She brushed past the question like a sleeve through mist. Tell me—why did you try to stop our alliance? Her words dropped like a pebble into a still pond.

The Black Dragon snorted, a coal of sound in his chest, and rose like an obsidian ridge. At last he stood high enough to cast a shadow over Ling.

Because I don’t approve of you! His voice struck like frost on iron, proud but hollow.

Then give me a way to earn your approval. Her tone set down like an olive branch under winter rain.

That caught him off guard, like a hawk startled mid‑glide. By nature he couldn’t stomach losing; by temper he refused to yield to Ling. Yet if pressed, he had a way in mind—one he assumed she’d never accept, like a thorn hidden under velvet.

Then I’ve only one condition! You know the Undead, right? The name rose from his throat like a grave‑cold draft.

Mm. Read about them in a book once. Pages rustled in her memory like dry leaves.

Back then, finding out this world once held an Undead race had shocked me, even though they were said to be wiped out, like a fire stamped out to ash.

They’ve risen!

The words shot up like a signal flare. In the next blink, the Ninety Nine Maiden was at his snout like a falling hawk. No mercy—her fingers closed on his throat like an iron ring.

He was still a whelp; one light squeeze, and he’d go out like a candle.

You’d better give me a reason. Why say something like that?! Do you think you’re like this because we failed you, so we owe you a life, so you get to be this brazen?! Her fury spilled like a flood with the dam torn open.

This anger wasn’t banked anymore; it burned full, like a furnace with the vents thrown wide. The Ninety Nine Maiden was a Dragon King; when needed, she could be cold as winter steel.

Mmph… mmph… With the Dragon King’s hand on his neck, the Black Dragon dangled like a fish on a hook. Struggling only ground the hook deeper.

Jiu Jiu! Hold it. Ling’s voice cut in like a bell through fog.

The Dragon King’s gaze flicked between Ling and the whelp like a blade catching light. Then, with a snap of impatience, she flung him aside like a wet branch.

Remember this! This time, this big sister saved you! Don’t start thinking we all owe you anything, trash. Her words cracked like a whip on stone.

Ling walked to where he’d fallen and looked down, shadow pooling like ink at her feet. Spell it out. What do you want us to do?

The Black Dragon shoved his head into the dirt and answered only with muffled sobs, like rain swallowed by sand. Ling’s smile fell apart like a paper lantern in wind.

Tsk… what a hassle. Irritation rose first, hot as pepper on the tongue, before thought followed at a slower drift.

At first, curiosity tugged me over—he felt familiar, like a face glimpsed in a passing crowd. Then the Undead came up, and my curiosity pivoted again, like a weather vane in a gust. Now he clams up, and it lights a fire in me.

That’s my core. If you bring me something, I’ll meet you with a smile, like tea poured warm. But with a whelp like this, I sour fast. I’ve already given him two fair faces; ask for a third, and that’s a dream. I’m no saint who hands out help for free.

Besides, he’s a “whelp” only by Dragonfolk measure. At his size, he’s what—thirty, forty years old? With decades and a clan’s schooling, his mind should’ve set like kiln‑fired clay. Picture a man in his thirties throwing tantrums like a giant infant; anyone who sees him feels their teeth itch. Few would endure it.

Fed up with that crooked temper, she copied the Ninety Nine Maiden and lightly pinched a wing, touch soft as a leaf. She wouldn’t use real force; that would stain their name with the Dragonfolk like ink on silk. Words would do—just a scare, a clap of thunder without the strike.

She locked onto his golden dragon eyes, pupils like coins sunk in deep water. A shard of ferocity flashed in her own.

Little guy, do you know what happens if you don’t answer? Your tongue gets cut, and your wings get snapped with it. Her voice slid like a cold knife across a whetstone.

He believed her; his body trembled like reeds in a draught. Even so, he held the tears back, refusing to let them fall, stubborn as a clenched jaw.

Aside from not crying—which is almost adult—why is everything else so childlike? The question nudged her, a thorn under the skin.

She decided to probe. She extended her right hand, palm open like a pale petal, and let her aura press down on him alone like a mountain’s shadow. That way, other Dragonfolk wouldn’t mistake it for harm, while his fear would still be summoned from the deep.

They say before your greatest terror, your true nature shows its face. Let me see what shaped you into this.

To everyone else, her hand looked harmless, soft as fresh snow. In the Black Dragon’s eyes, it bristled with barbs, backward hooks ready to strip every scale, like a briar net closing.

Gra— The reaching hand was caught midair, clamped by a larger hand that could circle her wrist like a steel cuff. Ling’s gaze followed the grip upward, and the one who stopped her stepped into view.

Alright, Ling‑chan, a little scolding’s enough. You want the Undead—let me tell you. Her voice settled like dusk over water.

Ling stared into the Ninety Nine Maiden’s eyes for a breath, then her mouth curved, a crescent after rain. Fine.

She drew her hand back, but her doubt didn’t retreat; it deepened like a well. Why did that twisted dragon—the one who’d wanted the whelp dead—suddenly step in to stop me?