She gripped the Scythe’s haft with both hands, iron-tight like frost on steel.

She lifted it high; its crescent edge thickened toward an axe’s silhouette, a moon becoming mountain.

Along the outer arc, violet light flickered like starlight, a blade that looked ready to cut the world.

Her eyes narrowed; her gaze pinned the Dragon King’s brow like a hawk pinning prey.

Heat surged first, then she poured all strength into her arms; the most brutal strike coiled tight.

She let gravity pull and swung down hard, Scythe or axe—who could tell in that storm.

——[Full Throttle]!!!!

She swept down like a brush flinging ink from sky to earth; only her “ink” was violet starshine.

The Dragon King kept his proud head high, refusing to bow; mana pooled at his brow like stormclouds, a vow to take Ling’s blow head-on.

Thoom—!!

They met; a deep hum bloomed, and the view filled with forge-bright sparks, metal suns bursting in showers.

She drove the Scythe from height to depth, momentum roaring like a waterfall.

Her raw strength outclassed his; by the book, brute force should have crushed him.

Yet the blade didn’t break his skin; all tiger-fierce inputs, damage 0.5—no, not even armor-piercing.

It felt turn-based: Ling’s attack ended, the Dragon King’s head held a beat, then dipped.

Still locked against his crown, she failed to check her force and almost spilled.

She caught herself, steady as a willow in wind, but there was no footing; floating brings no comfort.

Before she could land, the Dragon King snapped his head up again, a whip-crack lashing her like a storm-torn branch.

Air-walking gives no real guard; she wasn’t some manga hero who can brace a weapon and stop a whip without budging.

The lash hit and sent her flying, no argument.

Good thing it was only knockback; that bizarre head-lash still couldn’t bite past her armor.

So they fell into a peculiar loop: no weak point found, and a mere sharp tool—not a divine arm—couldn’t wound him.

Meanwhile, he couldn’t hurt her either; at most a spell or two buzzed like summer gnats.

A stalemate settled, bright and bitter as rime.

But that only holds when I fight with a Scythe.

No rule says a close-range weapon makes me a “warrior,” right?

Like that guy with twin black-and-white blades in vivid red, whose true class is archer.

Sir Dragon King, in the end, the Magic Cannon is the art of war!

She rubbed her hands at her chest, kneading a “pellet” like shaping dough under moonlight.

Her motions drew in motes of mana, green fireflies from the world around, swarming to the pellet until its shape firmed.

Seeing Ling ready a Magic Cannon, the Dragon King’s own cannon-love stirred; he spread that blood-red maw, every tooth bared like ivory stakes.

No yellow rot, but saliva strung silver lines between the rows—gross all the same.

Mercifully, a small mana sphere swelled at his lips, masking the scene as it formed—same goal as Ling: a Magic Cannon.

Ling could have chained her previous cannons and volley-fired; he wouldn’t have blocked it.

But—

—Beam clashes are a man’s romance.

[Turtle × Qi Wave]!!

She wasn’t a hot-blooded guy, but a shout now and then shows iron in the heart and adds bite to the strike.

She pushed the green mana orb forward; at full arm extension, it flashed into a pillar, a jade beam spearing for the Dragon King’s head.

The Dragon King kept it simple; no shout, no theatrics.

The sphere at his mouth grew a size or two bigger than his head, raw and unstable in the air.

He gulped it like a Tailed Beast Ball, then opened wide and fired it back as a beam.

The two Magic Cannons met midair like old friends on a street; they stopped to “talk.”

Neither advanced, neither retreated; they hung there in a burning stalemate.

A small bead of cold sweat traced down Ling’s brow; her eyes half-narrowed, a reflex against glare.

No surprise—the clash’s center flared again and again, light exploding like suns in a jar.

Daylight brightened as if someone cranked a floodlight, painfully vivid.

She hadn’t pushed her Magic Cannon to the absolute limit; and there’s that old saying that the left side loses in a beam clash.

The Dragon King stood on the left.

Still, better to trust myself.

She thought that, a seed of intent sprouting in her chest.

Magic Cannon-san! What are you doing?! Move, come on, Magic Cannon-san!