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“Huff… huff… huff…”

The black-haired little girl panted heavily as she ran. Her bare feet were slashed with cuts, large patches of skin worn raw, leaving them battered and bleeding.

Pain shot straight from her soles to her nerves. She gritted her teeth, crying out between ragged breaths.

She desperately wanted to stop. To rest. Just for a moment.

But the Bloodnight Cult pursuers behind gave her no respite.

“That brat’s up ahead! Chase her!”

The shouts sent the little princess scrambling faster.

Suddenly—*whoosh!* Wind blades sliced past. A wall of felled trees blocked her path.

Panicked, Lia rushed to move them. But days of exhaustion, sealed magic, even royal martial arts—none gave her strength. She was powerless.

No choice. She turned to detour.

The instant she pivoted—*shink!* A wind blade slashed her ankle.

“Ow!”

Pain overwhelmed her. She collapsed.

Slender fingers brushed the wound oozing crimson blood. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, dripping onto the soil.

“Hehe… my dear little princess. No escape now, is there?”

Five Bloodnight Cult disciples surrounded her. Lecherous eyes raked over her tattered clothes.

Lia swallowed hard, terror flashing in her eyes. She scooted backward.

“N-no… don’t come closer…”

Her retreat hit the cold bark of a tree.

“Hehe, ‘don’t come closer’? How amusing. If we don’t, you might run again.”

“Monsters lurk out here. Come now—return to the cave with your uncles. We’ll *protect* you.”

Lips licked over furious grins. They advanced.

“No! Stay back!”

She grabbed pebbles, twigs—hurled them weakly. Futile. Not even close to grazing their robes. Less than an egg striking stone.

Dark, bloodstained hands reached for her. Lia steeled herself.

“Don’t move! One step closer—I’ll end it myself!”

She jammed a sharp gravel shard to her throat, voice trembling with final resolve.

“N-no! Wait!”

The disciples froze. Lust vanished from their faces.

A flicker of hope sparked in Lia’s chest.

*—Of course. I’m the bargaining chip. The key to the Imitation Holy Sword. The path to Divine Tier.*

Legends said the Moxili royal line never lacked Divine Tier experts—because the Imitation Holy Sword held remnants of a goddess’s power.

Leaning on the tree, she rose slowly. The shard stayed pressed. A faint streak of blood welled.

The disciples held their breath.

Step by step, she edged back. They mirrored her—afraid she’d die, afraid to let her go.

Distance stretched. *Maybe… just a little farther… to the border…*

Then—one disciple’s eyes widened.

“Ah! Lord Sadom… Understood! He says: alive is all that matters. Missing limbs? Fine. But she *must not escape*!”

“!”

Their faces hardened to ice. Lia’s hand went limp. The gravel dropped.

She ran.

Uneven ground. Scattered stones. One stumble—*thud!*—she fell face-first into muddy earth.

Straining up on thin arms, dirt streaking her cheeks, she looked back. Fear locked her throat.

No escape.

Better to vanish. Free her father. Free her brothers. Let them crush the Bloodnight Cult without burden.

Gritting her teeth, she raised the shard toward her jugular.

“Damn—she’s really doing it!”

“Limbs don’t matter!”

A wind blade shot for her wrist.

Eyes squeezed shut. A whisper escaped her lips:

“Brother Shaya…”

“…Tch. Knew it. Trouble again.”

“Eh?!”

A voice—familiar, yet impossible—brushed her ear.

After stunned shouts, a figure stood between her and death.

Who?

Watery eyes blinked open. A boy in a black cloak. An unknown weapon in hand. His back—her age.

*Who is he? Here to save me? He looks… ordinary…*

But he didn’t turn. His gaze fixed on the cultists.

“Hey. Those outfits… You wouldn’t be the super extra dramatic Bloodnight Cult, would you?”

Casual. Curious. Like spotting a rare beast. The boy—our protagonist, Cang Xiaoxi—slung his unnamed electromagnetic pulse gun on his shoulder, utterly unbothered by their shock.

“Tch. Attack!”

No reply. Only magic.

“Wind blades!”

Mid-Tier energy converged on him.

“Run!” Lia screamed.

Cang Xiaoxi barely glanced her way. Too troublesome to reassure.

“Meh. Test the output.”

*Thud! Thud! Thud!*

Three shots. Wind blades shattered into glittering dust.

“Impossible… Mid-Tier magic—dispelled like that?! What *is* that Arcane Artifact?!”

Murmurs trembled. They stepped back.

Just as they readied stronger spells, he sighed. “Ugh. Can’t even break them one by one? Output’s still off.” He waved the gun. “C’mon! Hit harder! How am I supposed to calibrate like this?”

*Perfect sparring partners,* he thought. *Jikuhir mentioned this monster-worshipping cult. Waste not.*

“Hurry up! Time is money! Hello?!”

“You little brat! Mocking the Bloodnight Cult’s honor?!”

Enraged, they dropped magic. Swords. Daggers. Basic Arcane Artifacts. Charged in.

“Close combat? Fine.”

He stowed the gun into his Spatial Ring. Dropped low. Exploded forward.

They froze mid-lunge.

What followed wasn’t slaughter—it was play.

Their strikes missed or were deflected effortlessly. His? Fast. Precise. Painful—but never lethal. Never unconscious. Every hit landed *exactly* where it hurt most.

Seconds later: five swollen, groaning heaps.

“Who… *is* he…?” Lia whispered, mesmerized.

A boy her age. Barehanded. Five Mid-Tier foes. Even High-Tier experts would struggle.

*Transcendent Tier?*

But her gaze snagged on something else—strands of black hair flashing beneath his hood during movement.

*That hair…*

She pushed up, limping forward—just as battle motion sent his hood flying.

“Eh?! Broth—Brother Shaya…?!”

Shock. Then overwhelming warmth flooded her chest.

Slender fingers flew to her parted lips. Tears streamed down her temples.

“He’s alive… Brother Shaya is *alive*…”

Pain forgotten, she hopped toward him—just as he finished the last foe.

Arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Voice trembling with joy:

“Brother Shaya… I’m so… so glad… You’re alive… Truly… so glad…”