[Perspective Shift: Stellaron Hunters' Small Warship – Lounge]
Silver Wolf flopped into a plush hover-chair, hugging a pixel pillow, cheeks puffed in outrage as her fingers clacked across a holographic keyboard that wasn't actually running any commands.
"Aaaargh! I can't figure it out—can't figure it out at all!"
She wailed, "Is Herta going senile? Banning me is one thing, but now she's standing guard on the Space Station like some temple Door God! Doesn't she ever leave for conferences or to mess with her simulated universe?"
Kafka strolled over with a steaming cup of black tea, sat gracefully beside her, and slid a second cup—already sweetened—across the table.
"Calm down, Silver Wolf. Maybe something happened on the station we don't know about, making her… cautious."
"Can't get a peep!"
Silver Wolf grabbed the cup, gulped, and yelped as it scalded her tongue. "The station's firewall's an iron barrel now, and Herta's own mind keeps sweeping the area. I poke my nose out and she'll lop it off. What's she guarding against—me stirring up trouble?"
The more she thought, the angrier she got. "Must be Menopause—bored and looking for drama!"
Kafka only smiled, refusing to comment on Herta's biology. "Forget the station for now. Elio has a new order—fieldwork."
"Overtime again?" Silver Wolf's face fell. "Where to this time—and what for?"
"Jarilo-VI."
Kafka sipped her tea, a flicker of gravity in her voice. "The script has… deviated unexpectedly."
"Deviated?"
Silver Wolf perked up. "Something even Elio couldn't foresee?"
Kafka nodded, puzzlement flashing in her lovely eyes. "Yes. Elio says a 'mysterious existence' has slipped in and derailed the destined track. He can't see its origin or goal—only that it could wreck the rest of the script. We're to make contact and… assess the risk."
"Whoa…"
Silver Wolf whistled, the gloom over Herta forgotten. "Someone even Elio can't read? From outside the stars?"
"No idea."
Kafka set her cup down, rose, and straightened her coat. "That's why we go ourselves. Gear up, Silver Wolf."
"Yeah, yeah…"
Silver Wolf answered lazily.
[Perspective Shift: Astral Express – Madam Herta's Private Car]
Scene returns to the (supposedly) tranquil train compartment.
Madam Herta sat elegantly at a newly added obsidian table, chin propped on one hand, violet-black eyes calmly watching the two across from her.
Aster was hugging a steaming bucket of instant noodles labeled "Xianzhou Delicacy – Braised Rift Demon-Beef Flavor," slurping away with vacant eyes yet a strangely focused, almost fierce, speed.
Two empty buckets already sat beside her.
Baiheng perched nervously opposite, hands on knees, snowy fox-ears drooped, gaze darting to Black Herta's face and away again like a pupil awaiting punishment.
Black Herta sighed softly, the sound like wind through chimes, tinged with resignation.
Today she wore a tailored black-violet dress, gauzy capelet over her shoulders, ash-white hair cascading lazily, the huge witch's hat atop her head; even in this awkward after-action review she radiated mystique and grace.
"The outcome was clear."
Black Herta's voice remained level. "Anaxa won. Expected."
After all, he was a Chrysos Heir—eccentric Scholar though he might seem.
She paused, glancing at Aster still wolfing noodles, and added, "It's the manner of our loss that was… undignified."
Recalling the final scene in the virtual arena:
After taking that Rising Dragon Fist, Aster—tempered by countless cycles in the Elysian Realm—charged Anaxa again with fearless grit.
Her bat whistled through the air, offense fierce.
Yet Anaxa, now in some "Fighter Mode," flickered like a ghost, slipping between flurries of swings and bizarre dance steps, dodging everything.
He weaved under horizontal strikes with break-dance limbo, slid like teleportation past thrusts—movements fluid, absurdly graceful.
When Aster over-swung and left herself open, Anaxa seized the instant.
He stepped in, hands fluttering like weaving butterflies, striking her wrists and elbows, knocking the bat away, then launched a dazzling combo.
Jabs, hooks, side-kicks, elbow-strikes—chained so smoothly it looked rehearsed a thousand times, ending with a vicious High Kick that popped her into the air.
Had it stopped there, her Data Body's huge HP pool and pain dullness would have kept her alive.
The fatal part was—
"Whoosh—!"
An energy arrow from Baiheng—meant to distract Anaxa—instead, thanks to shaky nerves and his uncanny footwork, struck the airborne, helpless Aster square in the… rump.
"Thwip!"
The soft sound of arrow meeting (data) flesh rang out, crystal clear.
That shot became the last straw.
Aster's HP Bar, already shredded by the combo, instantly hit zero.
She burst into white light and vanished from the arena.
Baiheng froze, bow half-drawn, eyes wide.
The rest was anticlimax.
With the only front-liner gone, the fox—adept at range and escape—lasted barely thirty seconds before a similarly flashy combo ejected her from the field.
Recalling that farce, Black Herta watched one girl inhale noodles and the other curl into a ball, speechless once more.
(Black Herta, inwardly: One has battle instinct but no brain; the other has potential but nerves of tofu… my starting lineup's road is long indeed.)
She lifted the violet-shimmering drink the system had just poured, swirling it idly.
Leaning back, violet-black eyes swept the pair like a professor grading two disappointing lab reports.
"Team coordination near zero; individual skills nowhere near full potential."
Her tone betrayed no anger, yet her gaze pinned Baiheng. "Especially you—you didn't give everything."
Baiheng's snowy ears drooped at once; she twisted her hands, voice tiny. "I… I just…"
She had held back.
Fragments of Amphoreus memory kept whispering: the patient-gowned dancer who hurled brutal Rising Dragon Fists had once been the wise Scholar Anaxa.
She couldn't bring herself to strike such an "enemy" with full force.
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