It wasn’t hard to see: this princess of the Demon World carried guilt like a stone in her chest and respect like incense smoke for the fallen Demonic Knights, and Aphelia’s view shifted like a cloud opening.
She didn’t share that creed, like flint and water, yet it tugged at her mind like a low tide.
“Every time I come up here, feelings surge like spring flood, so please forgive me, Miss Aphelia.”
“No harm done. Warriors like that deserve everyone’s respect, enemy or ally, like graves under the same moon.”
Fenrir’s smile was a pale dawn, brief and cool; she nodded and led them on like a guide through mist.
They’d barely gone a hundred meters when daylight cracked the fog like glass, and a patrol of black-armored knights loomed like ravens on snow.
Seeing Fenrir at the front, the knights showed no reverence, like ice unmoved by sun; blades flashed out and kissed their throats like cold rain.
“The mountain’s sealed!” the lead knight barked like a thunderclap. “State your identities!”
Aphelia’s eyes slid to Fenrir like a quiet question, cool before action; Fenrir only sighed like wind in old eaves, then closed her eyes.
“Who gave you this nerve?” Her eyes opened gold, like twin suns; dragon might crashed out like a falling cliff, and her voice cut like sleet.
That killing intent was whetstone and blood, a blade tempered on battlefields; her presence, no less than Violet’s, rose like heat from iron.
Aphelia’s fingers itched, then stilled like a drawn bow; she chose to watch, amused as a cat under eaves at the Dragon Princess’s hand.
The knights had expected fangs; one whipped the blade from Aphelia’s neck and, like a firefly snuffed, drove it straight into his own heart.
Squelch—blood sprayed like red plum blossoms on snow, and the black-armored knight sneered as he toppled like a felled pillar.
“Damn traitor, you killed our comrade!” His voice carried more thrill than rage, like drums before a charge; a crystal shattered in his fist like ice.
Arcane Power surged like tidewater in a storm, and Aphelia didn’t lift a hand; her gaze stayed cold as winter stars, waiting the turn.
Fenrir snorted like a spark in oil; sleeves burst like ash, black scales climbed her arms like night vines, and her fist hammered forward.
Air seized like frozen lake-water; the knight’s breastplate exploded like pottery, and a savage hole gaped where the blow fell like a crater.
Black Arcane Power rose around Fenrir like smoke, curled horns pried through her hair like serpents; she glanced at Aphelia with rain-soft apology.
“Forgive me, Miss Aphelia, for the trouble you had to see.”
“Lead on.” Aphelia’s laugh was thin as a knife-edge, and the word stepped out like frost; Fenrir blinked, then masked it like a veil.
Aphelia moved too; one punch sent the “hostage-taker” flying like a broken kite, and she didn’t even breathe hard, light as falling petals.
Fenrir’s throat hitched like a caught string, and Aphelia’s heart cooled like ink; the pattern clicked, neat as beads on a thread.
This Dragon Princess had brought her here and kept repeating the mountain wasn’t ready, like a bell rung twice; the why now rang clear.
With permission given, Fenrir strode to the fore like a hawk; she checked back every three steps like a skittish doe, then quickened ahead.
They were all strong, their strides like drumbeats; Aphelia’s senses were damped like silk in rain, yet true north still pricked like a needle.
She waited, patient as stone, to see what trick this “polite, forced-to-retaliate” Fenrir would play like a card up her sleeve.
Rows of black tents unfurled like a night sea, and black-armored knights poured in like surf; every lance leveled at Fenrir like a forest of thorns.
Their charge lined true like geese in flight; they were ready, iron to iron, like snow-sheathed pines in storm.
“Imperial Guard Knights, do you mean to rebel?!” Fenrir’s vast wings snapped wide like storm-sails, flinging wind like a brewing typhoon.
Her pressure spread invisible as heat haze, yet it shoved the ranks a step back like a wave; her dragon-roar shook horses like thunder under hooves.
A heavy-armored knight in their center roared like a furnace, raised his lance like a banner, and met Fenrir’s might without flinching like an anvil.
“Demon World traitor! You kill soldiers in the garrison—do you still see His Majesty at all?” His shout struck like a thrown stone.
The words rang, and the ranks found their breath like embers fanned; they shouted “Kill!” in a tide and pushed forward against her gale.
“Hah! So it’s you, Sir,” Fenrir’s laugh cracked like lightning. “You failed to impeach me then, and now you slap on ‘rebel’ like a borrowed hat.”
“Don’t listen to this traitor!” the heavy knight cut in like an axe. “By Demon World law, traitors are beheaded! Lancemen, throw!”
The formation split like a mouth; a storm of lances howled through air like sleet, all of them aimed to skewer Fenrir where she stood.
They didn’t spare Aphelia or Koko; the steel rain fell blind, like hail that never asks a name.
A vein jumped at Fenrir’s temple like a plucked string; black Arcane Power thickened like tar, and her golden eyes burned like twin braziers.
Her body shook as if a buried volcano stirred; something within boiled like a sealed kettle.
Before she could strike, the lunging lances vanished like snow in sun, and pure white light opened beside her like a lily.
“Don’t get excited, Miss Fenrir.” The voice fell warm as spring rain, and the silver-white figure stood before the knights like a born star.
Pure-white Aether trickled out like a brook, then spread through the black-armored ranks like dew; this was a True God’s breeze, soft and unseen.
Only Koko at Aphelia’s side felt the edge like a cold petal; she looked at the lead knight with pity like a candle before wind.
The heavy knight stared at the white figure and reached with thought like a probing hand; Aphelia returned no Arcane ripple, calm as a clear pond.
Confidence budded like weed through stone; he sneered, deciding the disappearing lances were Fenrir’s trick, not the woman’s hand.
He raised his blade and roared for a charge like a bull; he missed the small motion of Aphelia’s hand, light as dust.
“We don’t need to reason with them.” Her words dropped like a gavel, and the gentle Aether surged like a floodgate torn open.
The knights shuddered as if struck by winter; their warhorses collapsed boneless like ropes cut, and the line melted into a heap like wax.
Doom finally touched the leader like a shadow; he tried to kick free, but gravity clenched him like iron bands.
He howled at an unseen Reaper like a wolf at moon, swinging his blade at nothing but fear; before a True God’s power, all turns to mist.
The roar snapped off like a wick, and only a blur of meat remained like thrown offal; the whole line choked silent like throats pinched shut.
Their peak fury deflated like a punctured drum; heads turned to the pure-white figure before them, godlike as frost at dawn.
“I’ve seen your kind too often,” Aphelia said, voice steady as a drawn bow. “I don’t want to keep killing trash. Your leader fell here.”
“Any more objections, and I’ll kill.” The slender body held the sky like a pillar; authority rang like a bell over winter fields.
But a few stubborn thorns refused the wind; they screamed themselves raw like crows and broke from the line alone, blades like cleavers slashing for Aphelia.
