtain; moonlight cooled the scene.

Ling felt it: the art of changing the subject is a useful blade, slicing clean through knots like a sharp knife through rope.