Watching the smiling mascot squeeze in right behind the crying one—back pressed to chest, forming a straight line—a wave of delight bloomed in my chest.
“Bloodstrike Assault!”
No one was around, so I shouted the skill name at the top of my lungs. The surging blood power erupted from my back, twisting into a pair of sharp crimson wings that lunged forward.
Riiip!
Just as planned, the two tightly packed mascots were impaled straight through. After a faint hissing of leaking air, two shredded plastic suits lay crumpled on the ground.
“Phew. Mission accomplished.”
Fatigue and weakness slowly washed over me. Leaning against the wall, I shuffled step by step out of the alley.
“Hey~~ Hey~~~”
The moment I stepped out, a voice called nearby. I looked up—wait, wasn’t that the so-called “Master” who’d been swindling patients with fake fortune-telling back in the ward?
My face paled. Oh no—if he’d been close by… did he just hear me shouting that cringey skill name like a total chuunibyou?
Well, it’s explainable! Everyone knows you *have* to yell the skill name for damage to register…
Still scrambling for an excuse, I saw the man’s expression twist urgently. “Run! Watch out!” he yelled, jabbing a finger behind me.
Behind me?!
Trembling, I turned. A cold sweat instantly soaked my back. Less than two steps away stood a mascot with a sorrowful face painted on its mask.
The two discarded plastic suits still lay motionless on the ground—no resurrection. I’d calculated everything: my limits, the enemies’ strength, their patterns, every tiny detail… yet missed the most critical factor.
Not two.
Three.
Weakened, I moved slower than the mascot. Its reach stretched far beyond two steps.
Its mournful gaze held me, as if mourning at a funeral—grieving, lost.
Then it reached out.
Whoosh—!
An object whizzed past my ear and *thwacked* the mascot square on the head. It staggered back, arms swiping empty air.
Only then did I see it: a pair of size-43 blue summer flip-flops.
“Hey, young man—oops, young lady! Get out here!”
The so-called Master yanked me from the alley mouth. He raised a large hospital saline bottle and smashed it onto the sorrowful mascot’s forehead.
Crash!
He stepped back, flicked a lighter, and tossed it.
Boom!
The clear liquid splashed across the mascot ignited instantly, engulfing it in flames. Thick black smoke rose as it burned down to toxic ash.
I blinked. “Was that… alcohol?”
“Pure alcohol won’t hurt spirits, kid,” he said, slipping his flip-flops back on. “Medium-grade holy water mixed with industrial alcohol—perfect ratio. Works like a charm.” He offered a wry smile. “Well… homemade substitute. Can’t exactly get high-grade holy water these days.”
I barely registered the rarity. My focus locked elsewhere. “What about your peach wood sword? Why not use a magical artifact?”
I’d misjudged him. He wasn’t just a scammer—he was skilled. My bad for judging by looks. Sorry.
“Magical artifact? Peach wood sword?” He scratched his head. “Just a polished pear-wood prop. And c’mon—magical artifacts? Total scam.”
“…”
I take back that sorry. *Sorry.* Judging by looks was 100% justified.
Yeah, right. Since when does a Taoist master fight spirits with a holy-water cocktail? The vibe was *so* off.
“But hey,” he gave me a thumbs-up, “that move of yours? Solid. And the name? *Chef’s kiss.*”
“Shut up!”
Don’t say the name! Aaah—so embarrassing!!
Calm down. Think. Scammer or not, his moves marked him as an insider. Maybe he knew things An Li refused to tell me.
“Uncle… De,” I stammered, recalling his hospital introduction. “I have some questions.”
“Later.”
Uncle De hastily packed his gear. “Crowd’s coming. We leave. Now.”
I hesitated. “I… can’t move easily right now.”
I kept it vague—guard up.
He saw right through me. “Drained from the move, huh? Wait.” He scanned the street, eyes lighting up at something abandoned by a passerby.
I followed his gaze. My face burned crimson.
“Um… any other option…?”
“Nope,” he shrugged. “Or you wanna stay and check into the hospital *right here*, young lady?”
“…”
