After Xuewei’s trial ended, Ye Muhan latched onto Yanfengle like moonlight hooking a shadow. She told him, steady as church stone, she was the church’s Holy Maiden, his future mentor.
The bishops had told her that, their voices rustling like dried leaves in a nave.
To be honest, Yanfengle’s brain went boing at first sight, like a drumhead snapping. Embarrassing, sure, but that was biology throwing sparks in a healthy young guy.
Anyone who saw a white-haired beauty with curves like dunes and skin like new snow would twitch, or their gears were misaligned.
So the world still held gentle girls, like tea steam in winter. Since a beautiful girl asked, Yanfengle agreed, and soon a student who barely had classes got dragooned every few days as muscle.
On proper days, they hauled food and supplies to the orphanage, warm as bread from an oven. On less proper days, he even cross-dressed to impersonate the Holy Maiden so she could slack off, a paper halo tilting over an obvious fake.
Anyone could see it was a fraud, but Ye Muhan reveled in it, like a cat sunning on a sill.
If it stopped there, fine. But she promised to teach him super-powerful magic, words buzzing like fireflies all night. The result? Half a month of healing spells drenched in Holy Light.
He was a Saber; what was he supposed to do with that, wave a glowing bandage like a flag? Screw Holy Light!
“Elders told me to teach you,” Ye Muhan thought, her tone a sigh over a cup of tea. “But I only know this… oh, and how to run away.”
This Holy Maiden wasn’t serious at all. Like now—she bragged before the kids that her mushroom soup was ambrosia, her smile like frosting. The brats roasted her, sparks flying, and she dragged him out of the city to the forest to pick mushrooms.
Why outside the walls? Because only the freshest mushrooms could simmer into the tastiest broth, like dew on dawn herbs.
Then the Holy Maiden who couldn’t tell poison from dinner swore she’d make mushroom soup. Did that sound sane, under the shade of pines?
In the forest, after Yanfengle filled a basket shaped like a little hill, he found her basket a rainbow of caps, bright as carnival masks. His soul dimmed; he flipped her basket on the spot, and claw marks bloomed across his face like scratchy vines.
Outside the gate of Starfate City, Yanfengle and Holy Maiden Ye Muhan trudged back, dust rising like gray incense. After all that chaos, they finally returned; it wasn’t easy, like climbing a slope of loose sand.
Walking, Yanfengle’s eyes watered, tears glittering like rain on stone.
“Hey, hey… you okay?” Ye Muhan felt guilty, the guilt a small pebble in a shoe. His face was her fault, and shadows can linger.
“I’m fine… compared to Teacher Xuewei, this is nothing,” Yanfengle murmured, his voice like a leaf turning.
“Oh… if anything feels off, tell me,” she said, confidence bright as a candle. “I trust my recovery magic.”
“Watch the road, hey…” Yanfengle warned, as her head tilted like a curious sparrow. It didn’t help.
“Waya!” Ye Muhan tripped on something like a trick wire, arms windmilling like a scarecrow, and grabbed… something.
“This… this is…! I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry!” She clutched a torn flap of skirt fabric, eyes squeezed shut, bowing to the woman before her like a spinning top.
In Yanfengle’s eyes, it was a different scene, stark as lightning.
He saw the blonde “woman” wearing red boxer shorts, a flag of embarrassment flapping in the sun.
As for that “woman,” the once-handsome face twisted, killing intent thick as fog. Nails bit into the left palm, blood welling like pomegranate seeds. Pupils burned blood-red, ready to drip, like a Vampire tasting dawn.
Vampire…
“Run, you idiot Holy Maiden!” Shock hit, sharp as ice, then Yanfengle yanked Ye Muhan and bolted, legs drumming like war sticks.
“Hey—what are you doing? I’m still apo—” Ye Muhan shot him a glare like a thrown pebble, then looked back at the “woman.” “Mommy—ghost!!!”
She wrapped around her “mount” like an octopus on a saddle, then flicked the skirt scrap, a pale leaf caught on wind. It fluttered down and covered the charging Vampire’s face, a blindfold from nowhere.
“He’s on us—he’s on us—run!” Ye Muhan’s panic broke like a dam; her eyes swirled like mosquito coils, her whole body wobbling on Yanfengle like a lantern in a gale.
“Stop shaking—I can’t see the road!”
He really couldn’t. Right after he said it, Yanfengle stumbled, and the Holy Maiden catapulted ahead like a tossed doll.
“Ugh—! It hurts like hell! Which bastard litters banana peels on a road?”
The next heartbeat, the Vampire’s twisted face loomed, close as thunder.
“Uh… hello, Ma— no, Sir! We… we just bumped into you, by chance, like leaves crossing paths…”
Edgar Warren was ready to explode today, fury baking like hot iron.
Today was the day to slip into the city and hunt the former Queen of the Blood. He’d laid the ambush, blood thralls ringed Starfate City like a tightening noose. Even the Blood Elf wouldn’t grow wings and escape.
But as he moved to infiltrate the main city, a banana peel tripped him. He face-planted, hard as a brick kiss. Normally, things like that wouldn’t touch him. Yet the mud clung with a weird magic, sticky as tar; it just wouldn’t come off.
He had to enter town filthy, grime crawling like ants. The city guards took him for a beggar, their eyes cold as tin.
Edgar Warren swallowed the urge to slaughter, the urge a red tide, and left. It was doable, but pointless trouble, like breaking a jar to drink a sip.
First, clean up.
Under a blazing sun like a blade, Edgar Warren couldn’t freely use a Vampire’s powers. The sunlight would brand him, and the hunger would double, a fire in his veins. No flying, so he walked to the nearest river and scrubbed for nearly an hour, water flashing like glass.
Ready again, he returned to the gate, only for that idiot guard to shove him out as a “clean beggar.” The reason dropped like a stone: “You need an ID to enter.”
An ID to pass a gate? Who are you kidding? Damn it!
Could he bear it?
He could.
Edgar Warren wasn’t picky about trifles, but he nursed grudges like coals. After he devoured the Blood Elf’s magic, he’d wipe this city clean, a map left blank.
Driven out, Edgar Warren hatched a plan; a new skin was all he needed, like swapping masks. He spotted a noblewoman leaving the city, perfume trailing like a ribbon.
He endured shame and disgust burning like acid, put on the women’s clothes he hated, and painted himself into a grand lady. He walked toward the city, skirts whispering like tall grass…
Then the skirt got stripped by fate and fools.
Now he only wanted murder. Kill every soul in this city, then fish the Blood Elf from the ruins.
“Help—! Gods, anyone!” Panic ripped out of Yanfengle, loud as a cracked bell. Whatever tricks he had, he had to use them, or he’d be done.
“…” The Vampire stared at him like at a wind-up toy.
“…”
“What are you doing, you idiot? Holy Light—bluff him!” Ye Muhan popped up from wherever she’d rolled, and hurled a lance of Holy Light, bright as noon.
“Ah!” Edgar Warren hissed, pain biting like frost. He jerked aside, cloak snapping like a flag.
That Holy Light hurt him. From two trash bins with mana below fifth rank.
This woman was wrong. She was dangerous. She had to be cut out, like rot from a branch.
“Holy Light Shield!” Ye Muhan’s eyes sharpened like drawn steel; she wrapped herself and Yanfengle in a glowing shell, a pearl of light, then hauled the stunned Yanfengle toward the gate.
“Run faster, idiot! The Vampire’s on us!”
“Holy Maiden, why do you…” Yanfengle thought, the thought a spark. Right—she was the Holy Maiden; power came with the title like bells with a church.
“How should I know? I only cast Holy Light; you know that,” she snapped, breath like steam. “And didn’t I teach you Holy Light magic?”
“Oh, right! Then why are we running?” Yanfengle turned, grin spreading like sunrise. He faced Edgar Warren with a strongman’s smile. “Heh. Gold-haired Vampire who likes women’s clothes—your turn to run! Taste this—Holy Light, All-Illumine!”
[hp-1]
Something that shouldn’t have appeared drifted across Yanfengle’s view, like a HUD flicker.
“…”
“…”
“Mr. Vampire—sir—sorry!!!” Yanfengle spun, grabbed Ye Muhan, and sprinted for the gate, feet pattering like rain.
(da-da-da~)
