Chapter 19Option Three

Like a tide of shadow and hunger, the Husks flood into the town square—a relentless surge that swallows the cobblestones beneath obsidian bodies, their hollow eyes fixed upon the single light that dares stand against them. In the heart of this maelstrom, Peach lowers herself into a stance that feels both foreign and achingly familiar, her body moving with the memory of stars that have never touched her skin, yet dance through her veins as if born to them.

Above her, Zobito’s head floats as a celestial chrysanthemum, each petal a sentinel, each rotation a calculation—the divine machine reading threats and opportunities from angles no mortal eye could perceive, mapping the battlefield in patterns of light and shadow.

“Ok Zobito, day one Celestial intern reporting for duty.” Peach’s quip cuts through the approaching shadows, focused, determined—a warrior’s bravado wrapped around an innocent spark. “I have no idea what I’m doing. How should we kick things off?”

“I have analysed the battlefield, created predictive mapping, and simplified to two options for you.” Zobito’s radiance hums with academic precision, each word measured, each syllable carrying the weight of tactical certainty. “Option One: Defensive pattern—hold this ground, eliminate Husks as they reach you. Low risk, barely sustainable but we’ll need to avoid the Rock Guais. I will default to this until you decide to change.”

“Ok, what’s option two?”

“Option Two: Strategic targeting—I’ve mapped three Fox Spirits positioned behind the ranks, commanding the flow. Eliminate them, and the Husks lose coordination.”

“Nice, nice! The classical approach: To catch the chicken thief, catch the fox first.”

“I believe the idiom is ‘to defeat the enemy by capturing their chief’.”

“Yeah, sure, you know what I meant.”

The Husks surge closer—ten paces, then eight, then six—their advance a wall of chitinous death closing in like a vice.

“How about we try something my way? Option three…” Peach draws a breath that fills her lungs with preparation, her lips fold into a perfect line, and then—

“YIP! YIIPP! YIIPPPP!”

The sound cuts through the night like a blade through silk—sharp, unexpected, a mimicry more practiced than before, it freezes the frontline in its tracks. Husks collide with the ranks behind them, a cascade of confusion rippling through the horde. On the rooftops, Fox Spirits stare with widened eyes, their control fracturing like glass beneath a hammer.

“Now we’re ready for option two.” Peach’s armour ignites, each plate blazing with celestial fire—dragonfly wings snap open like blades of light, and she launches herself onto a confused Husk, using its carapace as a springboard to rocket toward the rooftops, leaving trails of starlight in her wake. “Let’s go get them fox thieves!”

The Fox Spirits yip in panicked unison, their commands sharpening, clawing at the disoriented Husks below—but the moment of control has already slipped through their grasp like smoke through fingers.

Peach lands on the rooftop tiles with the grace of a falling star, her momentum carrying her forward in a blur of light and motion. She launches herself toward the nearest Fox before it can react.

“You again—”

THUMP!

“Miss me?”

The impact echoes through the night. Peach’s gauntlet closes around the Fox’s snout like an artisan’s vice, her grip unbreakable. She spins, rolls, uses her body like a weapon, pinning the creature against the rooftop tiles with alloy kneepads locking its limbs in place. “Stay still, puppy!”

But the Fox is not alone. From neighbouring rooftops, two more Foxes turn—their eyes blazing with fury, their forms dropping into predatory stances. They rush toward Peach on all fours, leaping through the air like creatures of vengeance.

“Maiden Peach, close your eyes.” Zobito’s voice carries urgency wrapped in calm.

BOOM!

The chrysanthemum explodes into breaking dawn. Every petal spins, blooms, unleashes a light that scorches through retinas and leaves the world white-hot. The Foxes shriek, their eyes clamping shut against the searing brightness, crashing to the rooftop tiles in a tangle of limbs and whimpers.

“Flashbang! Very pacifist, but effective.” Peach keeps her own eyes squeezed tight, one hand still locked on the snout, her kneepads pinning the Fox’s struggling form.

“Hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.” She opens her eyes to find the Fox still pinned. Her finger lifts, jabs downward in rapid succession—strikes that should be precise, calculated, perfect.

“Hngnn—Yeeouch!” The Fox’s scream rips through the air, and Peach’s grip slips in surprise. “My head! You said this won’t hurt!”

“Sorry! I’m new to this divine warrior thing!” Peach’s voice carries equal parts apology and sarcasm. “Let me try again.”

Her fingers dance across the Fox’s face like hailstones—forehead, snout, cheeks—each strike landing with more enthusiasm than precision.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! OW!” The Fox’s tears stream freely now, mixing with its fur in dark streaks. “Stop! Stop! You’re terrible at this. The sleep pressure points are here.”

The creature actually points to the correct spots.

“Allow me.” Zobito’s petals drift closer, and three of them launch forward with unerring accuracy, striking the pressure points the Fox has so helpfully indicated. The creature’s body goes limp with relief, its breathing deepening into the slow rhythm of forced slumber.

“Yip! Yip! Yiiippp!” The remaining Foxes stagger upright, their vision still swimming, their control fractured—but not broken. Their commands ring out, sharp and desperate, and below them, the Husks respond, their hollow eyes turning upward, their carapaces beginning to climb the building like a swarm of obsidian ants scaling a mountain.

And behind it all, a presence looms—a Rock Guai, its bulk a moving mountain, its eyes fixed upon Peach with the ferocity of an avalanche waiting to fall.

“Husk Soldiers behind you, Peach.” Zobito’s warning cuts through the chaos.

“Got it!” Peach’s greaves snap, ignite, blaze with celestial fire. She spins, her leg cutting through the air in an arc of flame that scorches the Husks climbing behind her. They burst into pillars of black smoke, their forms disintegrating like prayer paper in a furnace.

“Zobito, cover me.” Peach’s voice carries command now—the confidence of a warrior finding her rhythm. “I’ll hold off the Husks, you take care of those foxes.”

“Affirmative.” Zobito’s bud accelerates toward the nearest Fox Spirit, the creature is ready. Claws slash through the air, but they pass through Zobito’s petals like wind through mist. Her physical form dispersing into hundreds of individual petals, revealing the glowing core within—a heart of light beating with celestial rhythm. The petals spiral, converge, wrap around the Fox Spirit’s arm like vines of light, then around its head like a halo of thorns. For a heartbeat, they pause, charged with power.

Then they release.

Pink lightning courses through the Fox’s body—devastating electricity: qi disruption that drains muscles and willpower to dust. The creature shrieks, its voice breaking into syllables of pure agony, then collapses to the ground, twitching, mumbling broken yips that fade into silence.

The petals flow back, reforming the spinning chrysanthemum.

The last Fox Spirit standing stares, stunned, disbelieving. Below, the Husks scramble without direction, their coordination shattered again. Defeat hangs in the air, and the Fox acknowledges it with a snarl of pure snobbery—nose upturned, ears flattened with disdain. It stoops with theatrical slowness, lifts its fallen comrade over one shoulder with deliberate dignity, and turns to flee—

“Tch… you may have beaten my useless friend here,” it spits with aristocratic disdain, “but let’s see how you do with the Rock—Oomph!”

SLAM!

The rooftop explodes. A gigantic rocky palm sweeps across the tiles like a cook’s hand wiping clean a board—swatting the Foxes into the air, sending them spinning through the night like broken puppets. The snobby Fox’s dignity, along with its body, tumbles end over end in a most embarrassing display.

“Whoa!” The warning escapes Peach’s lips a heartbeat too late. Ribbons of light shoot from her greaves like lifelines, but the Rock Guai’s swing carries the force of a mountain falling—too fast, too brutal, too inevitable. The tip of one gigantic finger catches her pauldron, and the impact launches her into the air like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

“Peach!” Zobito’s petals explode into motion, streaking through the night like a comet of concern.

But the armour remembers what Peach does not. Dragonfly wings flicker in rapid succession, each blink releasing controlled bursts of jet propulsion—not random, calculated, choreographed. The armour spins Peach’s body, redirects momentum, turns collision into acrobatics.

More ribbons of light shoot from greaves and gauntlets, wrapping around her form like guides, pulling, pushing, correcting. Her body rolls, then spins—one backflip, two, three, four, five—a cascade of motion that transforms disaster into performance. She lands with her weight perfectly distributed, one arm raised to shoulder height, head tilted into its crook, the other arm extended in opposite balance—a pose that speaks of mastery her mind has already learned.

“Are you alright, Maiden Peach?”

“Huh? Yeah.” Peach takes a breath that fills her lungs with purpose, straightens her back, tests her body with small hops left and right—checking, verifying, confirming everything still works. “Feeling great. Who’s next?”

From somewhere in the darkness, a faint rustling—and then, across the building, the Fox Spirit emerges once more. Its fur is dishevelled, its movements anything but dignified. It scrambles, frantic and desperate, snatching at its fallen comrades—one slung haphazardly over each shoulder in a most unceremonious manner. Its face shows the price of battle: bruises darkening like storm clouds, teeth missing in gaps that speak of impacts and pain. Most tellingly, that aristocratic snarl has vanished—replaced by pure, undignified fear.

“You… you won’t get out of this alive,” it gasps, voice cracking with terror where once it dripped with snobbery. “Have fun with the Rock Guais!”

Then it flees—not with the theatrical exit it had planned, but with the desperate, scrambling flight of something that has learned humility the hard way—vanishing into the woods like smoke, leaving behind only the echo of its threat and the real monsters it has abandoned.

The Rock Guais roar.