She changed out of her nightgown; walking out in just that felt like stepping into the street bare to the wind.

Skipping breakfast wouldn’t kill her; her stomach was a cold stove. She splashed through a quick wash, then drifted downstairs to find Wang Xiaoming. He was a guest; she couldn’t be frost on a window.

Snap. “Remi, tea~”

“I refuse!”

Ling wanted to play it cool like a moon behind clouds, but Remi wouldn’t play along.

Remi had a full tea set and was gliding over, porcelain chiming softly. The moment Ling spoke, Remi veered like a sparrow avoiding a net—clear intent to dodge serving.

Ling’s fingers were already raised for the snap; the words were out, hanging in the room like incense. No way to fully cover it now.

Luckily, a golden-haired angel named Flan swooped in, stole the tea set, and in the same breath dragged Remi to the kitchen like a breeze tugging a curtain.

Ahem, ahem.

She coughed twice, her voice shepherding the topic back onto the road.

“So, cartridge‑snatcher Wang Xiaoming, why are you here? I don’t have a cartridge for you.”

She sifted out the weird bits of her own words like sand from rice. Wang Xiaoming’s face tightened, eyes set like stone.

“I’m no longer part of the Moser Empire.”

Pfft!

Tea sprayed. Ling jerked her head aside, sharp as a bird turning mid-flight, so not a drop landed on him.

“You—you—you—say that again!”

“Mm? Was I unclear? I’m not with the Moser Empire anymore.”

“Why? Did the Empire refuse to fix your weapon, and it broke your heart?”

Ling knew about that broken sword. From years as a homebound geek, she knew swordmasters treated their blades like a life-bound spirit. If that was it, she could almost sympathize.

“No. Even if repaired, it would be a mask. It lost its true soul. I buried it.”

—Buried… a blade. Sword folk really are strange birds; there’s even such a thing as burying steel.

“Then why come to me? Trying to squeeze me for coin?”

“Please don’t always cast me in shadow. I’m not that sort. And if I did swindle you, I doubt I’d see tomorrow’s sunrise.”

“No, you wouldn’t see the next second.” She muttered it like a knife sliding back into a sheath. “So why did you come?”

“I’m here to pledge myself to you.”

…

Ling didn’t answer. She rose, plucked a black cane out of nowhere like a magician pulling night from a sleeve, and tossed it to Wang Xiaoming’s feet.

“Pick it up.”

Only three words fell from the loli’s lips, but the tone carried iron and a hint of synth, like thunder through a speaker.

Wang hesitated. Instinct bent him down. He picked up the cane. Some strange pull coiled in the wood, urging him to snap it like dry twig.

“Now give me your answer. Return to Moser, or swear to me?”

He stared at the cane. Memories flickered like lanterns in rain.

First, his men lying still on the ground, sleep without waking.

Then, seventy-two battles, and never a single imperial banner coming to help, just empty horizons.

Then, his body collapsing, strength drained like tide leaving a shore.

Then, a Daemon snapping his sword, a clean break like ice under a boot.

And last—Ling leaping into the breach to haul him back from the cliff’s edge.

“Hahahahaha! Then there’s only one answer!”

Wang burst into laughter; it rolled out of him like a storm breaking.

He raised the cane and hammered it down on his knee.

Crack.

“I will… swear fealty to you!”

Ling saw something deliciously absurd in the scene and couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Hahahahaha!”

She laughed too hard, wobbling, then slumped onto the table. Her right hand became a pounding fist, drumming wood like rain.

“Humans are really interesting… eh↘ eh→. I’ve decided to accept your fealty!”

“Really?!”

To Wang Xiaoming, her acceptance felt like sunlight after fog.

Think it through, it tracked. A warrior without a country was driftwood in the current—no missions, no path, maybe a death in some ditch with no one to know. Too sad.

“But why not pick Elusen or Ulu, those big nations? Why come to me?”

The question staggered him. He bowed his head, thought in silence like water pooling. Then he lifted his face; resolve set there like carved stone.

“Because if I come to you, I get a beautiful loli boss!”

“You’ve got 0.258 seconds—scram.”

“Eh! No, no, I was kidding. I just want a boss stronger than me, that’s all!”

A half-formed Magic Cannon buzzed in Ling’s palm, then she pulled the power back like tide leaving rock. If he truly came with that greasy thought—“I’ve got a pretty boss, maybe I’ll get certain scenes”—her Magic Cannon would have planted a sun right in his crotch.

Wang saw her cancel the shot and let out a breath, quiet as steam fading. When the cannon flared, death had brushed his cheek.

“Ma… sorry for the joke. Honestly, with a stronger superior, I’ll have fewer missions down the line.”

—Unexpectedly straightforward kid.

“Fine! I’ll take your request. Given your skill at such a young age, you’ll be my General of the Mystic Realm.”

The Mystic Realm had no armies; the title was a banner without troops. But Wang didn’t know. He rejoiced at keeping the general’s mantle, though he hid it, shifting topics like a bird hopping branches.

“Then… where do I live?”

“Go find a patch of empty ground outside. Build it yourself. Must be more than five kilometers from here.”

“Eh?!”

He complained a bit, quick as sparks, then headed out to hunt for land.

Ling watched his back recede like a figure into mist. A complicated light crossed her eyes.

—We still need to run a few tests.