A brand-new defection plan targeting the Hakkesshu's "fashion icon" rapidly took shape in his mind.
Paris. Night. The banks of the Seine.
Shermie strolled along carrying several shopping bags emblazoned with luxury brand logos, humming a little tune and walking with a model's sway as she enjoyed the romantic city's nightscape.
She had beautiful long pink hair that covered her eyes, and a figure hot enough to make any man's nose bleed.
Her tight top and ultra-short skirt outlined her perfect S-curve to devastating effect.
She was like a fairy who'd stepped off a fashion magazine cover—one brimming with allure and dangerous charm.
However, just as she reached a secluded alley entrance, several street thugs—obviously up to no good—surrounded her while whistling.
"Hey there, little lady, all alone? Bought so many nice things—you wouldn't mind sharing with your big brothers, would you?" The lead thug, covered in tattoos, reached toward her with a lecherous grin and grabby hands.
Shermie stopped walking. Beneath the long hair covering her eyes, her lips curved into a cold, disdainful arc.
A few mere mortals daring to act up in front of her, the "Heavenly King of the Raging Lightning"?
She was just about to raise her hand and give these idiots who didn't know death a taste of her "Lightning Fist"—show them what "electroshock therapy" really felt like.
But just then, a lazy voice descended from above, interrupting her pre-cast animation.
"Hey, gentlemen. In broad daylight... oh wait, under this dark and windy night—isn't bullying a defenseless young woman a bit unsportsmanlike?"
Everyone looked toward the voice. There, leaning casually against the alley wall, was an Asian man in an exquisitely tailored suit, so devastatingly handsome it was almost criminal, watching them with an amused expression.
It was Cloud.
"Who the hell are you, punk? Looking to play hero? Got a death wish?" The thug had clearly been emboldened by alcohol and immediately started cursing at Cloud.
"Sigh, young people these days are so hot-headed." Cloud shook his head with a sigh. "I was hoping to reason with you. Looks like I'll have to use physical methods to help you cool down."
The moment his words fell, he left only an afterimage where he'd stood.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
Before the thugs could react, they felt like they'd been hit by a speeding dump truck. One by one, they went flying with pathetic screams, tracing perfect parabolas through the air.
Finally—splash—they landed in neat formation in the nearby Seine, sending up moderately-sized sprays of water.
The whole process was smooth as silk, so fast that Shermie couldn't even track his movements.
Cloud dusted off his hands—despite there being nothing on them—and walked up to the still-stunned Shermie, flashing what he considered his most gentle, most charming "warm guy" smile.
"Are you alright, beautiful lady? Were you frightened by those tasteless ruffians?"
Shermie looked at this man who'd appeared out of nowhere and "rescued" her in such an overwhelming fashion. Beneath the long hair covering her eyes, those beautiful pupils flickered with wariness and... interest.
She had a deep impression of Cloud. Of course she knew he was the King of Fighters, and she could sense that this man was strong.
Strong... unfathomably so.
She also knew he was quite close with her bestie Mature. Shermie had considerable interest in Cloud herself.
Over the next few days, Cloud naturally attached himself to Shermie's side in the role of "flower guardian."
He didn't rush to reveal his true purpose, nor did he mention anything about "Orochi" or the "Hakkesshu."
Instead, he transformed into the ultimate "tall, rich, and handsome" specimen, giving Shermie a taste of what "whale-tier spending" really meant.
He would book out entire Michelin three-star restaurants just to share a romantic candlelit dinner with her.
He would leverage his wealth to seat her in the front-row VIP section at Paris Fashion Week, chatting casually with the world's top fashion icons.
He even flew her on his private jet to ski atop the Alps, or to watch sunsets on a private Mediterranean island.
Under Cloud's textbook-level combination attack of "money power + gentle attentiveness," even Shermie—this worldly "mature beauty" who'd seen it all—gradually let down her guard.
She found herself... rather enjoying the feeling of spending time with this mysterious and interesting man.
Finally, on a star-studded night, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, Cloud decided the time was ripe.
"Shermie." He looked at this woman beside him, bathed in moonlight and beautiful as a fairy, and suddenly asked, "Have you... ever lived for yourself?"
Shermie froze, not understanding why he'd suddenly ask this.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is..." Cloud's gaze grew profound, "Is everything you've done really what you wanted to do? Or are you just... following some nebulous mission?"
Shermie's heart sank heavily.
She knew this man was finally about to reveal his true face.
"I don't know what you're talking about." She denied reflexively.
"You don't?" Cloud smiled. "Shermie, Heavenly King of the Raging Lightning, one of Orochi's Hakkesshu, one of the Four Heavenly Kings. Responsible for clearing all obstacles for Orochi's descent. Tell me—are you satisfied with that script?"
Shermie's expression instantly turned icy. A wild, violent lightning force began dancing at her fingertips.
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Me?" Cloud shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm just a passerby who can't stand watching talented, beautiful, powerful young people like yourselves get used as pawns by some ancient relic who hasn't bathed in millennia."
He looked at Shermie, his tone filled with pity. "Honestly, Shermie, I think you're selling yourself short."
...
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