The body of the Basilisk was a mangled ruin of red meat and grey dust, a sight so visceral that the heavy iron chains used to drag it away seemed to groan under the weight of the carnage. I stood in the center of the sand, my chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm. My hands found my hips, the obsidian latex of my suit slick with the dark, cooling blood of the beast. I didn't look at the carcass. I didn't look at the sand. I kept my chin high, my platinum hair a bright, silver shock against the blood-stained ground. I was a pillar of victory, letting the roar of the crowd wash over me like a hot, dry wind.

  The adrenaline was a low, humming fire in my veins, but as the noise of the stadium began to settle into a thrum, I allowed my eyes to wander toward the VIP section. High above the common benches, I saw him then, the Young Prince. He was exactly as he had appeared in the portraits at the gate: a handsome man in his early twenties with sharp, refined features and a crown of dark hair that shimmered under the sun. He stood up from his velvet chair with a fluid, regal grace and approached Saint Augustine.

  They began to chat, their heads bowed toward each other. The Prince looked effortless, a man born to rule a city of opulence, while the Saint remained a fragile, glowing miracle in her white robes. Watching them felt like looking at a different world as they pointed towards me.

  Below them, in the churning sea of the common stands, I spotted a flash of dark clothing and elf ears. It was Alan. He was moving through the crowd with a desperate, frantic energy, his eyes fixed on the golden glow of the Saint. He was trying to get to her, his body pushing past the wealthy merchants and officials as if they were made of air. But as he reached the edge of the royal stairs, he was abruptly stopped. The Prince’s personal guards, men in heavy, dark-iron plate, crossed their halberds, the metal clashing with a sharp, final sound. Alan was shoved back, his face a mask of dejection and longing. He stood there, lost in the crowd, a broken man looking for the only light he had ever known.

  Then, the world seemed to tilt.

  In the dense crowd of onlookers, only a few yards away from where Alan had been repulsed, a commotion broke out. A man stumbled forward, his body jerking as if he had been pushed by an invisible hand. I zoomed in my lens, the world flattening and sharpening until I could see the sweat on the man’s neck. It was Earl Thaddeus Braeburn. He was gasping, his one hand, the stump, clutching at the air.

  As he fell face-first into the laps of a group of startled merchants, I saw it. A large, black-handled assassin's knife was buried deep in his back, right between the shoulder blades.

  My thoughts ran wild, a chaotic spiral of confusion and fear. Who in this city of order would kill the Earl? Was it a message? A clean-up? They had taken advantage of the lack of Sentinels, the one day the city's automated eyes were closed, to carry out a cold, professional execution in the middle of a festival. It was a murder in the dense crowd of fifty thousand people, yet nobody except for those immediately around the Earl seemed to notice. The cheers for the next round drowned out the cries of the few witnesses. Before a panic could even begin, a group of quiet, dark-clad medics appeared and promptly stretchered him out, disappearing into the shadows of the arena tunnels as if he had never been there at all.

  I shook my head, my jaw tightening. I couldn't get distracted. The heavy doors on the side of the arena were grinding open again.

  The five guards for Round Two stepped out onto the sand. They weren't like the beasts; they were men I knew. They were the same sheepish, young guards from the Titan’s Arch, the ones who had called me "hot" and "beautiful." Now, they looked terrified. Their faces were pale beneath their silver helmets, and their hands gripped their swords and shields with a white-knuckled intensity. They didn't want to be here, but the honor of the Guard was on the line after Jerome’s circus act.

  I looked at the Glock in my hand. It was still loaded with the 9mm explosive rounds I had used to tear the Basilisk apart. If I fired those at these boys, I wouldn't just win; I would be a murderer.

  I took a deep breath, the calm settling over my heart. I had to change the load. I began the process of unloading the magazine, a sequence of movements that felt as natural as breathing.

  I began pulling the Glock back toward my chest. I held it high, keeping the sights and the advancing guards in a single, blurred line of vision. My index finger was indexed hard against the frame, well clear of the trigger. With a sharp, thumb-driven click, I hit the release.

  The magazine, loaded with the dull, lethal bronze of jacketed rounds, hissed out of the grip and dropped into my hand with a weighted thud.

  Now for the clearing. I racked the slide back with a violent, practiced jerk. The chambered bronze round spiraled into the air, a glint of killing potential discarded in the sand.

  I didn't wait for it to land. I snatched a fresh magazine from my thigh, my index finger "pointing" the way home. This mag was different. Through the witness holes, I could see the defiant, flat red of the rubber-capped rounds.

  The magazine entered the well with a sliding hiss, followed by a heavy, palm-driven thump against the baseplate. I felt the spring compress and the catch "bite" with an authoritative snap.

  I "punched" the gun back out into the world, my arms snapping into a rigid lock. The Glock 19 became an extension of my own bones. The world blurred, leaving only the front sight post, a crisp, glowing white dot, centered on the lead guard’s chest.

  My finger moved from the frame to the trigger.

  The five guards were charging now, their boots kicking up clouds of white sand. They weren't pretending. They were active-duty, breathing hard and moving fast, shields their sides, desperate to win. I wasn't going to break their bones, but with a magazine full of red-tipped "mercy" now chambered, I was about to make their lives very difficult.

  I stood in a professional shooting stance, my feet planted, my statuesque frame a dark, unmoving target. I aimed for center mass, right for the thickest part of their metal breastplates.

  THWIP. THWIP. THWIP. THWIP. THWIP.

  The sound was a series of sharp, compressed pops. Five shots. Five impacts.

  The kinetic energy of a rubber slug is a terrifying thing. It doesn't pierce, but it hits with the force of a swinging sledgehammer. I watched as the five men were literally lifted off their feet, their bodies jerking backward as the slugs slammed into their chests. They hit the sand hard, clutching their bruised bodies and gasping for the air that had been punched out of their lungs.

  The crowd was amazed. They had seen magic and they had seen swords, but they had never seen men thrown around by invisible fists.

  "She’s using air magic!" someone screamed. "No! It’s the will of the Church!"

  The guards were tough, though. They scrambled back to their feet, their faces twisted in pain and determination. They had learned their lesson. They huddled together, raising their heavy metal shields and overlapping them to form a solid wall of steel. They began to approach again, moving slowly, their eyes peeking through the narrow slits of their helmets. They were within ten meters now.

  I narrowed my eyes. My hips stayed level as I pivoted. I didn't aim for their bodies this time. I aimed for the shields.

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  The sound of the rubber hitting the metal was like a massive gong being struck in a cathedral. I fired round after round, targeting the spots where the handles and straps would be on the other side. I could see the shields vibrating, the metal groaning under the repeated hammer-blows. The guards’ arms were flinching, their muscles twitching with the effort to hold onto the vibrating steel.

  One of the guards, a boy with a mop of red hair visible under his helm, let his shield dip for a fraction of a second as the pain in his arm became too much. I didn't hesitate. I put five rubber bullets right into his exposed chest in a tight, rapid-fire grouping. He was knocked backward, his shield spinning away into the sand, and he stayed down this time, groaning in a heap.

  The other four picked up the pace, their desperation growing. They were five meters away. Three meters. One of them, in his hurry to close the distance, stepped too wide, revealing his leading foot.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  POP.

  The rubber slug hit his boot with a dull thud. "YOOOUCH!" he screamed, his leg buckling as he fell over his own shield. As he tumbled, his chest was exposed for a heartbeat. I put five more rounds into his breastplate, the impact pinning him to the sand.

  I performed another lightning-fast reload, the empty magazine hitting the sand with a hollow clink.

  The final three guards were within two meters now. I could see the sweat dripping from their brows and the frantic, wide-eyed terror in their eyes. They knew they couldn't win, but they were too close to stop. They raised their iron swords high, preparing for a final, desperate strike.

  I didn't back up. I didn't flinch. I moved with a speed that felt like liquid.

  POP. POP. POP.

  Three fast shots. Three impacts. I wasn't aiming for their bodies. I was aiming for the swords. The heavy rubber slugs hit the flat of the blades with a violent, vibrating force. The impact was so great that the swords didn't just fall; they flew away, spinning into the air like discarded toys.

  The three guards stood there, their arms still raised, their hands empty and stinging. Their faces were masks of pure, unadulterated shock. They were at "hugging distance" now, close enough that I could smell the spice on their breath and see the way their pupils were dilated with adrenaline.

  I stood my ground, the Glock held in a low-ready position, its muzzle still warm. I looked at them, my amber eyes calm and statuesque. I didn't say a word. I didn't need to. The silence in the arena was absolute, every spectator leaning forward to see what the "Maiden" would do to the defenseless men standing before her.

  I saw a small twitch in the lead guard’s lip, a tremor of pure, human fear. I lick my lips in pure satisfaction.

  The three remaining guards looked at their empty hands, then at their swords lying in the white sand like discarded toys. They didn't run. Instead, they looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. They were done with the useless steel. They reached for the buckles of their heavy iron shields and let them fall. The metal hit the ground with a thud that made the dust jump. They were choosing to end this with their hands.

  It was 1 vs 3 now.

  I didn't back up, my glock holstered as well. I stood my ground, my feet planted wide in the sand, my hands dropping to a relaxed but ready position at my sides. I felt the heat of the sun on my platinum hair and the tight, familiar tug of the latex suit against my skin. There was a predatory grace in my stride as I began to move toward them. I didn't feel like a victim. I felt like a storm that had been squeezed into a sexy, athletic frame. The three men hesitated for a heartbeat. I was a tall six-foot-one tower of black shimmer, and even without a gun, I was the most dangerous thing they had ever seen.

  They charged. They were moving as fast as their young legs could carry them, but to me, it looked like they were swimming through thick honey. My mind was sharp, my reactions honed by the cybernetics.

  The first man reached for me, his arms wide, trying to catch me in a bear hug. I didn't retreat. I met his momentum with a move that was as fluid as water. I stepped deep into his space, my body pressing flush against his for a fleeting, breathless second. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest and the frantic, heavy beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his tunic. For that one moment, we were intimate, a tangle of heat and sweat, before I seized his leading arm.

  I let out a low, guttural exhale, a sound that was more of a growl than a breath. I arched my back, my cybernetic frame humming with power, and launched him. He didn't just fall; he flipped through the air, a blur of silver-clad limbs, before crashing into the sand with a violent resonance that shook the floor of the arena. He stayed down, his eyes rolling back as the breath was driven out of him.

  I didn't stop to admire the wreckage. The second attacker lunged at me from the side, his fist aimed for my shoulder. I dropped into a low, sweeping crouch, the latex of my suit pulling tight over the heavy, powerful curves of my glutes. My leg whipped out in a arc, my tactical heel carving a line through the sand. It was a surgical strike. I caught him squarely behind the ankles, and his feet vanished from under him as if the ground had been pulled away. He hit the sand with a sharp gasp, the movement stealing the air from his lungs before he could even blink.

  Then came the third. He was the largest of the group, a broad-shouldered boy with a square jaw and eyes that were wide with a mix of fear and excitement. He didn't try to strike me. He hunted the tackle, lowering his head and slamming his weight into my midsection with a force that sent us both tumbling into the sand.

  I went down hard, the grit of the arena floor scratching against the obsidian suit. I felt his large, calloused hands grip the shimmering material of my thighs, trying to pin me down. But as I hit the floor, I didn't scramble away. I didn't fight to get up.

  Ohh…he wants to fight like that huh

  I welcomed him into the lethal embrace of my guard.

  The struggle on the ground was a frantic, intimate heat. We were a knot of limbs in the white sand, the sun beating down on us as we rolled. He tried to rise, to use his weight to crush me, but my legs were everywhere, supple, powerful, and relentless. I felt the sweat on his brow drip onto my chest as he strained against me.

  In one blur of motion, I "hiked" my hips upward. It was a move of pure hip strength. My thighs, thick and defined under the black vacuum-sealed latex, snapped shut around his neck like a vise. I could feel the ripple of my own muscles as they locked into place, the power of my lower body becoming an unbreakable trap.

  I locked my ankles tight, my calf pressing firmly against the back of his head, forcing him down into the hollow of my lap. It was the Triangle Choke, a masterclass in mma. It was incredibly, viscerally sexy. As I pulled his head toward my chest, the air left him in a long, slow hiss. He was pinned against the soft, unyielding strength of my legs, his face turning a deep red.

  He struggled, his hands clawing at my obsidian-clad thighs, but he was in a losing game. I watched his eyes. He wasn't just in pain; he was in awe.

  Even as his strength faded against the steady, rhythmic pressure of my legs, he was smiling, a small, dazed expression of someone who couldn't believe he was passing out in such a beautiful way. His struggle slowed to a desperate, shallow rhythm until his eyes finally glazed over. He went limp, his head resting against the curve of my hip.

  I stayed there for a heartbeat, breathless and victorious amidst the fallen. I released the lock, my legs sliding apart with a soft, rubbery sound. I stood up slowly, the sand falling from the obsidian latex like silver dust.

  I looked down at the five men. They were all alive, but they were broken. One by one, the stretcher-bearers rushed onto the sand, their faces pale as they looked at the carnage I had caused without using a single blade. All five guards were groaning, clutching their bruised bodies. It was an epic, total victory.

  I stood in the center of the arena, my hands on my hips, my platinum hair a bright banner in the wind. I let out a long breath, the fight tiring, the adrenaline finally starting to cool into a deep, ecstatic satisfaction.

  I looked down at the five men. They were all alive, but they were broken. One by one, the stretcher-bearers rushed onto the sand, their faces pale as they looked at the carnage I had caused without using a single blade. All five guards were groaning, clutching their bruised bodies or staring at the sky with vacant, confused eyes. It was an epic, total victory.

  I stood in the center of the arena, my hands on my hips, my platinum hair a bright banner in the wind. I let out a long, smoky breath, the adrenaline finally starting to cool into a deep, ecstatic satisfaction.

  The announcer’s voice was shaking. "I... I have no words! A display of martial mastery that defies the imagination! The “nun” Maiden didn't just defeat the Guard; she dismantled them! Look at the grace! Look at the power!"

  The crowd didn't just cheer; they screamed. The whole stadium was in a state of extreme, carnal excitement. I could see people pointing at my legs, their voices a chaotic hum of admiration for the gal who had just strangled a soldier with her bare legs. They had come for a show, and I had given them a show they would talk about for decades.

  I looked toward the stands. I saw Joshua standing up, his popcorn bag empty, his face a mask of pure, beaming pride. Eren was dancing on the bench, her tail waving like a flag. Even Alan seemed to have snapped out of his funk for a moment, his eyes wide as he watched me.

  But then, the atmosphere shifted. The grounds were cleared, the blood of the Basilisk and the sweat of the guards swept away by magical brooms. The announcer’s voice took on a deeper, more serious tone.

  "And now... the final trial. The legend of the Cladis Mountains. The man who has seen no woman, heard no song, and felt no touch for thirty years! The Ultimate Paladin!"

  From the dark tunnel on the opposite side, the Elder Monk walked out. He moved with a slow, heavy step, his long grey beard swaying against his chest. He looked like he was made of old stone and ancient magic. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the Prince. He looked at me.

  I saw his eyes, hazel, sharp, and filled with a sudden, profound shock. For thirty years, he had lived in silence. He had perfected his magic in a world of ice and rock. And now, the first woman he was seeing was a six-foot-one warrior in skin-tight obsidian latex, her body still gleaming with the sweat of a visceral fight.

  He stopped ten meters away, his massive sword resting on his shoulder. He looked like he had been struck by lightning.

  Suddenly, I heard a familiar pop of magical energy. I looked toward the stands, and my jaw dropped.

  Eren had opened her dimensional storage right above the sand. From the shimmering violet rift, a bundle of yellow fabric fell, fluttering down like a dying bird. It landed at my feet.

  It was the yellow sundress from the general store.

  I stood there, looking down at the bright marigold linen in complete confusion. I looked up at Eren. She was waving her hands frantically, pointing at the dress and then at the Monk. She was trying to tell me something, a plan she had learned or cooked up on the fly.

  What? I thought, my mind racing. She wants me to put on the dress? In the middle of the arena?

  I looked at the Monk, who was still staring at me as if I were a ghost. I looked at the Prince, who was leaning over the railing of the VIP box with a look of intense, hungry curiosity. Then I looked at the dress.

  I understood. An overpowered reclusive monk who hasn’t seen a female in 3 decades.

  I remember the picture on an advertisement poster that Eren showed me of the reclusive monk, his dead wife of 30 years had worn a very similar yellow dress.

  I reached down and picked up the yellow sun dress, holding it in my blood-stained hands. I looked at the fifty thousand people watching me, then back at the Monk.

  "You want a show?" I whispered, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across my face. "I'll give you a show."