Chapter 22: Rivals Side by Side.

“Overkill, Pink Chick.”
Flo’s words were sharp, but he was secretly grateful.
Thank his arch-nemesis?
No way he’d stoop that low.

The two were well-acquainted, their teamwork seamless, like they’d wielded the same sword for a decade.
Rivals who clashed daily, yet they knew each other’s moves better than anyone.

Ifrora didn’t take offense, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile, a faint glint flickering in her crimson eyes.
Her slender hand swung her sword, piercing monster after monster.
She leaped lightly, her sword aura slashing at a Confessor—who dodged in panic, unaware of the green mark already on his shoulder.

The Confessor raised his staff to counter with a spell, but a chill shot down his spine.
A sharp pain erupted at his neck, blood spraying.
His chant cut off, he collapsed, eyes wide, never knowing who struck him.

This pattern repeated: Ifrora drew most of the attention head-on, while Flo, like a phantom, used his signature flash-strike to slit the throats of isolated Confessors.
It worked smoothly at first, but the enemy grew wary after seeing their comrades fall.

Still, these Confessors were arrogant and scheming, with no real teamwork.
Flo and Ifrora, bound by a decade of rivalry, were flawless in their coordination, leaving no openings.

The Confessors dwindled, their summoned monsters unable to keep up with Ifrora’s incineration speed.
Finally, they stopped summoning, switching to a barrage of magic attacks.

“Smart ones take out the backline first; idiots keep fighting monsters,” Flo thought.

On the other side of the orphanage, Augustus sneezed loudly.
“Catching a cold?”

The Confessors clearly underestimated Ifrora.
Magic rained down, but instead of harming her, it seemed to fuel her, her aura growing fiercer.

“You bond-bragging bastards, get lost!” a Confessor roared, losing it.

“Dead men don’t talk.”
Flo’s voice came from behind, laced with exhaustion, his body now marked with several wounds.
“But you think I’ve got protagonist vibes? Off you go, then.”

The Confessor dropped to his knees, clutching Flo’s cloak.
“Don’t kill me! I…”

Flo chuckled at the familiar cowardice, kicked him away, and finished him with a slash.

As he moved to flash away, his legs froze.
Black thorns sprouted from the ground, coiling around his legs.
Their spikes pierced his clothes and skin, drawing blood.
The thorns tightened, as if to crush his bones.

“Trapped by a sneak, huh.”
Flo gave a bitter smile.
He tried using his new nature magic, but realized he could only enchant his weapons—nothing else.

Call on Aphrosia?
Her time magic might free him, but transform in front of Ifrora?
That girl would never let it go:
“Pointy-Ears spent ten days in church begging the Goddess to turn you into a pretty girl to please me? Wanna be my little puppy?”

The thought alone made Flo’s scalp tingle—Ifrora would absolutely do it.

The thorns kept climbing, pain surging like a tide.