Smack—

Her swinging fist slammed into Arthas’s helm. The sound rang crisp, like clean ice cracking in winter air.

A pure, unfiltered slap—sharp as a temple bell at dawn.

Only ghosts knew how Ling slapped through steel to reach his face, yet the slap carried, clear as a bell across a quiet lake.

Arthas—the victim—stared dumbly as his gaze slid aside, his head turned by that slap like a weather vane in sudden wind.

As for his oh‑so‑impressive skill, LAST WORD: “Far Lordaeron”—gone.

Yes, gone. That single slap erased it like rain dousing a spark.

One ordinary slap, and he felt his mana blocked—no flow, no transfer, like a river dammed by a fallen boulder.

Just shouting the name without the full, binding magic? That skill would never manifest, like a kite without wind.

Cut off from power, the skill broke. The mana he’d allocated didn’t return; it bled into the air and faded like morning mist.

“W—why?!”

She couldn’t see his face, yet Ling felt the shock in his voice, taut as a snapped lute string.

Satisfaction fizzed in her chest like soda. Ling raised the hand that slapped him and frowned.

When did I pick up a sadistic streak?

“You don’t know how to wield your power at all. You’re tossing out skills like finger paint on a wall.”

She said it with a vengeful edge, craving that sting of mockery like chili heat on the tongue.

You can provoke anyone, but never a grudge‑keeping girl; such grudges root deep like willow roots by a river.

Arthas fixed his gaze on Ling. He still hadn’t dislodged her from his stomach. In the swaying blue light of his eyes, anger burned cold as winter flame.

Ling didn’t care. His glare only fed that small, secret appetite for payback, warm as a cup of tea.

She looked down on Arthas with lazy pride, ready to ride his anger and taunt him again.

Before words left her lips, her collar tugged; in a heartbeat her feet left the ground, light as a kite on a breeze.

“Don’t overdo it. Why are you playing the little bully? Don’t forget we’re trying to win this big guy over.”

Alicia pitched the first line high, like a struck bell, for Arthas’s sake. Then she leaned to Ling’s ear and whispered the real point.

Of course Ling understood. She might be a bit dense, but she’s no total airhead; her temper puffed up like a sparrow.

She crossed her arms over her flat chest and pursed her lips, a little storm cloud of a sulk.

Alicia ignored her, lowered her head, and studied Arthas, who still looked a bit afraid, like a stag hearing hounds on the wind.

“So— I heard you want to go to the surface?”

The topic shifted to the surface. Add that Alicia had helped remove the Daemon earlier, and Arthas’s favor rose enough for calm talk.

“I… better not. Up there, they’re monsters. I’d last less than half a minute before I’m erased, like frost under the sun…”

Alicia wanted to cover her mouth and laugh, petals hiding a smile.

Sure, they’d slapped him the moment they entered, stole his face and taught him fear; but that alone shouldn’t make him dread the surface so much.

If she guessed right, someone had hinted that surface dwellers were overwhelmingly strong, and Ling’s steamroll only sealed it in his mind like seal wax.

“Tell me, who told you everyone up there was absurdly strong?”

“It was a silv— mm!”

Silver what? Alicia wanted to ask, but he clapped his mouth shut mid‑word—likely a secret, or a threat hanging over his tongue like a blade.

Arthas wouldn’t say, so Alicia let it go; pressing would sour his impression and yield nothing, like squeezing a dry reed.

Still… “silver”? Silver eyes, silver robes, silver lips—too many roads, fog widening the trail.

Could be a silver sword, a silver shield, a silver chain—the field only spreads like ripples in rain.

She couldn’t pin it down, and she didn’t plan to stew; the clues were few, and even finding that person might mean nothing in the end.

So Alicia, faithful to profit above all, dropped the thread like a leaf in a stream.

“Arthas! One question. Don’t weigh danger; don’t overthink. Just tell me—do you want to go to the surface?”

His turning point had come. One nod, and Alicia would take him up at once.

On the way she’d persuade him, let him taste the surface’s delights, lose himself in a happy realm, then seal the deal and recruit him. The Mystic Realm would grow stronger, like a fortress adding a fresh wall.

Classic Alicia, already counting on his agreement to join the Mystic Realm; give it a little more time, and his gatekeeper post might be carved in stone.

But the death knight thought otherwise.

He stared at the red‑haired woman offering her hand. He wanted to take it—to take the hand that could lift him to the surface, like grasping a rope to sunlight.