Fine. I’ll treat you as the Iris Flower.

Viola said it through clenched teeth, like flint grinding under frost. If BloodRose hadn’t tugged at her sleeve again and again, she’d have ordered the Little Moon Sage shredded like dry leaves.

But if that order flew, the dice of fate might not land where she wanted.

Viola pivoted, voice smooth as oiled wood. Even if you’re the Iris Flower, this isn’t your turf. A roaming dragon doesn’t stomp the local snake. You cross the threshold first and let our trade see your light.

Threshold means what it says: you step over the sill to enter. Only past the door do you count as kin.

The Little Moon Sage looked like he’d expected this. Calm as moonlight, hands behind his back. What rules?

Viola chuckled twice, gravel rolling in a stream. Threshold rite. Old rules. Best of three.

Win all three, you’re nobility. Win two, you’re a guest.

She paused, turned, and lifted a languid hand toward the shadowed door, words easing out like slow incense smoke.

One win, please leave. If you lose all three…

The Little Moon Sage knew the missing half. He raised a hand, blew on his nails like cooling lacquer, and finished it, cool as midnight. Lose all three, and I’m a dead man.

BloodRose cursed in her heart, heat flaring like pepper fire.

If you really lose all three, it’s us who die!

You’ll snap, flip the table like a storm wind, and scatter us for when your mood turns dark!

The Little Moon Sage wore confidence like a blade’s sheen. He nudged Lingcai forward. Go. Your turn.

Lingcai had been crouched in the shadows to watch titans clash, a sparrow under eaves. Suddenly she was shoved into the lantern light. She froze, eyes blank. Wait—Grandmaster—you can’t throw me under the cart…

The Little Moon Sage patted her shoulder, palm steady as a mountain. When I say go, you go. If trouble comes, I’ll cover you. Seeing the world is worth it.

Didn’t you just say losing means death?!

Right then, Lingcai felt swindled, stomach dropping like a bucket down a well. The crowd’s hoots herded her like a duck to the pen, pushing her out into the open.

Viola smirked, lips sharp as a paper cut. You won’t fight yourself?

My disciple can handle you, the Little Moon Sage said, unbothered, voice clear as a bell.

Viola’s gaze measured Lingcai like a tailor’s tape, cool and thin. She saw a fledgling sparrow and dismissed her.

Then Viola snapped her fingers—sharp as cracking bamboo—and called out in the hall, voice ringing like bronze. Bring the gear!

Lingcai’s heart groaned like a creaking gate. She prayed the gear wasn’t something she was bad at, prayers fluttering like moths.

Wind hissed through the hall, banners rustling like reeds. A red‑robed wizard carried a square tray veiled in red cloth, knelt on one knee at the steps, and offered it like tribute to Viola.

The first contest…

As Viola proclaimed, Lingcai’s heart leapt to her throat like a startled bird. Seeing her change of face, Viola, smug as a cat in sun, whisked the red cloth away.

Under it sat a dainty wooden mallet and a bright yellow hard hat, bright as canola flowers.

Viola finished, voice crisp as snapped thread. Rock‑Paper‑Scissors: Hammer & Helmet!

…

Huh?

That’s it?

Watching prayer turn to foggy confusion on Lingcai’s face, Viola pressed, sure of the win, eyes gleaming like wet ink. Don’t tell me you don’t even know how Hammer & Helmet works?

Hammer & Helmet is simple. You play rock‑paper‑scissors. The winner grabs the mallet and bonks the loser’s head. The loser must slap on the hard hat before the mallet lands. Too slow, you get bonked and you’re out. That’s the whole rule, clean as winter air.

After a beat of shock, Lingcai spoke, dry as dust under a summer sun. None of you feel… this game totally clashes with the mood?

We’re deciding life and death… with rock‑paper‑scissors and a toy hammer?

Viola shrugged, calm as pond water. What’s strange about that?

Strange! It’s goddamn strange!

If it’s a game, fine—die over poker or dice, a gambler’s doom rolling like bones. But don’t make me lose my life over a few rounds of Hammer & Helmet!

It’s like this: someone can die under a blade named Frostmourne, cold as winter, but no one wants to die to a weapon called Pink Bubble Cat, cute as cotton candy.

Still, a doubt flickered like a firefly. Maybe she was the one who hadn’t seen the world. Maybe the hammer and helmet were Alchemy tools with nasty tricks, thorns under silk.

Lingcai asked Viola, voice cautious as a cat’s paw. Before we start, what’s special about that hammer?

Just a plain wooden mallet. If anything’s special, it’s that I made it myself. Viola lifted it and tapped the tray. A dull thud answered, like a drum stuffed with cloth.

Lingcai didn’t buy it, eyes narrowing like crescent moons. And the hard hat?

Viola’s patience frayed like worn silk. Bought at a shop. Are you fighting or not? Don’t tell me you’re scared.

Ababa… Seriously? They really mean to decide a duel with this?!

Next, your opponent is—

Viola hammed it up like a host, whipping the crowd like wind in wheat. —from the Hammer & Helmet Championship! Five‑time defending champion, Witch Dodori! Take your place!

The crowd burst into rolling cheers, waves slapping stone. Oooh—!

A dark vein crawled across Lingcai’s brow; her thoughts clattered like loose tiles. This wasn’t life‑or‑death. It was a variety show stage!

Now she finally got it. In the rivers and lakes—the jianghu—you don’t move by your own will; the current carries you.

Soon Viola had the ground set. A square low table stood above the main hall steps, with the mallet and helmet perched like roosting birds. Cushions faced each other like twin clouds. The witch called Dodori stepped from the crowd, dipped her chin to Lingcai in courtesy, and sat.

Since the match seemed unavoidable, Lingcai let herself be herded like a duck and took her seat opposite Witch Dodori.

Dodori wore a tall, towering witch hat that made her petite frame look cuter, like a mushroom under rain. She slipped off her gray robe, revealing a black backless cocktail dress studded with violet gems and lace thigh‑highs, night sky sprinkled with stars.

Oooh!

The surrounding wizards hooted again, noise bubbling like a spring. Not because they were creeps, but because of the tattoo carved across Dodori’s back.

Dodori gave Lingcai a bewitching smile, fox‑bright, then turned to bare her back for her to see.

Only then did Lingcai see it: a whorl of green thorns inked in a ring across Dodori’s back, studded with a thousand tiny red petals, a rose cyclone frozen on skin.

The crowd erupted again, cheers pounding like drums.

Viola produced a microphone from nowhere, cool as a magician pulling moonlight from a sleeve, then slid into the role of commentator. Welcome our champion! Dodori, the Thorn Witch! Every petal on her back marks one foe she’s defeated in this game. A queen without rival!

Hands shot up across the hall, voices soaring like larks. Oooh!

Oh my ass. None of you think this is low‑rent at all?

Lingcai had every reason to suspect one thing, doubt curdling like sour milk. These people… their brains aren’t firing on all cylinders.