In the ethereal breeze, Yu Zi Mo spun with the grace of a whispering wisp, her azure-hued robe fluttering softly around her. Her skin shimmered with a celestial glow; her long, fluttering lashes bordered eyes—alive, profound, and brimming with an essence too rare to be fathomed by ordinary means. As if breathed into being by the brushes of masterful hands, she stood, peerless in beauty and radiance. The Yu Clan beheld Yu Zi Mo, not only in admiration, but reverence, for she was a rare pearl of divine talent, graced with an unearthly gift—the spiritual prescience that granted her insight to hidden destinies, an enigma even the ancients could not decipher. Were it not for the formidable shadow of Shi Yi, hers would be the brightest beacon of glory.
Unaware as well as unperturbed, young Little Rascal sat atop his Nine-Headed Lion with resolute composure, ready, unwavering eyes upon the crowd. He had not flinched at the aura of enigma and uncertainty that shrouded him—mimicking the legend-like figure of Shi Yi—leaving none to claim an edge in the enigmatic duel before them all.
She spoke like melodies of strings falling into crystal waters, like pearls trickling on jade: “This young boy is an inscrutable one—a storm in his depths that I cannot navigate.”
Voices arose around her. With hurried steps, several figures advanced to the lake, vowing to bind him and aid their peer; this maiden, with youthfulness but an apparent mask—her strength known to them, manifesting in every movement of hers the divine pulse, the mystical current. It was clear. The girl of sixteen was not just mortal-born strength. They trusted and revered.
“I stand by orders, by fate,” she responded. “By duty placed upon my soul—to seal, by force if needed, the moment he appears.” It had only been the heartbeat of a dragon, the moment she stood transformed. Behind her emerged a constellation of ancient glyphs shimmered in a canvas of invisible ink. Like ancient manuscripts, inscribed with a thousand tales, unfolding their cryptic tales to all present.
“Strike!” Her gentle tone masked lethal frost. The characters that glowed vibrantly with celestial glow came to life, each word alive, pulsing with an unfathomable aura, an aura of power.
Lightning pierced the air. Little Rascal, in his quiet defiance, let the tempest escape his fingers: bolts thick enough to split mountains and scatter illusions. A symphony of electricity clashed upon those ethereal, golden runes—a battle of sheer forces. Each rune, upon meeting the storm, scattered like blooming petals. However, even as the runes seemed vanquished—vanishing into the ephemeral—they emerged again. Eternal echoes of divine wisdom.
It unfolded from every direction, glyphs cascading from the heavens like whispers of gods in their hymns—a vision painted against the skies by forces older than time. A wave surged—not in water nor flame, but an overwhelming aura—calm, subtle, yet brimming ominously. Like ancient seas preparing for wrath, its energy threatened both the heavens and the clouds that dared linger nearby.
In response Little Rascal lifted twin silver Disc Wheels, their surfaces gleaming; they turned against the tide with a haunting sound—an earthy harmony that crushed every glowing rune beneath their celestial strength. It cracked runes to dust and scattered the fabric of their bindings. But with a voice clear as dawn heralding the light—a whisper so powerful that it shook the skies and the sacred ground beneath it, Yu Zi Mo released “A Scroll for an Eon!”
She was ablaze—literally—in divine fire. Her form was wrapped in ethereal brilliance. In an unfathomable gesture, the glyphs multiplied, each now tangible; a grand tapestry weaving her will. The skies dimmed, as a force of celestial might attempted to seal the battlefield, and the boy and beast within it.
Yet Little Rascal was unmoved by fear. As glyphs rained above him, he drove forth the Disc Wheels forward again. The sound that escaped their turn resembled that of the very fabric of reality unraveling with them. His moon-laden silhouette was charged by a surge from his will; he fought against her might.
The Disc Wheels collided with glyphs and thunder. Sparks flared; symbols flayed into brilliant fragments like stardust. It sounded the battle hymn of divine wars.
“Seal!” Rain upon rain of glyphs—pure, brilliant, unrelenting.
“Unbind!” Shimmer in return. Light burst into fire. Sparks flew, like a great cataclysm, as though comets had plunged into endless oceans, and now the storm fought with no restraint; its wave surged with every symbol.
Those in the crowd—gifted ones they were, yet none would remain unshaken by the spectacle of two forces tearing through one another—the girl with her sacred scroll in command, and a child born into thunder’s fury. They scattered like windblown dust from a great war. The heavens trembled; the skies quaked in thunder; the lands trembled; the trees bent under gusts that bore power no common storms contained; the lake itself surged into chaos at their feet.
As the Disc Wheels finally unleashed their final, silver burst, like volcanic fury erupting into celestial domains—the glyph-wrought tapestry tore asunder. In radiant splinters, they faded from heaven.
“Yu Zi Mo’s spirit glyph magic is useless?” the crowd muttered. Cold unease prickled their skins.
The girl, undaunted, drew might and power from her tears and sweat. The air shimmered; water droplets coalesced into sharp, glowing lances. She spun her arms, and the heavens wept for her—cradled amidst rain laced with symbols, she twirled with the elegance of an immortal dancing above fate.
Yet upon that storm-sheen surface of the tempest, a flicker of a knowing grin formed from little Little Rascal’s rosy lips.
This—this rain—invited his wrath; with just one touch from his lightning, the damage would escalate, and so his eyes burned brighter as a call for war.
A storm’s whisper; petals of light surged—whizzing toward him, sharp as daggers from an army of sky-sword bearing assailants in a dance of death.
“Break!” A cry shattered the air, a flash of brilliance followed by thunder; he called upon golden brilliance once more; he was its vessel. As though a war deity himself unleashed, destruction followed each strike.
Crumbled fell petals, faded the symbols, cracked the air around them with fury uncontained—but the girl danced, unyielding, unbroken, until the final bolts crashed close—searing past her.
The thunder stole the sleeve from her right limb; her arm—a porcelain limb now bruised red from where it had met her defenses in desperate resistance. With the final stroke of lightning diffused into the land itself—she endured, but not completely—she bore marks. Another instant and none would have been spared her fate.
He called from the sky—a wielder of lightning unlike any, one who had made rain the conduit of his wrath. For the onlookers, such might meant certain peril.
Dark clouds hung low again. From within the heavens’ veil came yet another bolt, this of deep azure hue descending not from mortal hands—and the world recoiled as a mountain crumbled beside the fighters.
“A force too great—a skill wielded with mastery beyond our comprehension.” Their minds were ablazed, not by dread but admiration.
But as blue lightning lit the skies—a duel continued.
With a flicker—Little Rascal raised again the Golden Mirror of the Suanni—an artifact of great power, one to seal skies and pierce shadows—it unleashed once more a tempest against its opponent. Lightning arced through air. Thunder screamed defiance.
Yet amidst this tempest, the girl rose—a defensive umbrella blooming from the heavens, spun in threads that shielded; still, she struggled—against youth and power that had yet to know fatigue.
Yet even her protection cracked: the boy—swift as storms unleashed—summoned forth a bone shear; an instrument so deadly, yet delicate, that when he thrust its point skyward—the defense, the barrier, met her demise.
“Kacha!” A thunderous crash, a final breath. In its wake—two fragments remained of her shield. A golden bolt, unimpeded now, surged forward; striking the girl’s shoulder despite fading, final protections—the brilliance cascades. Pain, unspoken, surged anew.
And then—the shear—plunging again, unrelenting, a tempest incarnated into a tool, a whisper of death. The shattered fragments that fell were now beyond repair.
“Aiya! My sacred treasure!” Xiao Dian mourned—his visage a frown etched by regret. He treasured each treasure—yet in a battle as this, mercy and hesitation held peril. So he bore it. And without waiting, raised his hand to call a final lightning bolt from golden mirror in his grip—one final command that surged golden, ready to strike the final blow.
“Repel! Sealed by spirit force!”
Her voice—though soft—betrayer the fierce heart beating deep in her chest, a protective vestment wove from the very threads of ancient wisdom now glimmered on her frame.
Yet against the golden cascade—no garment could defend.
The armor splintered—golden laces burst with final defiance and shattered into radiant mist.
Her body—once draped—was revealed, like that of an ivory goddess caught mid-flight, stripped bare yet radiant in beauty and pain, now left unguarded. Yet still she fell, as though in a slow, silent flight. Her defenses shattered, the heavens had abandoned her.
Still—she did not yield.
Behind Yu Zi Mo, like a tapestry reappearing at death’s door, her spirit sigil magic flared once again—one final veil. She was bare—a figure painted across the sky’s palette, her glow blending with glyph’s brilliance to ward against one more surge.
For now, it shielded her—barely.
Little Rascal blinked slowly, watching as he considered. Then—his lips—pursed into a mischievous curve.
“You,” he noted with a slight tilt of curious head, “possess slender waist like a winding snake, and yet you lack my structure—your frame isn’t suited—your battle—suffers, surely.”
His voice—a teasing murmur.
“Wh… what…!” Her thoughts snapped into a scream of confusion; her essence faltered with the outburst; the tapestry quivered before her—a shield on the edge.
No words spoken, Little Rascal seized moment and fate in hand.
With his will—yet more thunder. The golden lightning surged into the air—renewing the storm with every breath!
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