Righteous Jump-Cleave!

Ling sprang, her body a coiled spring released, her Scythe raised like a silver crescent. She brought it down in a moon-slice and cracked the dragon’s skull. She used the flat side—she wasn’t here to butcher dragons.

Even the dull edge, with Ling’s force like thunder down a mountain, wasn’t something you could shrug off. Luckily the Dragonfolk wear hide like bark and stone. It dropped stunned, not dead, like a boulder slipping from a cliff.

One down. Ling turned, wind in her hair, eyes cutting toward Alicia behind her…

“The flower named Hope

sings here.

The man named Olga

falls in this moment.

[Stop now, flower of Hope!]”

Alicia lifted her right index finger toward the flocking dragons, calm as a red thread drawn taut. Magic coiled around her arm like silk; it emptied into the ribbon. The ribbon drank, then bloomed with an eerie red, like a blood moon on mist. Under that glow, every dragon shivered. Wings lost strength like wet feathers, and they dropped into the dust, fainting as if struck by a hidden hammer. At the same time, each fallen dragon stretched a short left hand and pointed forward with its index finger, like puppets obeying a silent line.

Ling didn’t bother snarking at a spell she couldn’t read. What puzzled her: Alicia was supposed to be a fire specialist, so why cast something else? Maybe she was chasing mastery of all schools. Let that thought be a cushion, then Ling casually bonked the dragon on the ground that was about to wake, knocking it back into sleep.

“Oh my, oh my~ looks like I underestimated you, sis.”

Ling had barely had time to clobber one dragon. Over there, Alicia wove another not-fire spell she couldn’t parse, and several more dragons toppled like reeds in a gust.

“Maybe I ought to change how I see you, sis?”

“Hey! Staring at someone mid-fight ain’t a great habit!”

The back of Ling’s head felt a jolt like a stone tossed from behind, and she was knocked flying; the old dragon’s voice rolled in after, gravel rough.

She didn’t know how the geezer slipped Alicia’s binding, but his wits weren’t dull. At least he didn’t roar before a sneak attack and gift his foe time to react.

Ling skidded back on both feet, practiced as a sparrow landing on a branch, stopping her flight with grit spraying. She rubbed her occipital lump, face souring; her fingers came away with more than sand—scale fragments and who knew what, flaked from the old dragon’s filthy claws.

She keeps a rule: a girl’s body deserves care like jade kept from dust. Getting her hair messed by someone else? Her mood soured like rain on festival lanterns.

“Hey, old man, how long have you gone without washing those hands?”

The off-key question made the old dragon blink, then he snorted, seeing tricks in ripples.

“Hmph! Brat, don’t think I’ll fall for that. You want to shift my focus and sneak me? Try a better line next time.”

He declared his great insight, and got a look from Ling reserved for fools—warmth like pity, eyes like knives. She hadn’t meant anything deep; if he connected those dots, his mind-path was crooked.

“Brat, you sneer when your plot fails. Too young—can’t handle setbacks.”

“You… you sham—”

Shameless old bastard—she didn’t finish the four strokes. The old dragon savored her fluster like a cat catching a moth, then his body burst forward, a blur crossing the gap. His claws swept left to right, a muddy scythe in a brown wind.

In that heartbeat of saying “shameless old bastard,” Ling’s focus slipped. The rush arrived like a shadow between blinks. By the time sense returned, the claws were already on her.

He must love digging. Even with a side glance, she saw his claws packed with mud and grit, stained earth-brown. It wasn’t just soil. Look close, you’d catch crusted unknown bits, like food rotted into residue. You could imagine what those pits were used for.

The thought of those trench-digging, filth-ferrying claws touching her skin sent revulsion surging, a cold wave battering her chest.

Don’t touch it—but if she didn’t, it would hit. A magic shield? It’s a leaf against a hammer; a physical strike bleeds through somewhere, and filth reaches skin. Dodge? No. At this distance, a few centimeters, without time-stop, there’s nowhere to slip. Was she about to take a [malice-class physical attack]?

Who cares! You think I’m a neat freak?

She didn’t want grime on her body, sure, but combat is rain on a dirt road—you get splashed. If you can’t accept that, what fight are you in?

Revulsion still pressed like thorns, but minimize contact and move.

Her mana flared, a green gust through pines, and congealed into a thin emerald film. It covered the path of the incoming claw and wrapped her hand. The claw struck where she’d set the shield, like a hawk hitting a snare. That gave her a beat. She closed her mana-wrapped fingers on the claw and twisted, gentle as bending a reed.

CRACK—!!