Fear ran cold along the border, and Agnes hid like a wind-blown leaf.

She’d once dreamed of atoning for the Gale clan survivors. Ordered to slaughter the weak, hope guttered like a snuffed lantern. She chose death as payment.

“Is this my one chance to atone?”

Agnes stared at her pale hands, pupils blurring like ink in rain. A small black snake lay cold on her white throat, a strip of night.

If anyone saw her face then, they’d recoil as if from thorns, and feel a keep-away chill like a winter wall.

“Miss Agnes, are you ready?”

Senora’s voice slipped in from outside the canvas like wind on a dull drum, drawing a sigh from Agnes’s tight brow.

“Miss Senora, is there only this one set?”

Agnes wasn’t picky by nature, a stone in a stream rather than a peacock on parade.

But… what was this outfit?

Was this really for her? A skirt light as blown silk, floating like a cloud?

The dress in her grip glittered with lace, petals on petals. Its royal-blue tone was calm as deep water, but a full-on gown still clashed like oil with fire.

Senora looked troubled, like a trader counting thin coins. In her picture, Agnes was a capable lady with iron under velvet. Even on the border, this dress was a hard-won prize wrestled from a caravan. Was the lady this choosy?

Agnes’s next words scattered that thought like sparrows and even made Senora’s lips curl into a crescent moon.

“I’m a warrior. How am I supposed to fight in a skirt that floats like smoke?”

Her exasperated roar rolled out of the tent like a drumbeat. Senora’s smile deepened like ripples, but worry pooled too; she couldn’t fetch a man’s suit for a guest.

“Then get me your gear, Miss Senora.”

That was Agnes’s biggest compromise, a bridge thrown over a ravine. She would not step into that airy dress, but Senora’s combat-leaning attire was a road she could walk.

Senora finally let the laugh break like a snapped string and left with it, which left Agnes alone in the tent, stewing like tea left too long.

Aside from clothes, another thought pricked her like a thorn. The “Jasmine” who came with her still hadn’t shown, a missing star in a thin sky.

Soon, dressed in Senora’s outfit, Agnes and Senora arrived at “Jasmine’s” tent, footsteps raising dust like shy moths.

Senora’s clothes hung large on Agnes, draping like a cloak on a smaller tree—height was one issue, curves another, two measures on different scales.

Agnes had been a man once; she wore indifference like armor. She pinched the cloth here and there, then strode in like a blade sliding through a curtain.

“What is it? I’ve got nothing worth saying.”

“Jasmine” lay on a heap of hay, eyes closed like calm ponds, hands pillowing her head, enjoying the ease like a cat in sun—nothing of the old lady-like glaze.

No one answered, so she opened her eyes, sharp as a bird’s flick.

“Jasmine-jie, let’s go.”

Agnes smiled, hand extended like a spring branch.

“Go where?”

“Jasmine’s” gaze held surprise, clear as frost. Without Nero’s chains, she held no itch to clash with Agnes.

Truth was, the reason “Jasmine” had risked her life against peak-Agnes was the unequal brand Nero burned on her skin, a leash like iron.

Compared to Agnes’s contract, hers was worse, a one-sided storm—Nero’s complete control. If “Jasmine” didn’t fight, Nero would drain her dry like a pressed grape, to fuel his own strength.

That contract was erased in their battle, a surge of Arcane Power like thunder through stone. Agnes felt it like heat on her face.

Better to keep “Jasmine” close than leave a spark in dry grass; if she tried anything, Agnes could smother it like a palm over flame.

“To the capital of the Kaelan Empire—Utopia.”

Agnes unclasped the handcuffs on “Jasmine’s” wrists with ease, like lifting twine, and smiled like dawn breaking.

“Give me a reason.”

“Jasmine” wasn’t swayed by cheap warmth; once burned, twice wary, like a fox nosing a trap. She wouldn’t be fooled again.

“Mm… I’m about to make it big. Be my strategist, Jasmine-jie?”

“No.”

The refusal was clean as a blade, which left Agnes blinking like a deer in brush.

She thought a moment, then tried another path like a ferry finding a gentler bank.

“Right now you don’t have anywhere to go. Call it paying back the time I saved you.”

Facing “Jasmine,” Agnes chose blunt honesty, a stone dropped in clear water, rather than tricks that sour the tongue.

“Fine. It’s a reason that holds together—barely.”

“Jasmine” considered like a clock counting beats, then took Agnes’s hand and rose like a reed in wind. Agreement, in practice if not in poetry.

“In that case, follow me. We’ll take a carriage outside the camp.”

Senora lifted the tent flap like a curtain and beckoned, voice steady as a staff.

“Yo-ho, already picked up a lackey?”

“Jasmine” looked at Senora with cold eyes like winter glass, the opposite of the warmer look she’d given Agnes.

“We can explain on the carriage.”

Agnes linked arms with “Jasmine,” smiling, helpless as rain on stone, and nudged her toward the light like guiding a wayward goat.

“Jasmine” wore reluctance like a wrinkled sleeve, but in the end she let herself be half-pushed, half-led, and trailed them toward the carriage, footsteps like dim bells.

“By the way, you need to promise me—”

“So you accepted an invitation from that knight and you’re actually going?”

“Jasmine” stared at Agnes, disbelief boiling like water under a lid.

In her memory, Agnes was sharp and cautious, a fox that checked every trap. Would she really go meet a stranger because of an invitation like a feathered card?

What a joke. Had this girl gone soft at a handsome face, mind falling like petals in spring?

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it sounds rude as sand in teeth.”

Senora shot a look at “Jasmine,” who was pillowed on Agnes’s thigh like a lazy cat. She received only a bored glance, a chill flick like a fan.

Senora felt annoyance flare like a match, then smothered it like ash. She had used small tricks to scare them earlier, but now “Jasmine” clung to a guest’s thigh—no, used it as a pillow. There was nothing useful she could do.

Agnes didn’t stop it, either. She watched the window, eyes drifting like clouds, and idly teased “Jasmine’s” hair like wind through grass. Outside of asking about the road, she said nothing, her silence a pond.

“Jasmine-jie, any other requests?”

At last, whether her thigh had gone numb like a frozen branch or she’d tired of that smug posture, Agnes spoke, voice light as a ripple.

“Mm, sure, but I haven’t decided. Save it for Utopia. Let me sleep.”

With that, “Jasmine” buried her face in Agnes’s belly like a warm bird seeking nest, pointedly refusing to look at Senora.

Agnes could only shrug, shoulders lifting like small waves, and offer Senora a sorry smile, apology thin as breath.

“Sorry…”

Senora caught the whispered shape of the word like a moth in light. It soothed her like cool tea, and curiosity rose like smoke about the bond between these two.

They didn’t look alike; even their hair told different stories—one gold like ripe wheat, one black like inked night. What parents make such a pair? Even if they were adopted sisters, Agnes didn’t treat “Jasmine” like kin; the warmth felt different, like wine and water.

Agnes’s features looked mixed, a bridge between shores, but “Jasmine” had the face of the East, clean lines like calligraphy. That alone said plenty.

Senora opened her mouth to ask, lips parting like a shell’s edge, then froze. In a blink, her body flashed to Agnes’s side like a hawk diving, and she tackled Agnes and “Jasmine” to the carriage floor.

“What—”

“Ambush!”

Her shout was still forming when a feathered arrow punched through the window like a hornet. Then many arrows, a black rain, filled Agnes’s pupils like a storm of needles.

“Lionheart Style!”

“Lionheart Style!”

Agnes and “Jasmine” cried in tandem, voices sharp as clashing steel, and shoved Senora off them like rolling stones.

“Shockwave!”

The arrows, a swarm like locusts, snapped midair like brittle twigs. With Agnes and “Jasmine” at the center, an invisible force rippled out like a gong, and dead things around them shattered like clay pots.

With the first volley came men from the trees, long blades in hand, iron masks glinting like dull moons. From both flanks, they poured out like wolves—no fewer than a hundred.

“This is trouble.”

Agnes frowned, complaint curling like smoke, but black element sheathed her fists like inked gloves, and flames wrapped her feet like hungry foxes.

She was set to break through like a ram under a banner.

“Jasmine” cut her a glance, cool as ice on stone. She flexed her hands in the air like plucking strings; two giant fans of ice formed, crisp as winter leaves, no worse than Agnes’s Bracer Gauntlets.

Senora stared, surprise striking like a bell.

“Are they… trained under the same master?”

The circle tightened like a noose, and she dropped the question like a stone. She pulled the dagger from her belt, held it across her chest like a narrow shield.

“Don’t slow me down, Jasmine-jie!”

On the last syllable, Agnes vanished like a flicker. The next breath, her twin fists hammered a soldier’s chest like thunder, and sent him flying like a kite cut loose.

“Naturally.”

“Jasmine” refused to trail behind; her twin fans traced arcs like silver moons. Her steps were light as lotus on water, a dance that wove through steel. Blades parted like reeds, and soldiers toppled like felled wheat.

One against many, they held a squad like two storms, reasons etched by need and fate.

They had done it more than once, for reasons layered like rings in wood. Agnes especially had played musou in demon ranks, forced to carve paths like a scythe through grass.

Draw back, strike. Draw back, strike.

Agnes used those two motions, cut and clean as calligraphy strokes, and turned the yard before her into a forbidden zone like a circle of fire. Any who stepped in were punched to powder, bodies bursting like overripe fruit.

Yes—powder.

They broke apart like clay smashed on stone.

“She’s strong. Scarily strong.”

Senora stood atop the wrecked carriage, spine straight like a lance, dropping a rushing soldier with a casual flick like swatting a fly, and studied Agnes’s form like an apprentice near a kiln.

The next scene pushed her estimate higher, a tide rising another notch, wide as a shore.

Among demons, seven tiers marked strength like steps on a ziggurat: Guardian, Noble, Knight, Commander, Personal Guard, Half Demon King, Demon King. These soldiers felt at least Knight, their breath steady like trained horses.

So then—someone besieged by six Knights, still calm as still water, and killing them all at once like lightning—what level was that?