As Lena stepped out of the portal, shock rippled through her like cold water; Aphelia was in the dueling ring, ruthless strikes raining on the red‑haired girl like a summer storm.
"Phoenix, what's going on with them?"
Lena watched the chase like a fox and hare; Aphelia showed no mercy. Every flick cast a military‑grade spell. The ground lay pocked with craters, earth scarred by her hand.
The gray‑haired youth, Phoenix, started to answer, but the shameless uncle clamped a hand over his mouth and tugged him aside, grinning like a stray dog under a streetlamp.
"What the heck?"
Seeing their hush‑hush dance, Lena shook her head like brushing dust off silk and fixed her gaze on the duel.
Five years on, Aphelia hadn’t crossed blades with anyone, yet her craft and combat sense hadn’t rusted; her plain iron sword flashed with spelllight and sword‑qi, a wind‑and‑thunder mix that gave Violet a pounding headache.
"Submit, Violet!"
Aphelia feinted, and a crimson fireball bombarded the space before her, sealing Violet’s path like a wall of flame.
Blazing blasts hammered the floor; smoke billowed like storm clouds. Aphelia’s sight blurred, and Violet snatched a breath under that relentless tide.
A flush crept over Aphelia’s cheeks, heat crawling like summer wine; her body was… a touch too sensitive now. But she told herself her strength wouldn’t waver.
The next flurry tangled her rhythm; a red spear‑shadow tore the smoke like a fox through reeds, stabbing for vital points. She had to raise her blade. Violet reappeared, not to dodge, but to counter like a winter gale.
"What's wrong, Aphelia? Got rusty?"
"Save it!"
The thrusting lance skimmed her cheek, threading hair like wind through silk; a sweep could’ve dropped her. Violet’s mouth curled. She flipped her grip to smack with the shaft.
But she missed one thing: their distance had shrunk to three steps, the kind that lets a tide crash into shore.
"Violet, you—"
Her voice brushed Violet’s ear like a lover’s whisper, impossible as moonlight at noon—Aphelia still stood in front of her eyes.
"Ancient Martial Flow—"
Aphelia’s clear, sweet voice bloomed again, this time from within Violet’s arms, widening her eyes like a startled doe. She tried to reel her lance back, but momentum had locked like a river’s current.
Aphelia’s palms traced a circle; she turned in a heartbeat, feet gouging twin pits in the earth. Her short sword lay discarded like shed bark. Silver hair lifted in the air; pale palms settled on Violet’s abdomen like drifting clouds.
"Palm Thrust!"
With that crisp cry, her palms pressed, and a torrent of qi blasted from those fair hands, hurling forward‑rushing Violet like a leaf in a gale.
"Ha! Aphelia’s tricks never disappoint!"
The uncle with a wine cup slapped the rail, laughter spilling like froth; that move lit his mood like fire.
"Ancient Martial Flow—ah, brings back the old days."
Smiling, Lena cast a few spells; a pure water curtain flowed like a river, catching Violet mid‑flight so she wouldn’t smash into the stands.
"Ouch, ouch…"
Violet rubbed her struck stomach, pain rippling like dull thunder; Aphelia had held back, and Lena layered high‑tier healing, but the ache lingered.
"You know it hurts, yet you keep fighting Aphelia. Tell me—these years, how many wins do you even have?"
Lena slipped into lecture mode, prodding her with spells like pebbles in a stream; Violet played dumb, eyes wandering like a cat chasing sunbeams.
"Remarkable—five years without a fight, still razor‑sharp."
The uncle watched Aphelia vault from the ring, offering a drink with a smile like warm firelight.
"Sorry, I quit."
Aphelia shot him a look, tapped her nun’s habit like a bell, pushed the cup away, and went to Violet to tap her forehead.
"Ah, Violet, what am I even supposed to scold you for…"
Aphelia bent down, hand hovering over Violet’s bruised belly; a gentle glow swept like dawn, mending flesh and even the torn blouse.
"Hee‑hee, isn’t this just sisterly roughhousing, Aphelia—sis—"
Violet looped an arm around her neck, nuzzling like a cat, making scolding feel like snow melting on spring grass.
A sigh pooled in Aphelia’s chest, heavy as rain. She hadn’t chosen this shape; after twenty years as a man, she’d become a woman overnight—those knots were hard to untie in words.
Seeing this, they let silence settle like evening dew, then returned to the table to celebrate Aphelia’s birthday.
"Funny thing, I almost forgot my own birthday."
She tasted her food, eyes soft on her friends like lanterns at dusk. Years on the road blur birthdays; a demon blade can end a song any day.
"As your sister, how could I forget?"
Lena dabbed her lip, smiling like moonlight; Aphelia scratched her head, shy warmth rising like a blush. The body had changed, yet some little habits stayed.
They laughed, and Aphelia’s cheeks flared like peach petals; the mood rolled back to tavern days, as if her change hadn’t tilted the world.
"Speaking of which, where’s that guy, Augustus?"
She kept smiling, yet the thought of an old friend rose like a swallow; their paths had split, and his absence today felt strange.
"Him… he should be captain of the Church Knights by now…"
Phoenix pondered, ready to confirm with the man himself. Before his magitech tool left the pouch, a sound cut in, snapping every gaze like a thunderclap.
It was the roar of a military airship’s engines, close enough to shake breath like thunder under the skin.
"Impossible—this is a Church‑sealed pocket space, unless…"
The uncle shot to his feet, a grim possibility sparking like flint; he yanked a weapon from his storage space, and his aura sharpened like a drawn blade.
In his hands sat a menacing longbow, its body scaled like a beast; first thought struck like lightning—dragoncraft, born from one of the continent’s terrors.
Then the calm sky split with an ugly seam; the sound of shattering rang like breaking ice. A golden warship tore the heavens and descended, a burly figure standing on its prow.
Phoenix clicked his tongue, palm settling on his long blade like a hawk on a branch. The burly figure leaped, slamming down before them, with Church soldiers bearing dragonlances pouring like rain.
"What’s the meaning of this, Augustus?!"
The uncle’s eyes narrowed; his bow hummed, a near‑roar like a caged beast. He soothed it with a touch and shouted at the towering youth.
Augustus glanced at him, silent as stone, and gestured; the soldiers lifted their dragonlances, circling Aphelia like wolves closing the ring.
The spark hit dry tinder; Violet moved first, no words, her crimson spear dancing like wildfire, stabbing straight for Augustus’s face.
"Stand down!"
Aphelia moved; under every eye, she slipped the encirclement like mist. She caught the spear, pulled and pushed, sending charging Violet back, sheltering her behind like a mountain.
Augustus’s face barely shifted; he drew his weapon in silence, leveling it at Aphelia like a cold moon.
"I thought we’d be friends."
Aphelia smiled and didn’t move, holding Violet behind her like a shield. She just watched Augustus with a calm smile, the air still as a pond.
"We were friends. Now, you’re coming to the Church with me."
He didn’t blink at her gender shift. He sheathed his blade like a sinking sunset, face as still as a deep well.
"Fine, I’ll go. But at least tell me why you had to make such a spectacle to seize me."
Aphelia calmed her friends with a glance like a breeze, walked to Augustus, and offered her hands, easy as daylight, no hint of fear about “tea at the Church.”
"Witch—Trial!"
