In a not‑so‑distant—truly not distant—future, less than a year away, like one turn of seasons.

Edmund watched Ling nap across his back, like a cat curled in noon sun.

He asked, soft as wind over reeds, “Do you regret pulling me out, back then?”

Ling didn’t open her eyes; she tilted her head, puzzled like a bird hearing rain.

“What are you talking about?” she answered, light as dew.

Edmund fell silent; the thought settled like ash.

He knew his life had been saved by Ling too many times, beads on a thread he never counted.

She never kept score; what right did he have to ask?

He only needed to remember: he was their subordinate, her mount; a brand etched in bone.

Skeleton dust swallowed Edmund whole, head and all, like a sandstorm eating a traveler.

From outside, it was a rough, pale‑gray sphere, crude as poorly fired clay.

We thought that was the end; then a blink, not even a tenth of a second, and a petite girl popped by the ash sphere, like a sprite.

She reached out, a blade of moonlight in a small hand.

Her five fingers pressed together, nails trimmed neat yet sharp as glass.

A white flicker—nail‑light—flashed, and that delicate hand plunged into the sphere.

From the slit, dust streamed along her arm, a drab waterfall that sank and vanished into the earth.

The little one didn’t care; she moved by her own tide, a diver feeling for pearls.

She fanned her small hand through the ball, searching for what wouldn’t show, then drove it deeper.

In moments, her soft cheek pressed to the sphere’s wall, like moon against a window.

Still too far; she rose on one toe, braced the sandy wall, and leaned, half her face slipping into dust.

Heaven didn’t begrudge the little one’s taste; before her head sank halfway, her fingers closed on what she wanted.

Her face changed like thunderheads; she yanked, muscles taut as bowstrings.

We expected a tug‑of‑war; instead, Edmund slid free, as if the world cut slack.

Robbed of its prey, the sphere shed its fixed shape and poured away into sand.

Ling dumped Edmund onto the ground, rough as a rider dropping a pack.

Not how you treat the injured; yet her hands stayed careful, a healing spell flicked like balm.

She kicked his fallen sword, a crisp clang, back to his side, then handed him off to Alicia.

Ling turned, gaze like a blade, toward Ban, who stood far off, watching, patient as frost.

Annoyance pricked like thorns; standing there, not attacking—really?

Maybe he hadn’t felt the gap in strength, so no fear rose, only empty wind.

Or as an Undead, maybe a passive “Forced Calm” pinned him, a cold lock on his mind.

Two stood—one yokai, one Skeleton—opposite as mountain and ravine.

Snow‑bright eyes met deep‑dark sockets; where their lines crossed, sparks hissed, pure hostility.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Ling’s voice snapped, anger bare as a drawn blade.

“Not long. The moment you stepped out,” Ban answered, steady as granite.

“Do you know who you just tried to kill?” Ling’s calm was gone, swept like leaves in storm.

“Just a big black sheep. Among us Undead, that’s not even a fart,” Ban rasped, dry as bone.

He blew a quick fwee on his flute; dust flew to him, knitting into a lamb Ling’s size.

He tapped it with a bone finger; it slumped into sand, a heap that bled into ground.

Done, Ban spread his hands, face saying, I like it this way—what can you do?

Ling’s brow twitched—twice—like a drumbeat under skin.

Angry? Not quite; a protective annoyance rose, thorns under silk.

Somewhere along the way, Edmund had become a partner, a male partner claimed in truth.

Now a small Skeleton boasted and mocked him; of course her guarding instinct flared like a torch.

She folded her arms, eyes locking on the distant Skeleton, measuring air, plotting where her fist should rise.

“You know what?” Her voice rang pleasant, yet dragged by thick anger, a bell under storm.

“Edmund is my mount.”

The word loosed like an arrow; the tip flashed, then turned into a straight ribbon of light.

Faster than a teleport, it reached Ban—no delay, exactly as calculated.

It hammered his skull, a clean crack, crown to root.

Ling’s guilty pleasure lately?

Besides her Scythe, she’s hooked on a different move—smacking the crown.

You don’t want your face hit?

You don’t want a Magic Cannon roast?

You don’t want the Scythe to cut?

Then hit the crown.

So nice.

Three wishes, granted.