The upper-level food court of Azul Spira buzzed with a cheerful, midday energy. Sunlight streamed through the high, arched glass ceiling, illuminating the vibrant scene below—a tapestry woven from the bright colors of tourist attire, the elegant whites and blues of local Spican garb, and the rich aromas of a hundred different cuisines sizzling and simmering from the surrounding stalls. The air hummed with the cheerful chatter of diners, the rhythmic clang of cooking utensils, and the distant, melodic strains of a street musician’s lute, all blending into the unique, lively symphony of the city.

  In the heart of this bustling scene, seated at a small, wrought-iron table overlooking one of the main canals, Raito was in heaven. Before him sat a steaming plate of Chef Lorenzo’s special pasta—a generous portion of perfectly al dente noodles tossed in a creamy, herb-flecked sauce, studded with plump, sea-sweet shrimp and crowned with a delicate shaving of sharp, aged cheese. He twirled a forkful with the focused intensity of a scholar deciphering an ancient text, brought it to his lips, and closed his eyes in pure, unadulterated bliss. “Mmmph,” the sound was a low, appreciative hum, a testament to culinary perfection.

  Across from him, however, the mood was decidedly less blissful. Yukari sat slumped in her chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a fierce pout etched onto her features. Her own plate of pasta, identical to Raito’s, sat untouched, the steam rising from it in a lonely, forgotten wisp. She wasn’t looking at the food. She wasn’t looking at the breathtaking view of the canal gondolas gliding silently below. Her gaze was fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance, her silver eyes narrowed into icy slits, radiating waves of pure, concentrated irritation.

  “What’s wrong?” Raito asked between mouthfuls, his voice slightly muffled but full of a genuine, if slightly oblivious, concern. He gestured towards her untouched plate with his fork. “You’ve barely touched your food. Not enjoying the taste?”

  Yukari’s head snapped towards him, her glare momentarily breaking through her pouting facade. “This is good,” she admitted grudgingly, the words almost physically painful for her to utter in her current state. She poked at a shrimp with her fork, her earlier appetite completely overshadowed by a simmering, indignant fury. “But how did that rumor spread so fast?” she grumbled, her voice a low, anguished thing. “It’s only been a few days!”

  “Oh, that rumor,” Raito said, and then he giggled. It wasn't a malicious sound, more a quiet, helpless bubble of amusement that escaped before he could stop it. The memory of their disastrous, yet somehow successful, attempt to order lunch just a few minutes prior was still fresh, vivid, and utterly, undeniably ridiculous.

  They had followed the guard’s enthusiastic recommendation, their own excitement building with every step. Pasta. A local specialty. Their first real taste of Spican cuisine, untainted by explosions or angry chefs. It was the perfect prelude to the afternoon’s main event: the author signings. ‘Food first,’ they had promised each other, a solemn vow made in the face of literary temptation.

  They found the stall easily enough, tucked away in a slightly quieter corner of the bustling food court. A simple, elegant sign proclaimed ‘Lorenzo’s Pasta – A Taste of the Sea’s Embrace!’ Behind the counter, a man who could only be Chef Lorenzo himself moved with the practiced, efficient grace of a master. He was humming a cheerful tune, his hands a blur as he tossed noodles in a steaming pan, the air around him fragrant with garlic, herbs, and the sweet brine of the ocean.

  “Bonjour!” he called out as they approached, his voice a warm, welcoming baritone. He turned, wiping his hands on a clean white apron, a bright, professional smile already in place. “What will you be…” His voice trailed off. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second as his gaze swept over the two of them, a flicker of something – recognition? assessment? – in his sharp eyes before the professional mask snapped back into place. “…having today?”

  “We’ll have two of your special pasta, please!” Yukari said, her own voice full of a cheerful, uncomplicated eagerness. She leaned forward slightly, her silver eyes bright with anticipation, completely oblivious to the subtle shift in the chef’s demeanor.

  Chef Lorenzo stared at her for a long, silent moment. His smile vanished completely, replaced by a look of cold, almost disdainful appraisal. He looked from her bright, expectant face, to Raito’s own easy smile, and then back to her. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Sorry,” he said, his voice now stripped of all its earlier warmth, flat and utterly dismissive. “We are closed.”

  And with a speed that was almost comical in its abruptness, he reached up and slammed down the heavy metal shutter of his stall, the loud clang echoing in the sudden, shocked silence. The cheerful aroma of pasta was instantly cut off, replaced by the cold, unyielding finality of brushed steel. Yukari and Raito were left standing there, staring at the blank metal wall, the echoes of the chef’s inexplicable hostility ringing in their ears long after the sound had faded. He hadn't just refused service; he had slammed the door in their faces, his coldness directed pointedly, unmistakably, at her.

  “Wha—?” Yukari’s mouth hung agape, her earlier cheerful anticipation completely extinguished, replaced by a stunned, almost comical disbelief. She stared at the blank metal shutter, then turned to Raito, her expression a mask of pure, unadulterated confusion.

  “That was weird,” Raito commented, scratching his head, his own easy smile faltering.

  “What is wrong with that guy?” Yukari’s confusion quickly ignited into a familiar, indignant anger. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How rude!”

  “Okay, let me try,” Raito said, stepping forward before Yukari’s temper could fully escalate. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the metal shutter. Knock. Knock. Knock.

  After a few tense seconds, the shutter rattled upwards just a few inches, revealing Chef Lorenzo’s eyes, narrowed into suspicious slits. “I told you, we are closed,” he growled, his voice muffled by the metal. He scanned Raito again, his expression shifting slightly, the harsh lines around his eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Hmm…”

  “Sorry, mister,” Raito began, his voice polite and friendly, a stark contrast to the chef’s earlier hostility. “We’re new here. I don’t know if my wife was clear,” he gestured vaguely towards Yukari, who bristled slightly at the implied criticism but wisely held her tongue, “but we’d really like to buy your special pasta today. Two of them, if possible.”

  Chef Lorenzo’s expression underwent a startling transformation. The suspicion vanished, replaced by a sudden, almost blinding beam of pure, unadulterated delight. He threw the shutter open completely with a cheerful rattle. “Ah! Si, si!” he exclaimed, his voice now full of a warm, exuberant energy, his earlier coldness completely forgotten. “Due pasta speciale! Of course! Please, wait un momento!” He beamed at Raito, his smile wide and genuine, completely ignoring Yukari standing right beside him.

  “Huh?” The blatant, almost comical disparity in treatment was too much for Yukari to bear. She stepped forward, planting her hands firmly on her hips, her earlier anger returning in full force. “Wait,” she demanded, her voice sharp with indignation. “Why did he get a smile and an ‘un momento,’ and I get ‘we are closed’?”

  Lorenzo’s cheerful expression vanished the instant his gaze fell upon her. He scanned her up and down once more, his lip curling into a faint, almost imperceptible sneer. “Tch,” the sound was a quiet, dismissive click of his tongue. Without another word, without even acknowledging her question, he turned his back on her and disappeared into the back of his stall, presumably to start cooking Raito’s pasta.

  “Did he mistake you for someone else?” Raito asked, turning to Yukari, his voice laced with a genuine, if slightly bewildered, confusion.

  “How could he? This is the first time I’ve been here!” Yukari protested, her voice rising. But as her gaze swept the surrounding food court, a new, chilling realization began to dawn. It wasn’t just Chef Lorenzo. The vendors at the neighboring stalls, the ones selling fragrant spiced meats and colorful fruit juices, they were staring too. Not with the usual, casual curiosity of merchants assessing potential customers, but with a cold, hard glare. And their hostility wasn’t directed at Raito. It was focused solely, unmistakably, on her.

  “Okay… they are glaring at you,” Raito observed, his voice now laced with confusion as he followed her gaze. He turned back to her, his brow furrowed. “What did you do without me?”

  “This is the first time I have ever set foot in this city!” Yukari defended herself, her voice a mixture of frustration and genuine bewilderment. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with you! How could I possibly have angered them all already?”

  Seeing the storm clouds gathering in his wife’s silver eyes, Raito knew he had to intervene before another culinary-related international incident occurred. He stepped forward, turning away from the hostile glares, and addressed the food court at large, his voice clear and full of a genuine, almost naive curiosity. “Hey, everyone!” he called out, his cheerful tone cutting through the tense atmosphere. “Did we do something wrong?”

  The reaction was instantaneous and jarring. The cold, hard glares directed at Yukari vanished, replaced by a wave of warm, almost adoring smiles aimed squarely at Raito.

  “No, Saint!” a woman running a fruit stall called back, her voice bright and welcoming.

  “Please, come to my stall! Everything is free for you, Saint!” another vendor, a burly man grilling skewers of meat, added enthusiastically, gesturing with his tongs. A chorus of similar offers echoed from the surrounding stalls, a sudden, overwhelming outpouring of generosity directed solely at him.

  This… this feels familiar, the thought was a silent, shared, and deeply unsettling realization in the minds of both Raito and Yukari. The reverence in their voices, the almost religious fervor in their offers, the stark, inexplicable contrast between their treatment of him versus her… there could only be one explanation.

  Just then, Chef Lorenzo reappeared, balancing two steaming plates of pasta with practiced ease. “Here you go, Saint!” he announced cheerfully, placing both plates directly in front of Raito with a flourish. “Due pasta, on the house!”

  Raito looked from the two plates of food, to Yukari’s now thunderous expression, and then back to the beaming chef. A slow, dawning, and utterly horrified understanding began to spread across his face. “Do you perhaps,” Raito began, his voice a quiet, almost hesitant thing as he took the plates, “know someone by the name of Chef Guido?”

  “Oui!” Lorenzo’s face lit up even more, his eyes shining with a reverence that bordered on worship. “Chef Guido! Chef extraordinaire! He is a legend in this city! A leader, a figurehead to us other chefs! His stories,” Lorenzo leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a hushed, reverent whisper, “we treat them like gospel, Mr. Saint.” He finished with another wide, beaming smile.

  That makes way more sense, Raito thought, a wave of profound, almost comical defeat washing over him. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with a sickening, inevitable finality. Guido. The dramatic, furious, and surprisingly influential rat chef had clearly wasted no time in spreading his own, very biased version of events throughout the Spican culinary world. A tale, no doubt, of a cleaning ‘saint’ and a kitchen ‘devil.’

  “That rat chef again,” Yukari growled, her voice a low, dangerous thing that vibrated with a barely contained fury. The last vestiges of her confusion were gone, replaced by a cold, hard certainty. Her earlier humiliation, her fear, her brief flicker of self-doubt… it all coalesced into a single, burning point of rage directed squarely at the unseen, moustache-twirling architect of her newfound infamy.

  And that, Raito concluded with a silent, internal groan as he cautiously ate another bite of creamy pasta, was how they had arrived at this strange, uncomfortable, and utterly ridiculous present.

  “I hate this place,” Yukari admitted with a groan, finally picking up her fork and stabbing viciously at a perfectly cooked shrimp. “I know I’m utterly hopeless in the kitchen, but at least Miss Yinzi taught me how to bake a honey-apple pie!” She sniffled, the injustice of it all hitting her with a fresh wave of self-pity. “This is unfair.”

  Raito put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “At least we get food for free now,” he offered, trying to inject a sliver of optimism into the situation, though even he knew it was a weak attempt.

  “Only if you ask them, Saint,” Yukari retorted mockingly, shrugging his hand off. She gestured vaguely towards the surrounding stalls, where the vendors were now pointedly ignoring her existence while simultaneously beaming at Raito. “They just closed their stalls as soon as I approached them. I am not that much of a kitchen ‘devil’!” She pouted again, the earlier fury dissolving into a more familiar, sulky resentment.

  “Okay, okay,” Raito said, surrendering to the inevitable. He pushed her plate a little closer. “For now, let’s just eat. Remember,” he added, a hopeful glint returning to his eyes, “the Lady Huanli author signing is waiting for you next.”

  The mention of her literary hero seemed to work. A flicker of her earlier excitement returned, momentarily overshadowing her culinary woes. “Fine,” Yukari conceded, finally taking a proper bite of the pasta. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed again, this time with a new, fierce determination. “But I will remember this,” she declared, her voice a low, dangerous vow. “I swear I’ll learn how to cook. And I’ll make them pay.”

  Please don’t, Raito thought, a silent, fervent prayer echoing in the depths of his mind. The image of their Hanyuun farmhouse kitchen, encased in a layer of frost after one of her early, disastrous attempts at boiling water, flashed before his eyes. He loved her. He truly did. But the thought of enduring another round of Yukari’s kitchen nightmares… that was a trial he wasn’t sure even his newfound resolve could withstand.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Moments later, the remnants of their free, if slightly tense, lunch were cleared away. Raito and Yukari found themselves standing once more before the elegant, white-stone facade of the author signing venue. The cheerful bustle of the food court was a distant murmur now, replaced by the low, excited hum of a different kind of crowd—a gathering of devoted fans, their faces alight with anticipation, clutching worn copies of their favorite books like sacred texts.

  The two runaways paused at the entrance, the polished glass doors reflecting their own slightly nervous expressions. They looked at each other, and a shared, silent, and utterly serious understanding passed between them. The playful banter, the exasperated sighs, the easy camaraderie of their lunch… it was gone, replaced by the grim determination of soldiers preparing for a suicide mission.

  They both gulped, their hands unconsciously tightening—Raito’s on the hilt of Koenka, Yukari’s on the small dagger hidden at her waist—old habits dying hard. No serpent god, no collapsing sea caves, no army of mindless fanatics had prepared them for this. This felt… bigger. More personal. More terrifying. They were about to meet the creators of worlds that had offered them solace, escape, and inspiration in the darkest corners of their own lives. This was, without a doubt, the biggest hurdle they had ever faced.

  “Ready?” Raito asked, his voice a low, tense whisper that barely cut through the excited buzz of the waiting fans.

  “Yeah,” Yukari whispered back, giving a single, sharp nod, her silver eyes narrowed with a focus usually reserved for battle. She took a deep, steadying breath, her mind already running through tactical scenarios for obtaining an autograph. “The plan is, we split up,” she confirmed, her voice regaining a fraction of its commander’s authority. “Go there, get the signed book, do some meet and greet, and meet back here. Understood?” Her tone was deadly serious.

  “I wish you luck,” Raito replied, his own voice equally grave. He offered a solemn nod, a final gesture of camaraderie before their perilous solo missions began.

  With a final, shared look of grim resolve, they turned and, taking separate paths, plunged into the throng of fans, their shoulders squared, their expressions masks of fierce determination. They were ready. They were focused. They were about to face their most dangerous mission yet.

  And then, anticlimactically, they bumped into each other. Hard. “Ow!” “Hey!” They stumbled back, their carefully constructed battle plans dissolving instantly into a familiar, chaotic mess. They had both, in their focused determination, tried to cut through the crowd towards the signing tables, only to find themselves converging on the exact same spot. Because, as was now glaringly, painfully obvious, the two elegant signing booths—one adorned with magnifying glasses and paw prints for Shilook Huang, the other draped in silken banners depicting ancient ruins and mythical beasts for Lady Huanli—were set up directly next to each other. The lines of eager fans snaked through the venue in two parallel, almost identical queues. And Yukari and Raito were now standing side-by-side, their earlier dramatic separation rendered utterly, completely pointless. A wave of crimson washed over both their faces, their earlier battlefield bravado evaporating into a cloud of pure, unadulterated embarrassment. “So… we met here,” Raito commented, his voice a low, awkward murmur as he pointedly avoided her gaze, suddenly finding the intricate pattern on the venue’s carpet incredibly fascinating. “I guess…” Yukari replied, her own voice equally muffled as she fiddled with the strap of her satchel. She forced an awkward laugh, the sound a brittle, fragile thing in the sudden, heavy silence between them. “I guess they decided to put them next to one another. For… some reason.”

  The queue moved with an agonizing slowness, each shuffle forward a small victory that only heightened the frantic, fluttering anxiety in their chests. The low hum of excited chatter from the fans around them was a distant, meaningless buzz. All their focus, all their nervous energy, was directed towards the two figures seated at the signing tables just a few feet away.

  These weren’t just authors. They were architects of worlds that had sheltered them, heroes whose fictional triumphs had felt more real, more vital, than the gilded cages and lonely shadows of their own lives. For Yukari, Lady Huanli’s daring escapes and brilliant discoveries had been a secret, vicarious rebellion against the stifling expectations of the Amber Palace. For Raito, Shilook Huang’s quiet competence, his unwavering dedication to truth and justice in a world of shadows, had been a silent, aspirational anchor in the lonely, uncertain years after the orphanage. These stories weren’t just entertainment; they were lifelines. And now, they were about to meet the weavers of those lifelines.

  They exchanged a quick, wide-eyed look, a shared, silent acknowledgment of the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the moment. They were not warriors facing a battlefield. They were fans. Utterly, completely, and hopelessly devoted fans.

  Finally, agonizingly, the last person in front of them cleared away, their happy, star-struck face a blur in Raito and Yukari’s peripheral vision. It was their turn.

  With a single, synchronized, and deeply nervous gulp, they stepped forward as one, their movements stiff, their earlier battlefield coordination replaced by the awkward, trembling steps of pilgrims approaching a sacred altar.

  “I am a big fan of your work!”

  The words burst from both of them at the exact same time, a heartfelt, unrehearsed declaration that hung in the air, slightly too loud, slightly too earnest. They thrust their hands forward, palms open, a desperate, hopeful offering for a handshake.

  At the Shilook Huang booth, a figure looked up, a warm, slightly surprised smile spreading across his kind, canine features. It was Sir Rupert Blue, a Blue Dog Sacred whose friendly, floppy ears perked up at the enthusiastic greeting. He was dressed impeccably in a tweed suit, looking every bit the distinguished gentleman detective his stories portrayed. “Oh, thank you, young man,” he said, his voice a pleasant, slightly rumbling baritone as his paw met Raito’s outstretched hand in a firm, reassuring shake.

  Beside him, at the Lady Huanli table, another figure looked up, her expression mirroring Sir Rupert’s amused surprise. Lady Geneva Croft, a Swan Sacred whose elegance was as striking as the heroines she wrote about, inclined her head gracefully. A few delicate, white swan feathers, nestled artfully behind her ears, seemed to shimmer in the light as she offered Yukari a dazzling, practiced smile. “Why, thank you, beautiful lady,” she said, her voice a smooth, cultured alto as her slender fingers met Yukari’s in a cool, delicate clasp.

  This was it. The second happiest moment of their lives, unfolding right before their star-struck eyes. They stood there, hands still clasped with their literary idols, their minds a complete and utter blank, the carefully rehearsed questions and declarations of admiration they had prepared completely forgotten in the face of the overwhelming, beautiful reality of the moment.

  Sir Rupert picked up a crisp, new copy of the latest Shilook Huang adventure from a stack beside him, its cover gleaming under the venue lights. “For Raito, is it?” he asked, uncapping a fine fountain pen, his warm smile unwavering as he looked at the still-stunned young man before him.

  “Ye… yes… sir,” Raito stammered, his voice barely a squeak, his earlier confidence completely evaporated in the face of his hero.

  Next to him, Lady Geneva performed a similar action, selecting a pristine copy of Lady Huanli’s newest expedition. “And this one is for… Lin Meihua?” she asked, her elegant script already flowing across the title page as she glanced up at Yukari, her smile just as dazzling.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Yukari snapped to attention, her hand flying up in a crisp, automatic salute, a gesture born from centuries of military discipline momentarily overriding her star-struck paralysis. The salute hung in the air for a fraction of a second before she realized what she had done, a fresh wave of crimson flooding her cheeks.

  Raito, overhearing the exchange from the adjacent booth, turned his head slightly, his own star-struck haze momentarily pierced by confusion. “Why are you using that name?” he whispered, his voice a low hiss meant only for her.

  “Because,” Yukari hissed back, her face still burning, “I want the book signed with the name my mother gave me, idiot.”

  Sir Rupert chuckled, a warm, amused sound that drew both their attention. He had clearly overheard their hushed, frantic exchange. “Do you two perhaps know each other?” he asked, his blue dog ears twitching slightly, a friendly curiosity in his kind eyes.

  “Ye… yes, sir,” Raito stammered again, his face now matching Yukari’s blush. “She’s… she’s my wife.” He gestured vaguely towards Yukari with his free hand, then couldn't resist adding, a flicker of their old rivalry returning despite the situation, “Although her literary choice is a bit… questionable.”

  “Oh, what a coincidence!” Sir Rupert’s smile widened, a genuine, delighted warmth filling his voice. “I also have my wife right next to me!” He gestured with a proud, happy flourish towards the Lady Huanli booth. “We are doing a co-signing today!”

  No! Raito’s mind screamed the word, a silent, horrified denial against the impossible, beautiful, and utterly devastating truth that had just been laid bare.

  At the exact same moment, Lady Geneva let out a soft, melodious laugh, her own gaze warm and full of a shared, knowing amusement. “Sharing an event with your spouse is always such a special moment,” she commented, her voice a smooth, cultured alto. She gestured with a graceful wave of her hand towards the Shilook Huang booth beside her.

  No! Yukari’s own internal scream was a perfect, silent echo of Raito’s. She turned her head slowly, her gaze locking onto Sir Rupert, then back to Lady Geneva, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a horrifying, world-shattering finality.

  The authors they worshipped, the creators of the fictional worlds that had defined their opposing literary tastes, the very figures who represented the unbridgeable chasm in their reading preferences… were married. To each other. The realization hit them both with the force of a physical blow, leaving them utterly, completely speechless.

  “NO!” The word burst from both Raito and Yukari simultaneously, a raw, unified cry of pure, unadulterated denial that echoed through the suddenly very quiet signing venue. Every head turned, the excited chatter of the fans dying instantly as they stared at the two figures who were now glaring at their respective literary idols with expressions of profound, almost comical horror.

  “You two can’t be married!” they declared in perfect, desperate unison.

  Sir Rupert just chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. He held up his left hand, revealing a simple, elegant gold band nestled comfortably against his blue fur. “Yes, we are,” he confirmed, his voice full of a gentle, unwavering amusement.

  “Happily married for twenty years,” Lady Geneva added, her own voice a smooth, melodious counterpoint as she displayed a matching ring on her slender finger, the swan feather behind her ear seeming to flutter with a quiet pride.

  Twenty years. The number hung in the air, a devastating blow to Raito and Yukari’s carefully constructed literary universes. “That means…” Raito began, his voice a low, incredulous whisper as the horrifying implications began to sink in, “both book series… they were written after both of you were married?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Sir Rupert confirmed, his smile widening as he looked fondly at his wife. “She has been a massive inspiration for me. Her adventurous spirit… it often gives Shilook the push he needs.”

  “And he,” Lady Geneva returned the fond gaze, a soft, almost shy giggle escaping her lips, “never fails to give me ideas for Lady Huanli’s more… logical deductions.”

  “No… no… no!” Yukari’s voice was a rising tide of pure, horrified denial. She turned to Lady Geneva, her expression one of utter betrayal. “How could you?! How could you take ideas from that… that awful, nonsensical book author?!” The insult was hurled like a poisoned dagger, not just at Sir Rupert, but at the very concept of their creative union.

  “Nonsensical?!” Raito took immediate offense, spinning to face Yukari, his own literary loyalties blazing. “That book,” he declared, pointing an accusatory finger at the pristine copy of Lady Huanli now resting on Yukari’s side of the table, “is more plot armor than plot itself! At least Shilook uses his brain!”

  “Calm down, you two,” Sir Rupert interjected, his voice still warm but now holding a note of gentle, paternal authority as he held up his paws in a placating gesture.

  “If this is any consolation,” Lady Geneva added, her own smile returning, though it now held a hint of mischievous amusement, “we are planning to write a crossover story soon.”

  The words were meant to soothe, to bridge the gap. But to Raito and Yukari, they were the final, unforgivable heresy.

  “NO!” They slammed their hands down onto the elegant signing tables in perfect, furious unison, the impact rattling the neat stacks of books and making both authors jump slightly. “That is NOT allowed!”

  And then, as if drawn by an invisible, chaotic force, they turned towards each other. Their earlier argument, the polite fa?ade of their star-struck awe, it all dissolved in an instant. Their hands shot out, fingers finding the familiar, infuriatingly pinchable flesh of each other’s cheeks. They glared, inches apart, locked once more in their signature, silent, and utterly ridiculous battle of wills, completely oblivious to the stunned silence of the surrounding fans and the amused, almost fond exasperation on the faces of their literary heroes.

  “They really love each other,” Sir Rupert commented, his voice a quiet, observational murmur to his wife.

  “Yes, they do,” Lady Geneva replied, her own voice a soft, melodious whisper. A gentle, nostalgic smile touched her lips. “How romantic. It reminds me of our first years of marriage, my dear.” She let out a small, almost wistful sigh. “My, my.”

  Multiple gasps rippled through the stunned crowd as a figure suddenly burst from the Lady Huanli fan line. He was a young man, his face twisted into a mask of pure, deranged fury, a glint of steel flashing in his hand. He sprinted past the oblivious, cheek-pinching couple, his movements a blur of desperate, fanatical energy, heading straight for the Lady Huanli booth.

  “This is for killing my favorite character!” he screamed, his voice a raw, unhinged cry that shattered the relative quiet of the venue. The object in his hand wasn’t a sword, but a simple, wickedly sharp kitchen knife. A deranged fan, his love for a fictional world twisted into a murderous rage.

  “Not the time,” Raito and Yukari snapped in perfect, irritated unison. Their personal literary war, their profound shock, it all vanished in an instant, replaced by the cold, hard, and utterly familiar instinct of battle-tested warriors. They released each other’s cheeks, their movements a blur of synchronized, lethal grace.

  Yukari moved first. She didn’t draw her dagger. She didn’t summon ice. With a single, economical flick of her wrist, her hand shot out, smacking the fan’s knife hand with a sharp, decisive crack. The blade went flying, skittering harmlessly across the polished floor.

  In that same instant, Raito pivoted. His leg swept up in a powerful, perfectly executed roundhouse kick, the heel of his boot connecting squarely with the fan’s abdomen with a sickening thud. The man’s eyes bulged, the air exploding from his lungs in a silent gasp. He was lifted from his feet, sent sailing backward through the air like a ragdoll, before crashing into a decorative potted plant near the entrance with a final, ignominious crunch. He lay still, unconscious amidst a shower of soil and broken pottery.

  He might have thought his personal vendetta was the most dangerous threat in the room. But little did he know, he had just become the unfortunate target of the combined, and currently very irritated, rage of two other, far more powerful, chaotic, and deeply invested fans.

  The entire venue, which had been frozen in a state of shocked silence, erupted. Cheers and applause filled the air, a wave of relieved, almost hysterical energy washing over the crowd. Lady Geneva and Sir Rupert, their own faces pale with a lingering shock, quickly rose from their seats, their voices a chorus of breathless, grateful thank-yous.

  “Oh my goodness! Thank you!” “Are you two alright?”

  But Raito and Yukari weren’t listening. They stood side-by-side, their earlier fury momentarily forgotten, replaced by a strange, almost dazed sense of anticlimax. They had just stopped an assassination attempt, instinctively, effortlessly, almost as an afterthought. Their minds, however, were still reeling from the earlier, far more devastating revelation: their literary heroes were married. They barely registered the cheers, the thanks, the sudden shift from potential tragedy back to star-struck fandom.

  Then, a voice from the crowd, full of a genuine, if misplaced, admiration, cut through the noise. “Wow! Did you see that? That girl just smacked the knife away, just like in Shilook Huang: The Mystery of the Pale Lady!”

  “And that guy!” another fan shouted excitedly. “He kicked him just like in Lady Huanli and the Azure Underwater Temple! It was awesome!”

  The misattributed praise was the final straw. The fragile truce between Raito and Yukari shattered instantly. Their heads snapped towards the crowd, then towards each other, their earlier literary outrage returning with the force of a tidal wave.

  “NO!” they shouted in perfect, furious unison. “The other way around!”