"Let’s sign a pact—use the Mystic Realm’s ‘All beings are equal’ agreement. What do you say?"

Gill felt like a lone player dragging a doomed team to a win, sweat sizzling, then a voice from the stands stabbed him: "Your sneakers are knockoffs."

Yeah—that gut-drop from peak to pit, like a kite cut.

Was it satisfying? Not at all; it tasted like ash after rain.

His mind had been redlining, mapping Uru’s tech surge grinding Elusen to dust, a storm rolling in.

Ling dropped one line, and his brain skidded, like brakes failing into a wall, then went dark.

He rebooted that near-fried brain with the ache of impact buzzing, and forced a thin, ugly smile.

"Ling… Miss Ling, what do you mean?" His voice shook like a leaf.

"What do I mean? I mean we use our pact," she said, calm as still water.

"But… Miss Ling, didn’t you agree at the start? Why go back on it?" His words clattered like loose tiles.

"When did I agree to anything? When did I go back on anything?" Her gaze was clean, snow-bright.

Ling wore a pure baffled face, question marks floating like lanterns, which made Gill’s temper flare like dry tinder.

"Didn’t you say we shouldn’t hold back? Didn’t you say we could ask for anything?" His breath steamed.

"Yeah, I said that," she answered, light as a breeze through bamboo.

"Then we’re good, you—" Hope flickered like a moth.

"I also said, ‘I’m listening,’ didn’t I?" Her words fell like pebbles in a pond.

"…" Silence pooled, deep and cold.

"I did listen, sure, but I only listened. Any ‘advice’ was ceremonial; whether I accept it is my call." She smiled like a cat.

"Pfft—!" The sound popped like a bubble under heat.

It was a perfect loop of logic—not even crooked—plain truth, like clear spring water.

She never said yes; that nod was only Gill’s wishful shadow.

Another tally on the ledger; from past to now, he’d been outplayed more times than fingers and toes could count.

Heat rose inside him like a trapped firebird; it circled until he almost coughed blood.

He had to smother it before it burned him hollow.

Bang—! He slammed his hand on the table; his body was above average, not superhuman, so the table took [−15.51] damage.

"Ling…" The honorific fell away like a leaf in wind.

"You think teasing this king is fun? You’re a small nation; do you really think your backer will face Uru for you?" His voice was iron.

He loved scheming when he held the blade, and despised it when the edge turned back—pure double standard, like night and noon.

He’d preach "cunning is never too much in war" each time he won, leaving the outplayed speechless like fish on sand.

Now the roles had flipped; he raged at the same medicine, even lacing threats into his words like frost.

Gill was young, sharp as a hawk, tough against pain, yet strangely thin-skinned against humiliation.

It was odd, like a bell that won’t ring; perhaps it’s just how people are carved by fate.

Ling, the one under threat, watched him like a spectator at a street juggler, ready to see the next trick.

She meant to let Gill spill himself and see what patterns his anger would paint.

But against her expectations, Dorado couldn’t sit still; she kicked her stool, sound cracking like a whip.

Gill’s attention snapped to her, eyes bright as sparks.

"Gill! Rein it in!" Dorado’s words fell like a gavel.

She meant: stop yapping and sit down, like a dog called off.

Stunned, Gill pointed at himself, disbelief rising like mist; he couldn’t believe Dorado would help Ling.

Gill knew Dorado had a soft spot for girls, especially cute ones like Ling, a blossom under spring sun.

But Dorado could split state from private, iron from silk; in a meeting about humanity’s future, she should back him.

He’d planned to threaten while Dorado pressed from the flank, two great human nations like twin mountains hemming the Mystic Realm.

With Dorado’s look that said, "This girl—I’m backing her," his plan crumbled like sand under waves.

He sat down, sulking, making a petty thump as he landed, like a drumbeat of protest.

Gill’s little drama ended, but Dorado still kept a king’s composure, smoothing the air like a hand over water.

She tried to persuade Ling, words steady as a pillar: "Ling, as a king, you need credibility, or the stage will shrug you off."

"I know that~" Ling’s answer floated like a ribbon.

"Good. So even if Gill’s ask is over the line, since you already agreed, don’t go back on it—at most, make him lower it."

That was Dorado’s thought—balance like scales, clean and fair.

She liked this cute little thing, wanted to spend a whole night over board games, laughing like fireflies.

But a nation’s matter needs a firm hand, like a rudder in wind; she had to steer it right.

Help both sides a little, win Ling’s favor, avoid burning Gill—two birds with one toss.

Yet the small one in Dorado’s eyes, all charm and clumsiness, shook her head like a willow.

"Nope. I won’t agree. And I didn’t lie." Her tone was bright, a bell in morning fog.

Then came a smile, the kind that said she held every thread in her palm, a little chilling, like moonlight on blades.