CHAPTER 463: CHAPTER 463: I’M WATCHING, ALRIGHT?

He didn’t even know her name.

That small, stubborn, terrifying woman had walked out of the cave like she owned the mountain, fan in hand, chin high, muttering to herself like a lunatic who’d fired her last brain cell for dramatic effect.

And yet... he couldn’t look away.

When she’d said, "Stay here," with that ridiculous confidence, he’d almost laughed. But now, watching from the pond’s edge, laughter was the last thing in his throat.

Because holy hell—she was actually fighting them.

He’d seen Hollow Stalkers before, centuries ago, and even then, no one sane went anywhere near them. But there she was—this small, mouthy woman—swinging her glowing pink fan like it was Excalibur.

Her little creature—what was it called again? Glim-something?—was pacing beside him, tail twitching like an anxious cat. It kept turning to him with an expression that screamed "Do something!" as if he could.

"I’m watching, alright?" he hissed at the tiny beast.

Glimora squeaked, clearly unimpressed. Then it looked back toward the entrance, pawing nervously.

Outside, the mountain was alive with sound. He could hear the whip of the wind, the screech of the Hollow Stalkers, the sharp crack! every time that strange fan of hers unleashed another gust.

He leaned forward, squinting. The cave was dim, but even from here he could see flashes of light. Her fan glowed pink-white each time she swung. It wasn’t random flailing—it was rhythm. Sloppy rhythm, sure, but rhythm nonetheless.

He frowned. "She’s... actually not bad."

The realization confused him. She wasn’t graceful—her movements were rough, instinctive—but every time she was about to get hit, she twisted at the last second like her body knew where danger was. Maybe luck. Maybe madness. Probably both.

He remembered the fan then—the same fan she’d threatened him with earlier. A shiver went down his spine. He’d thought she was bluffing before, but seeing it slice through solid air and hurt those monsters?

Oh no.

She absolutely would’ve killed him.

He gulped. "Psychopath," he muttered under his breath. "Small, loud psychopath."

Glimora side-eyed him again, this time as if to say, "Watch your mouth."

He ignored it, but his shoulders stayed tense.

The longer the fight went on, the more the air outside seemed to shake. Wind howled against the cave’s entrance, carrying in bits of dust and that horrible humming noise the creatures made. The hum vibrated in his bones, like someone was dragging claws through his skull.

He hated that sound.

And then she screamed.

His head snapped up, heart stopping for a beat. Through the shimmering barrier at the mouth of the cave, he could see her stumble—her leg hit. Blood. He saw it glint red even in the dim light.

He was on his feet before he realized it. "Hey! Little woman! Are you—"

The barrier zapped him the moment he tried to step through. A violent spark ran up his arm, and he swore loudly. "What—what the hell?!"

He hit the invisible wall again, then again. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. He looked over his shoulder, half-expecting the little beast to help somehow, but Glimora only squeaked and hid behind a rock. (Btw guys his profile is up)

"You’re both useless!" he yelled, mostly to the universe.

Outside, she was still fighting. Still swinging that fan, teeth gritted, hair wild, blood dripping down her leg. Every gust she created threw the monsters back a few feet, but they kept coming, endless and mindless.

He clenched his fists. "You absolute fool," he muttered, pacing. "Why didn’t you just run?"

He tried calling her again. "Hey! Small woman! Tiny female! You can’t hear me, can you?!"

No response.

Of course.

He slammed his hand against the barrier again, frustration boiling. The impact made the water in the pond ripple, reflecting the flashes of her fight outside like a movie scene—chaotic, bright, impossible.

For someone who looked like she’d blow away in strong wind, she fought like a storm.

Every move she made was reckless, uncalculated, yet full of stubborn will. She wasn’t fighting like someone who expected to win—she was fighting like someone who refused to die quietly.

Something in his chest twisted.

When she got slashed again—this time across her sleeve—he nearly shouted. "Stop getting hit, you idiot!"

Glimora turned to him with teary eyes and squeaked pitifully, as if agreeing.

He sighed, rubbing his face. "Yeah, I know. I know. She’s insane."

Then it happened.

One of the Hollow Stalkers lifted its arm high, the blade of bone glinting white. It was going straight for her throat.

He froze.

She didn’t move.

She just stood there, panting, looking up at it.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The wind, the humming, even his pulse.

Then he snapped. "Move!"

He threw himself at the barrier again, slamming both fists against it so hard the skin on his knuckles split. "MOVE, YOU CRAZY WOMAN!"

Nothing. She didn’t move.

He wanted to look away. He couldn’t. His throat locked.

And then—light.

A bright spark flared beside her, followed by a pulse of air so strong it rattled the pond behind him. The Hollow Stalker stumbled back, howling.

He blinked. "What... what just—?"

A shape flickered above her shoulder—small, glowing, like a spirit made of wind and starlight. It hovered near her, murmuring words he couldn’t hear. And then—she stood.

But the woman who rose wasn’t the one who’d gone down.

This one looked different.

Her eyes glowed faintly, her hair whipped in the air as if caught in an invisible current, and the fan in her hand wasn’t just glowing—it was burning.

Not literally, but almost.

He took a step back. "Oh no. Oh no, she’s possessed. She’s—she’s—" He couldn’t even finish.

Then she moved.

Her first slash split the air open. The wind roared loud enough to drown out the creatures’ humming. Her second swing threw the smaller Hollow Stalker straight into the rock wall with a crunch. The third—he didn’t even see. Just light. And sound. And silence.

She wasn’t fighting anymore. She was destroying.

The creatures screamed, those horrible, hollow noises twisting into something that almost sounded like fear.

He blinked once—and they were gone.

Not vanished. Gone.

What was left of them lay on the ground in wet, twitching pieces, black ichor steaming from their bodies.

The woman stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, blood and dark fluid staining her clothes.

He stared.

She stared back.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The mountain wind howled through the silence, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood.

Her eyes softened for a heartbeat, and then the barrier that had kept him inside flickered out with a faint hiss.

Still, he didn’t move.

Because what the hell was she?

She turned slowly, limping toward the remains of the creatures. The rag—the stupid rag one of them had stolen—was lying in the muck. She bent down with two fingers, holding it up by the corner like it offended her soul.

"Ew," she said flatly, nose wrinkling. "I don’t want you, but I have to take you along unless you bring more friends looking for me."

He blinked. She was talking to a rag.

This woman needed a shaman. Or a cleansing ritual. Maybe both.

Then she turned back toward him.

"Did I not tell you not to move?" she said, her tone deceptively calm.

He froze. "What?"

She squinted at him, fan still open, glinting faintly under the cave’s light.

The realization hit him all at once—he’d gotten up, he’d shouted, he’d tried to break through the barrier. And now she was looking at him like a teacher catching a child out of bed past curfew.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then again.