Jasmine’s judgment would be flawless for most powerhouses, sharp as a blade parting fog. To reach the Titled rank, you normally master one True Art, a core law held like a star in your palm. That standard fits the many, steady as a drumbeat.
For an oddity like Aphelia, that standard is a joke tossed into the wind.
Her body carries Light’s bloodline, dawn pooling in her veins, its element clinging like sunlight to dew. Under Lena’s guidance, she majored in the True Art of Light, and became a first spear against the Demon King, bright as a lighthouse in storm.
Yet while wandering as a Hero, Aphelia learned a peculiar martial art—the Ancient Martial Flow. Its origin is wrapped in mist; the Eastern teacher claimed it was left by a Valkyrie of old, a path only certain fated ones could grasp, like keys that fit one hidden lock.
Aphelia was one of those few. She searched for patterns in the “chosen,” but found none—only the feeling of a god’s hand moving stones on a quiet board.
“Your fate pattern isn’t like others,”
Lena had told her—words like constellations sketched in charcoal. Aphelia always held doubt toward fate; the stronger she became, the more she tested destiny like iron against flame.
Yi’s reply had startled her, clean as thunder cracking ice.
“This art was used by a Valkyrie from our East. Whether she created it, I don’t know. But by the memories of the old monsters in my clan… in her hands, the art had no form limits, like water forgetting its cup.”
The answer thrilled and shocked Aphelia, a spark on dry grass. After mastering Light’s True Art, she’d been blasting with Arcane Power and raw elements, like wielding a magitech device as a club.
So she dug into the Ancient Martial Flow, days like rice grains counting toward winter. In the end, she forged a killing move rivaling a True Art, a hidden fang beneath silk.
Jasmine’s appraisal of her wasn’t quite true. Losing the True Arts of Light and Dark felt like dropping two god-smithed blades into a canyon. But it didn’t strip a body honed in martial art—steel remains steel, even without the moon’s shine.
“Maybe. I don’t think that dents my value.”
A wry curve touched Aphelia’s lips, a lantern with a shade. She didn’t need to lay cards flat; mist is useful when the bargaining table isn’t set, when both sides test the water with reeds.
Jasmine let it pass like a cool wind. “Hope so.”
Nero smiled, gratitude light as tea steam, then returned to Aphelia. From nowhere, he produced a shard of blade and held it out, like a winter leaf caught in hand.
“Aphelia, could you tell me what this fragment belongs to?”
No doubt—the shard had flaked from Aphelia’s Holy Sword. But when she tried to commune, a hard will slammed at her, a gust that froze river water.
“This… is my weapon. But something’s invaded it, like briars creeping over stone.”
Nero’s brows knit, a shadow crossing calm water. He hid it well, but Aphelia caught the ripple. She felt lucky she hadn’t admitted she couldn’t control the shard—sometimes silence is armor.
“Then… my turn?”
She watched Nero think, testing his edge with a fingertip. “Of course. Go ahead.”
“I want the real ask. You saved me—what do you want?”
“It’s not about our demands. It’s about the accord we can reach,”
Nero answered without a pause, words smooth as oiled gears. His smile said the rest: what will you put on the scale?
Aphelia sighed, a reed bending under rain, the circle returning to first steps—trade for trade, ink for coin.
“Name your price. What do you want, or what do you need me to do?”
Nero’s eyes gleamed, pleased like a merchant spotting fine silk. He shook his head gently. “In your state, rest. A few days, and you’ll be back. Then we talk.”
He rose as he spoke. He waved Christine over to keep feeding Aphelia her brew, the medicine’s scent like bark and ember. He eased his chair back, tossed Jasmine a look, and the two left with soft footfalls. At the door, Nero gave Aphelia a courteous farewell, a bow like a folded fan.
The room fell to Aphelia and the fox-eared maid. Aphelia sipped the dark brew, eyes on the ceiling like a traveler mapping clouds. No one knew where her thoughts walked.
“This is your judgment as crown prince? You think she’s worth recruiting?”
Outside, Jasmine swept those pale hands and raised a barrier, a clear bell covering them. Her gaze on Nero iced over, frost on bamboo.
Nero only smiled, playing sage under lantern light. Her look sharpened, so he hurried on.
“She’s hiding something. You felt it when you checked her body, didn’t you?”
Jasmine nodded. She’d sensed threads of the Ancient Martial Flow in Aphelia’s frame, ink strokes under silk. It didn’t make her accept Aphelia, especially a former powerhouse who’d lost two True Arts—two stars fallen from a map.
“There are more who defy our common sense than raindrops in a storm. Jasmine, you yourself live outside the chart—”
Her cold eyes slid back, and Nero chuckled, shifting the topic like a chess piece.
“If Aphelia could wield two True Arts, why couldn’t there be another one we can’t pin down? Besides…”
“Besides what?”
Since Aphelia arrived, Jasmine felt heat under her steel, a warmth she didn’t like. She drew a deep breath, smooth as tea poured, and asked.
“Besides, that fragment—someone interfered with it. I felt her spiritual force almost break through that fog. With that level… I say she’s worth considering.”
“If you’ve decided, I won’t stop you. But be ready. She’s from the Human Realm…”
“That’s rich, Jasmine. You’re Human Realm too. I’ve wanted to ask—why did you come to the Demon World? I heard your people are pretty…”
Nero searched for a word, then Jasmine cut him off like a blade stopping a tune.
“Hostile. Don’t bother. Hostile. When I came, you know I didn’t understand the Human Realm’s truth.”
She waved a hand, helplessness flickering like a candle in wind. Hard to imagine her wearing that face.
“I should visit that Lord again. It might disappoint him…”
“How about I go?”
“No. You stay.”
Nero blocked her cleanly, a smile carrying command like iron under velvet. For a moment, the crown prince showed in the seam of his words.
“Protect Christine. Please.”
Seeing the earnest light in him, Jasmine said nothing. She sighed and stepped back, returning to the door, arms folding like twin wings. She closed her eyes, cool as stone, and let stillness pool.
Meanwhile, in the Human Realm—the Northern Empire’s northern front churned like a colossal meat grinder, gears biting flesh and iron. It ate warriors and dreams, plating the world with course after course of blood.
On that line, the human ironclads moved as a steel tide, shields beating like storm surf. They clashed with orcs from the Northern Exile Lands, every sword and axe falling like harvest scythes, lives cut whether human or orc.
In that grinding mill of flesh, a crimson figure cracked the air like thunder. Wherever it flashed through the orcish wave, life fell in swaths, wheat under wildfire.
Look close—the red figure spun a long spear, its countless afterimages wearing flame, hot blades sliding through butter. Each touch, blood sprayed like rain on stone.
“The Scarlet Reaper’s here!”
“The Scarlet Reaper’s here!”
The cry rose among the orcs, scattered then swelling like storm birds. They pulled back wide, but not retreating; from above, you’d see giants forming within the ant-like mass, hulks rising like boulders from riverbed.
From ground level, their bulk hit like a wall falling. Even the human steel tide felt pressure—predators watching from high grass, disdain cold as winter.
“Hmph!”
From the crimson figure came a girlish bark, bright against the iron. She lifted her scarlet spear, and a blood-red banner snapped in the chill, a flame-licked tongue. The infantry behind her eased back like a tide receding, leaving her standing alone before those massive shapes.
On this continent, war carved a rule in blood: even the strongest will tire, like torches guttering in rain. A Titled one can be dragged down by enough elites and troops; how much more a fighter short of a title?
Yet the crimson figure didn’t step back. Her red faceplate split open like petals, revealing a beauty sharp enough to cut silk.
It was Aphelia’s comrade—Violet.
She expelled a heavy breath, white steam curling like winter ghosts. Her scarlet eyes glinted with a touch of madness, and as the trolls lumbered in like moving cliffs, her lips arced with a stunning smile, a crescent blade born under a storm.
