I lifted the pudao.
The weight met my hands without resistance—settling into my grip like it had always belonged there. No adjustment needed. No testing. The balance held steady from the first moment, the shaft aligned naturally with my stance.
The blade caught what little light filtered through the canopy.
Not bright.
A dull gleam that shifted as the leaves above moved, breaking and reforming across its surface in uneven fragments.
Across the clearing, the oni adjusted his grip.
The club shifted in his hands, angled slightly lower. His shoulders rolled forward, just enough to change the line of his body.
He leaned in.
Matching me.
"Do you have a death wish."
Miss Alvie's hand landed on my shoulder before I could step.
The pressure wasn't heavy.
It didn't need to be.
It stopped everything.
Not the movement itself—but the intention behind it. Like something had reached past muscle and caught the decision before it could become action.
"What."
The word came out short.
The answer felt obvious.
Close the distance.
End it.
"We have some things to discuss afterwards. For now, put that away and use that spear of yours."
Her voice stayed level.
No urgency.
No emphasis.
The instruction sat there, absolute.
The air shifted.
The oni moved.
The club came down.
Fast.
Too fast.
The motion cut through the space above us, dragging air with it. The displacement hit my chest before the weapon did—pressure slamming into me, compressing breath for a split second.
Something met it.
Not cleanly.
Not with a sharp impact.
It pressed.
Force against force, neither yielding fully, the space between them resisting instead of breaking.
I lowered the pudao.
Not consciously.
My grip loosened, the weapon dipping out of line as something in me recognized the correction before I argued it.
Now—
I was close.
Too close.
The distance between us had collapsed somewhere in the exchange. I hadn't tracked it, but it was gone now. The oni stood within reach, his presence filling the space in a way that pushed everything else outward.
Heat rolled off him.
Not flame.
Not yet.
A dense warmth that pressed against my skin, wrong against the cooling air Miss Alvie had forced into the clearing.
"Interesting."
His voice carried less weight this time.
More focus.
Then he moved.
Not toward me.
Back.
His form twisted.
Not smoothly.
It didn't transition—it folded. Flesh compressed, stretched, shifted in ways that didn't follow structure. The red dulled. The horns receded, pulling inward with a wet, tightening motion.
Mass changed.
Redistributed.
Before me stood a man.
A monk.
Robes clung to his body, stained unevenly—dark patches layered over each other, some dried into the fabric, others still fresh enough to hold a dull sheen. The kanabō remained in his hands.
Unchanged.
"This should be able to get through to you."
He laughed.
Then he charged.
The distance vanished.
His feet left the ground, body lifting into the strike. The weapon rose above him, angled to fall with full weight behind it.
For a second—
I didn't move.
The spear was in my hands.
I knew that.
Felt it.
But my body stalled, caught between recognition and contradiction. The image in front of me didn't settle into anything I could respond to fast enough.
The air tightened.
Then—
"Squelch."
The sound broke through everything else.
Wet.
Final.
The spear had already moved.
I hadn't felt the decision.
It existed mid-action—embedded through his chest, the shaft vibrating faintly from the force that had driven it there.
Then—
"Squelch."
Another strike.
Angle adjusted.
Depth increased.
"Squelch."
Again.
Each thrust landed clean.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
His body jerked mid-air, momentum breaking apart before it could complete. The charge collapsed into fragments of movement that no longer connected.
He hit the ground.
Hard.
The impact carried weight.
But it didn't end him.
The spear's tip—
Shifted.
Red spread across it, not from blood.
Heat.
The metal softened at the edges, definition blurring as it began to give under temperature that didn't belong to it. The shaft remained embedded, holding position even as the tip changed.
"Mage… no… cultivator."
His voice dragged through the words.
The monk's body folded inward.
Not falling.
Collapsing into itself.
Flesh tore as it reversed, stretching back into the oni's form. Skin reddened again, horns forcing outward with a wet, splitting sound that carried further than it should have.
He pushed up.
One knee against the ground.
Weight shifting back into something larger.
Not finished.
Not close.
Heat gathered.
I felt it before I saw it.
Pressure building in his chest, the air around him tightening in response.
Then—
He exhaled.
Flame.
It burst outward in a wide wave, not directed, not controlled—just overwhelming. Fire filled the space between us, devouring the cold Miss Alvie had created. Snow flash-boiled instantly where it met the heat, steam rising in sharp bursts before dissolving.
The temperature snapped back.
Up.
Uneven.
Violent.
I stepped back half a pace.
Not retreat.
Adjustment.
He was slower now.
It showed.
His movements lost precision, weight shifting a fraction too late. His breathing came heavier, chest expanding unevenly. Blood—darker than it should be—ran along his side, dripping into the already ruined ground.
Something settled in my mind.
Clear.
This is more than getting rid of an ogre.
The realization didn't bring fear.
Just alignment.
"Am I being schooled."
The words slipped out between breaths.
Not complaint.
Observation.
Miss Alvie didn't respond.
She didn't move.
Didn't intervene.
That—
Was the answer.
"You really are a terrible teacher."
The statement left me without force.
Just placed.
Then I moved.
The spear responded immediately.
Not like an object.
Like extension.
My step carried me forward, foot finding stable ground between scorched patches and slick soil. My weight shifted cleanly, body aligning with the motion before the strike completed.
Thrust.
"Squelch."
The blade drove into his side, deeper than before.
Withdraw.
The resistance gave way with a wet pull.
Turn.
Angle changed.
Strike again.
"Squelch."
His reaction lagged.
Muscles tightened too late. His body tried to adjust, but the timing didn't hold.
I circled.
Each step placed carefully, avoiding uneven ground without breaking rhythm. The clearing narrowed—not physically, but in focus. Everything outside him faded.
Another strike.
Then another.
Each from a different direction.
Each forcing his body to respond to too many points at once.
He sagged.
Still on one knee.
Still upright.
Refusing to fall.
The ground beneath us had changed completely. Burned earth, torn patches, darkened soil where blood had soaked in. The surface no longer behaved predictably—it shifted under pressure, uneven, unstable.
His blood ran into it.
Merged with it.
Color losing distinction.
"If it can be fought from a distance, do so."
Miss Alvie stepped forward.
"You are not an armoured duelist."
Her voice cut through the rhythm.
"Twang"
Clean.
Direct.
Before she reached him—
His head came off.
No build.
No drawn motion.
Just—
Severed.
The body followed a second later, collapsing as the structure finally failed. Weight dropped into the ground with a dull finality that didn't echo.
Silence settled.
Not complete.
But heavy.
I didn't move.
The spear remained in my hands.
Its surface cooled gradually, the faint glow at the tip fading back into solid metal. My grip loosened slightly as sensation returned in small increments.
My breathing slowed.
Each inhale deeper.
Each exhale longer.
The sharp edge dulled.
Not gone.
Just reduced.
I stepped forward.
Then stopped.
A drop of blood hung in the air.
Still.
Suspended without movement.
I focused.
There—
Wires.
Thin.
Almost invisible.
They stretched across the clearing in uneven lines, catching light only at certain angles. Some ran between trees. Others hovered just above the ground, positioned where movement would intersect them.
"When…"
The thought didn't finish.
It didn't need to.
They had always been there.
I just hadn't seen them.
"Do you want his weapon."
Miss Alvie's voice came from behind me.
She was already moving.
Fire spread from her in controlled arcs, low and precise. It moved across the ground without spreading wildly, consuming what needed to be removed while leaving everything else untouched. The flames followed intention, not fuel.
"Hm, no."
My voice sounded distant.
The kanabō lay where it had fallen.
Heavy.
Spiked.
Covered in what remained of its use.
I didn't want it.
That wasn't what I was looking for.
"Release one of the pigeons."
I turned.
The path back felt longer.
My vision narrowed slightly, edges softening as my focus pulled inward. The sound of my own heartbeat filled the space in my ears, steady and insistent, pushing everything else further away.
Step.
The ground responded.
Step.
Uneven, but manageable.
Step.
The cage came into view.
The pigeons shifted as I approached, movement transferring through the bars in small, restless motions.
I reached for the latch.
My fingers felt slower.
Delayed.
But they worked.
The door opened.
One bird stepped forward.
Paused.
Then launched.
Wings cut through the air in sharp beats as it climbed upward. I followed it with my eyes as it pushed through the layers of branches, rising toward open sky.
The light had changed.
The sun had lowered, stretching color across the horizon. Orange and yellow bled into each other, softening as they spread.
Rìluò.
The sinking sun.
I stood there a moment longer than necessary.
Then turned back.
Miss Alvie was already returning.
The clearing behind her looked different now. Quieter. Cleaner. As if the violence had been folded inward instead of erased.
I exhaled.
The breath felt deeper.
Complete.
Then—
Something shifted.
Low.
Subtle.
A pull.
"Ah."
The sound left me before I understood it.
I looked down.
"…I am bleeding."
The words came slowly.
Delayed.
My hand moved to my abdomen.
Warm.
Wet.
The sensation registered fully now, spreading outward in a dull, persistent pressure.
"Red."
Not alarm.
Just—
Recognition.