Even the Little Moon Sage was surprised it ended like this, like frost landing on a spring leaf.
If she wanted to tip the scales for Lingcai, a flick from the shadows would do; Duodori’s mind would crumple like a paper lantern in wind within one round.
She’d planned to cheat and let Lingcai stroll to victory, to seat her in the witches’ circle like laying a mat on fresh grass. But Lingcai’s sudden resolve flashed like steel under moonlight, and the Sage’s hand paused mid-air like a bird mid-flight.
Cornered again and again by Duodori’s taunts, Lingcai stood firm like a river holding its banks. Seeing her calm and refusing to quit even at the last beat, the Little Moon Sage let her hand fall like a leaf settling.
If she helped here, she’d be underestimating her, like saddling a tiger for a pony ride.
Lingcai caught a sliver of chance like a needle of light, grabbed a helmet, and smashed Duodori into a concussion. It wasn’t exactly honorable, but the Little Moon Sage felt surprise and a warm thread of pride, like steam rising off tea.
This is a disciple raised by my disciple, she thought, a pine standing through winter—cool-headed under disadvantage, refusing to yield. That’s someone worthy of inheriting my name.
Holding her folded clothes, Lingcai drifted off the stage like a soul misplaced, feet light as cloud-hops.
That was close! Does this count as my win? The thought fluttered like a trapped sparrow.
If I lost, Scarlet Leaf would end up with a bright green hat—cuckolded—like paint splashed across his head.
She shook her head hard, like shaking rain from bangs. She didn’t dare imagine what that pervert would do if she lost, that door a dungeon you don’t open.
Seeing her shell-shocked, the Little Moon Sage stepped up and patted her shoulder like steadying a lamp. “You did great. Now I think if I’d cheated earlier, I’d have been looking down on you. Keep going.”
In a blink, Lingcai wrapped the Sage’s leg and wailed like a child clinging in a storm. “Then please look down on me! Save me! I’m done!”
With everyone watching, the Little Moon Sage flushed awkwardly, then patted her head like fanning embers. “Alright, alright… don’t panic… the next two rounds, you can put on a show. I’ll cheat you to a win.”
“Really? How will you cheat?” Her eyes sparked like stars.
The Sage smiled like a crescent sliver. “Just watch.”
On the other side, witches had already mobilized and carried off the KO’d Duodori, while the host witch, Viola, stood onstage, mouth open like a dropped petal, speechless.
This… this has to be a foul, right? Who uses a helmet to smash someone? It felt like bringing a shovel to a chess match.
Viola started to call out Lingcai’s obvious violation, when sharp nails pinched her backside like a crab claw. She yelped. “Ah!”
It was her superior—no one else—the BloodRose, one of the Garden Witches’ Four Heavenly Kings. She sat primly, legs together, face iron-blue like winter steel, and hissed under her breath, “Enough. Let them win. I’m begging you—don’t stir trouble.”
Viola stared, stunned that her fearless superior would bend, like a hawk bowing to sparrows. She couldn’t wrap her head around why the second seat of the Garden Witches would be so meek before two nobodies.
Irritation flared, heat in her chest like a brazier. “Sister BloodRose, what’s wrong today? Who are they? You raised me yourself. You can’t hide even small things from me.”
BloodRose stammered, tongue knotted like a rope. Her eyes crept toward the Little Moon Sage, and there it was again—that smile, cold as a blade, like a trap laid long ago. A chill slid under BloodRose’s collar like snow.
She threw Viola weird brow-signals, eyes blinking like fireflies, trying to say what she wouldn’t say.
Viola stared blankly, the message not landing. She ventured, voice thin as a reed in wind, “My lady, forgive my ignorance. Eye signals don’t help. Just say it plainly…”
“…Ugh.” BloodRose covered her face, collapsing like a wilted rose.
Damn it. If I say the truth now, neither of us walks out that door alive, rang in her head like a muted bell.
That sigh, heavy with regret, drifted to Viola and finally told her this was stranger than it seemed, like incense smoke that wouldn’t burn out.
Weird. BloodRose wouldn’t fear someone she’d never met, right? Viola sifted through names like stars and found none. Even the true Iris Flower Witch shouldn’t make BloodRose shake like this.
Then who? First, rule out the Seven-Colored Great Sage—he’s a man. Even so, the lake stayed dark; no answer surfaced.
She gave up and, unwillingly, announced Lingcai’s win, the word “novice” pressed like a thumb on a bruise. “Round One! The novice Alchemist wins!”
Lucky in round one, she seethed, but round two won’t be kind. The thought tightened like a bowstring.
She raised the mic, voice ringing like a bell. “Round Two is about to begin! The event is ‘No-Limit Sumo Push-Hands’! Now for the rules!”
She coughed, clearing her throat like tapping crystal. “Rules! Each side draws a circle, one meter across, on the floor! As long as you stand within your circle, attack as you please! Drive your opponent out of your own foothold circle to win!”
As she spoke, a tall and a short wizard lugged a massive compass and chalk, sketching with care. Soon, two clean white hollow rings lay on the dark floor, like twin moons on stone.
Then Viola introduced Lingcai’s next opponent, words beating like a drum. “Next up! A karate ace—Witch Nonona! With bare hands, she set the national record—thirty-six tiles split! Her base is rock-steady; none can match her! Please, step up!”
“Oh~!” The crowd hooted without end, and a silver-haired woman in robes strode up slow and sure, mystery pooling around her like dusk. That had to be Witch Nonona.
At center stage, she yanked off her robe and flung it skyward like a sailing gull. Her chest was banded tight, and below she wore a white karate gi.
On the left pant leg, black thread shouted four words: “Your girl’s badass!” On the right leg, another line crowed: “Straight-up freaking unbeatable!” Letters bit the fabric like claws.
Nonona paced to center, fists on hips, horse stance rooted like an oak. Her eyes snapped open, and she barked, “Ha!” The sound cracked like thunder.
Power brewed in her dantian and surged up, rolling through the main hall like an earthquake, shredding hesitation like a storm through dry reeds. Her momentum blanketed the room; even Lingcai shrank like a rabbit before a tiger.
The Little Moon Sage nodded, voice cool as rain. “She’s the real deal. Too bad she ran into us today—bad luck for her.”
Nonona turned her back, raised a thumb, and displayed the tattoo across her spine—ink dark as midnight iron. A man with a night-demon’s face and a temple bell strapped to his back stared with twin furious eyes, body scored with scars, yet standing unbowed like a statue in storm.
The hall didn’t cheer. Silence pooled, deep and ritual, like a held breath. Everyone waited for the line they knew.
Viola knew too. She lifted the mic, words glowing like a lantern. “Folks, have you heard the tale of the Knight-Errant?”
“Oh!!!” The roar hit like waves before she could finish, swallowing her next lines. Lingcai didn’t catch a single word.
The tale goes like this: a desperate gambler, with nowhere to turn, begged a wealthy farmer for one night’s shelter. Bandits struck that night. To repay that roof, the gambler tucked the family’s last bloodline into a great bell and strapped it to his back, got cut down, yet stood unmoving like a rock, spending his life to shield the family’s youngest son. Later, to honor that knight-errant, the saved family carved the Knight-Errant tattoo on their backs, generation after generation, oath like iron, bell like a moon.
None of this has a penny to do with Witch Nonona; the tattoo is just her personal hobby, a flourish like a plume.
Staring at Nonona’s solid build and kill-bright eyes, Lingcai edged back like a shadow slipping from fire. Fear beat first. “Grandmaster, I feel like she’ll kill me with one punch.”
The Little Moon Sage patted her, hand gentle as a leaf on water. “Don’t be scared. Pretend you’re terrifying. Strike the pose for a finishing move.”
“And then?” Lingcai asked, voice tight like a knotted string.
“Then leave it to me,” the Sage said, calm as moonlight on stone.
