Quiet, empty yet beautiful lawn — no trees, only the distant, jagged silhouettes of mountains and the whisper of grass.

  Vehra, Ming, and Ying stood upon the open field, ready to begin their first spar.

  “Every fight has its own familiar and its own rules,” Vehra began, her voice calm as the dusk breeze.

  “For example, Hennah and Jug — they might seem to break the rules, but not entirely.”

  “Huh? It’s not?” Ying tilted her head, confused.

  “Have you ever heard Ming tell them to stop?”

  “N-No?”

  “It means it’s acceptable — so long as it’s not overused to cause serious injury.”

  “What does that mean, Ms. Jifuwara?”

  “Call me Vehra.”

  She smiled faintly.

  “It means certain arenas have their own personality. Like Hosh and Geil — they allow it. But not Methra, nor Selnya in Sela.”

  Ming stepped beside Ying.

  “Methra, Selnya, and a few others forbid the flying tank. They’re among the strictest arenas to fight in. If Hennah and Jug used it there, Vehra and the other Concord leaders would fine us immediately.”

  “No wonder we haven’t fought in Methra…” Ying nodded, starting to understand.

  “Not yet,” Ming clarified.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re still negotiating specific rules,” Vehra added softly. “That’s why we, the Concord, decide where and which rules apply for each team and each match.”

  “So… it depends?”

  “Yes. On the Eldens — including myself,” Vehra smiled, her veil catching the last light of the sun.

  “Now… Ming? Shall we?”

  Ming lowered her rifle, drawing her katana in a single, practiced motion. She lunged forward; Vehra calmly revealed a hidden mechanical hand and unfolded the long blade beneath it — parrying with grace.

  “Halha…” Ming chanted, her voice low.

  “Shgulha…” Vehra whispered, softer than breath.

  Ming stepped back, circling Vehra; Vehra mirrored each step.

  And then — the dance began.

  Ying watched, transfixed. She had never seen anything like it: surreal, ancient, impossible.

  Every parry, every feint — fluid and beautiful, as if gods sparred between worlds.

  Ming’s blade shimmered with cinders, striking in flurries; Vehra’s moves were softer, weaving feints with her Dancing Embers.

  Flame met voidlike blaze, the air cracked with force; Ying couldn’t even track the blows.

  It felt cosmic — like blizzards clashing with molten stars.

  As Ming swung, Vehra sensed the faint weakness in Ming’s right heel. With a graceful sweep of her leg, she caught Ming’s stance.

  Ming raised her katana to block — but Vehra struck, the clash ringing out like cathedral bells splitting the silence of dusk.

  Ying froze, gripping her spear to her chest.

  “W-wow…” she whispered, voice trembling.

  When the dust settled, the once pristine lawn lay scarred, cratered — a quiet battlefield.

  “It seems,” Vehra spoke gently, “you left your stance too wide. Even the wind could slip through it.”

  She lowered her blade, and Ming sheathed hers, bowing deeply.

  Then Vehra turned.

  “Yingli F. Hesky,” she called, her voice still soft but unyielding.

  Ying flinched, unready.

  “Calm. I only wish to feel how you avoid my attacks. Nothing more,” Vehra reassured.

  Ming and Ying switched places. Ying raised her spear, trying to fix her stance — but Vehra could sense it: Ying’s heartbeat racing, her breath unsteady.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As Vehra stepped closer, Ying panicked — curling down, hands covering her head.

  Vehra only squatted gently, her veil swaying, and brushed Ying’s hair aside.

  “Your hesitation is your greatest weakness,” she said softly.

  “I… I’m too scared to fight you…”

  “Ying,” Ming spoke, voice calm as dusk.

  “She can be gentle. Trust her.”

  “She’s too tall… too fast… too strong…”

  Vehra chuckled faintly at Ying’s fear.

  “And that,” she whispered, “is why you must face it.”

  Then — suddenly — Vehra’s breath caught, nausea rising.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Hesky…” she murmured, turning away to the bushes, her veil fluttering.

  Ming’s eyes softened; she stepped over, gently patting Vehra’s back.

  “Who?” she asked quietly.

  Vehra offered a small, reassuring smile through her sickness.

  “Not from us,” she whispered — before leaning forward, throwing up again.

  Ying stepped closer, worried.

  “Is she alright?”

  “She will be,” Ming answered. “Go back to the tavern.”

  As Ying left, Ming stayed, hand still on Vehra’s back.

  “How?” she asked softly.

  Vehra caught her breath, wiping her mouth.

  “Location, my beloved little sister,” she replied gently.

  Ming paused, then answered simply.

  “Usual.”

  Vehra nodded faintly, the veil hiding eyes that had once seen too much.

  And the dusk deepened around them.

  That night, the tavern glowed warm against the cold outside.

  Jug and Hennah sat hunched over a battered chessboard, pieces worn from years of battle.

  Myke leaned beside them, calm as ever, while Ying watched with quiet curiosity.

  “Take the pawn,” Myke murmured, eyes half-lidded.

  “HEY! I WANNA TAKE THE QUEEN!! DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” Hennah snapped, her pink hair bristling like an angry cat.

  “You wanna take it? Go ahead, Pink hair,” Jug replied, hiding a smirk.

  Ying’s eyes widened. “Uh… Hennah? I think that’s a mistake—”

  “Nah! His queen’s dead! No way he can win withou—”

  “Checkmate,” Jug declared, sliding his pawn forward with a heavy thunk.

  Hennah froze. The tavern seemed to go silent for a heartbeat.

  “WHAT?! WHAT KIND OF SORCERY DID YOU USE?!”

  “Brains,” Jug said, grinning.

  “NOT FAIR!! I DEMAND A REMATCH!!”

  “I refuse.”

  “YOU CAN’T REFUSE LIKE THAT!!”

  Hennah’s hand began to glow, flame gathering around her fingertips.

  “Lemme go, Red hair! I WANNA SHOW HIM WHAT WAR LOOKS LIKE!!” she shrieked as Ying grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Come on… bring it, bitch,” Jug teased, leaning back just enough to stay out of range.

  “STOP CALLING ME A FUCKING BITCH, SON OF A BITCH!!”

  “NO, YOU DO!”

  “NO, YOU!!”

  As Hennah and Jug devolved into chaos and Ying wrestled to keep the table from catching fire, Myke’s gaze shifted.

  He noticed Ming walking silently toward the door, the night breeze catching the edge of her coat.

  “Ming? Where are you going? It’s dark outside,” he called over the shouting.

  “Invitation,” she answered without turning, her voice calm as always. Then she stepped out into the night, the door swinging shut behind her.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” Hennah shouted mid-struggle, still locked with Jug.

  Jug just shrugged, unbothered.

  Ying tilted her head, still gripping Hennah’s arm, puzzled — yet somehow trusting Ming’s quiet certainty.

  As Ming wandered through the market, lit by soft candlelight and filled with gentle warmth and quiet laughter, she moved past alleyways and roadside stalls, weaving between cars and fading shadows. Behind her, the distant roar of the arena still echoed — restless, endless.

  Eventually, she arrived at a quiet café — fewer people, but warmly lit by handcrafted chandeliers, small vases of fresh flowers adding a touch of grace.

  “Welcome to the Alaymalta Café. How can I help you?” the waitress asked sweetly.

  “Concord,” Ming replied. The waitress nodded, already understanding.

  “She’s at table A27,” she said, leading Ming through the hushed interior.

  Ming sat across from Vehra. For a moment, neither spoke — only silence, calm and heavy.

  The waitress handed Ming the menu, patiently waiting with a soft smile.

  “Hysha tea, and Elgha Takh,” Ming ordered.

  The waitress noted it down, bowed politely, and left them alone again.

  “Sghilha banyalh telhra, Elaiyarah?” (Have you waited long, sister?) Ming asked softly.

  “Nalo, Elaisiyarah. Altahla Sghilha jina lha,” (No, little sister. Just like you, I just arrived.) Vehra replied, her voice calm.

  “Nol… Sghilhsa shalhe valn?” (So… your condition?) Ming asked, gaze briefly lowering.

  “Ilha… shunulhu vala khalgha varya, besta tilha vonro ni, Elai,” (Still glad, and soon… our bloodline will continue, little sister.) Vehra whispered, almost like a prayer.

  For a while, silence settled between them again.

  “Why? How did you manage to find someone?” Ming asked at last, her tone quiet but sincere.

  “I loved him,” Vehra replied softly. “I gave him my whole life of cinders… and he gave me the kindle.”

  Soon, Ming’s order arrived: fragrant Hysha tea, and a plate of fried rice with roasted charcoal chicken.

  “Shilsa, Elai,” (Enjoy, little sister,) Vehra murmured.

  Ming paused, eyes lingering on her sister. “You never told me you had a child,” she said, voice low.

  Vehra chuckled softly.

  “It’s been a long wait. And yes.” She gently placed her hand over the slight curve of her belly. “She’s sleeping, for now.”

  Ming lowered her gaze, quiet.

  “What’s wrong, Elai?” Vehra asked, sensing her hesitation. “Haven’t found someone yet?”

  “No… not because of that,” Ming admitted. “But… it feels like too much to carry, sometimes.”

  “I understand,” Vehra said gently. “But one day you will. So I won’t be alone anymore.” She teased, a small grin breaking through.

  “Idiot…” Ming muttered.

  “Eat your food before it gets cold — like your heart, idiot,” Vehra teased back.

  Before Ming began to eat, she placed her right hand over her chest and whispered, “Harmonia…”

  Then, quietly, they shared their meal — two sisters, ancient blood and soft laughter beneath candlelight.