“Wait.”

The pair hanging in midair twitched to flee, but Oz called them back, and chains spilled from his sword-guard like iron serpents, circling to stitch the sky shut around them.

“Don’t push it! Even a Demonic Knight can’t kill us for nothing! If that lord asks questions, you won’t walk away clean.”

“Say one more word, and I’ll send your bodies back.”

Oz said it lightly, like dropping a pebble into a still pond, and his eyes held winter-cold disdain as he watched them, the white silhouette’s threat dismissed like fog in sunlight.

“Tell your master not to go overboard. If he can’t stop, I can make him stop. And repeat exactly what you just said to him, then watch his face.”

He paused, as if a wicked idea flickered, and his gaze warmed with schadenfreude. Then he snapped the chains away, and let the two leave like startled birds.

The links slid back into the guard and froze into dull ornament. The crimson blade’s glow bled out, and in a breath it looked ancient—like iron soaked in centuries, a weathered greatsword heavy with dust.

Truth be told, Aphelia wanted to bolt. His strength felt bottomless like a black lake, and she wasn’t at her best. Seeing Oz handle two Titleholders like a man flicking ash only deepened the hollow in her gut.

“My lady, forgive the fright. Now, it’s time we talked about you.”

Oz turned, and the pressure around him ebbed like a tide retreating at dusk. He sheathed the edge, straightened his armor, and addressed Aphelia with a courtly calm that gleamed like polished steel.

“About me? I don’t think I’ve done anything to earn a big shot’s wrath.”

Aphelia stepped back, guard high, the stance a raised shield against a storm. A man who laughed while crushing two Titleholders couldn’t be a good person—yeah, right; that fantasy belongs in brain-dead bestsellers, not on scorched earth. Most writers have never stared down a Titleholder, much less something above.

It’s like a commoner facing a tiger: glance away for a heartbeat, and you’re meat and bone in the grass.

“No need to be so tense. Those two just went too far… ah! Sorry, can’t tell you that. But if a beautiful lady would agree to a date…”

He even made a graceful inviting gesture, as if this ash-choked battlefield were a ballroom, and his “slip” had been a velvet step into the ask.

“I must decline.”

Aphelia shut it down without a ripple, her face clear as ice. Even Oz blinked, puzzled. With looks, bearing, and a fresh victory like that, he could charm a rose with thorns.

But Aphelia had weathered scenes like this in those first two years after she became a woman, when nobles buzzed like flies. Their craft was clumsy next to this Demonic Knight’s, and she’d grown from red-faced refusals to a saint’s smile that sent them away like rain down eaves.

So his request didn’t surprise her. She just wondered if this self-proclaimed Demonic Knight had fried his brain. Look around—after battle, the plains were charcoal. Even if she hadn’t asked out many girls, she knew no sane person picks this place to invite a beautiful woman.

“Ah, ah… sorry, my bad. Can you blame me? Every woman in the imperial capital’s a noble miss, none of them get a strongman’s world, and my foster father won’t stop pushing marriage…”

Oz’s face folded into wounded complaint, and he started counting on his fingers, as if each digit stung with some tragic tale.

Seriously? You’re a Demonic Knight, and you’re venting like a straight-laced fool? I’m a Titleholder; I can hear every word of this ramble!

Aphelia’s temples throbbed as he monologued. In twenty-odd years she’d never met a powerhouse like this.

“Weren’t you going to talk business? Is that it?”

She couldn’t watch him spiral, so she nudged him gently, voice soft to match the gap in power.

“Of course, of course. It’s nothing major.”

At the word “business,” Oz’s face snapped back to solemn, quick as lightning finding ground, and that speed made Aphelia tense, careful not to step on hidden blades.

Her breathing method of the Ancient Martial Flow never paused, flowing steady like a bellows. If she wished, a technique could bloom in a heartbeat, though she had no idea how much it would matter against him.

“I came to give you a small warning. Also, as one of Nero’s representatives…”

“Wait. One of the representatives?!”

Aphelia cut in. If he was only one, then someone else had a hand in the Hydra Plains mess. Who? Zhe? Jasmine? Or that uncle from the clock shop?

Oz read the flicker in her eyes and let it pass like a leaf on water. He smiled and went on.

“…If you go too far, I’m sorry. Even for a woman as lovely as you, I won’t hold back.”

He waved with a weary little sigh, but the iron under velvet showed. He wasn’t as ditzy as he played; he was a man who could cut.

“So… you claim you’re a Demonic Knight…”

She asked it straight. He had said those ambushers weren’t even their master’s “candidate knights.” That birthed two questions.

If Oz called himself a Demonic Knight, was he a formal one? Whose banner did he serve? With power like that, if he were under a crown prince, and if Nero’s side was the standard, then the Hydra Plains incident should’ve been over.

Second, since he compared them to her, she had to be a candidate knight. He hadn’t struck her earlier. That meant she had reason enough for the title, and she hadn’t crossed any lines.

“Seems your doubts don’t stop there. Some harmless answers won’t hurt. Frankly, your master should’ve told you.”

The offhand line carried a thorn meant to pry her from Nero, but Aphelia didn’t bite. Until she saw proof, trusting Nero beat walking a road of suspicion.

Seeing she held her tongue, Oz let it slide with a chuckle.

“The name Demonic Knight belongs to the three knights who swear directly to the Demon King of the Demon World. Naturally, I’m that impressive…”

He launched into a self-portrait that Aphelia’s mind kindly muted. About ten minutes later, her hearing came back.

“…Of course, the crown princes can pick powerhouses as their guardian knights. That tier only counts as candidate knights. If a prince becomes king, candidates bask in the light. Even if they don’t become Demonic Knights, they reap plenty.”

“So they choose with care. Still… you’re already a candidate knight. In strength, you’re not unworthy. But you’ve only just reached Titleholder, right? Nero’s a sly one, pushing a fresh Titleholder to the front…”

Aphelia kept her lips sealed. Now was the time to listen. If Nero had slighted her, she wouldn’t settle it here.

“Even if you won’t say it, I can see it. Your Arcane Power use is still low-tier. Those two small fry were weaker than you. But their control beat yours, so you fell behind.”

Crimson Arcane Power rose in his palm like molten iron cupped in a steady hand. Aphelia’s power tended to spill like mist, yet his stayed tight the instant it left him. He flicked his wrist, and it unraveled into the air like red thread burning away.

“That’s our gap. As a candidate knight, you could serve as my knight-attendant, and step out of this mess…”

“No need. I don’t serve two masters.”

A silver magic circle unfurled under Aphelia’s boots like frost racing over glass, and that was answer enough.