CHAPTER 464: CHAPTER 464: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE TIME FOR ME NOW?

He blinked. Again.

He had been doing that a lot since meeting this strange woman. Blinking. Staring. Questioning his life choices.

There she was, standing in the middle of torn monster corpses, covered in black goo and dirt, her hair sticking to her face, fan in one hand, rag in the other, looking like a murderous goddess who’d just crawled out of the underworld.

And somehow—somehow—she was still pretty.

He blinked again, slower this time. "The spirits really do have a sense of humor," he muttered.

Then she looked at him.

Not gently. Not kindly.

More like... she was deciding whether his head would look better attached or rolling across the floor.

"What?" he blurted.

"I told you not to move," she said, voice low and dangerous. "But since you did, I’ll deal with you now."

Deal with him?

He stiffened. That tone was the kind a hunter used before gutting a boar.

"Wait," he said, hands raised, "what do you mean you have time for me now?"

Her fan clicked open. The sound was like thunder to his nerves.

She tilted her head, face smooth and deadly calm. "Do you still think I was lying when I said I saved you?"

He didn’t even hesitate. "No, no, I believe you. Completely. Totally. May the gods strike me if I don’t."

She eyed him for a long moment. When lightning didn’t fall from the sky, she sniffed. "Hmph. Fine."

He stared at her—muddy, limping, absolutely terrifying—and realized, to his own shock, that he actually respected her now. Just a little.

And maybe that respect made her look even prettier, in the kind of dangerous way a cliff looks before you fall off it.

He said nothing. He valued his life too much.

Then a blur of white fur zipped into the clearing.

The little beast—Glimora—came running, squeaking wildly, and Isabella immediately crouched (well, more like half-collapsed) to catch it. "There you are, you little troublemaker!" she said, hugging it tight. Then her voice hitched, pain flashing across her face. "Ah—fuck!"

He flinched. "Are you alright?"

She groaned, pressing a hand to her injured leg. Her blood had soaked through the cloth, dark and sticky. "No, I’m perfectly fine," she said through clenched teeth. "I just love bleeding from my leg. It’s my favorite hobby."

He frowned. "How do we tend to the injury?"

She looked up at him as if he’d asked the dumbest question in the entire world. Her eyes were practically saying ’Are you stupid or just new here?’

Then, without answering, she froze.

Her gaze went blank for a moment—like her mind had gone somewhere else entirely. He tilted his head. "What are you doing? You look... possessed again."

"Shut up," she muttered.

He didn’t know who she was talking to. Maybe to him. Maybe to one of the gods. Maybe both.

Inside her head, something pinged.

[Ding! +55 Combat Points]

[+6 Strength]

[+8 Defense]

She stared at the glowing text that appeared in her vision and exhaled. "Oh, so now you want to be useful?"

Then she said, out loud, "How do I heal myself?"

He blinked. "Are you... talking to me?"

"No, I’m talking to the air, obviously," she snapped.

He decided not to respond to that.

Then her expression changed—sharp disbelief followed by pure fury. "What do you mean you don’t know?!" she shouted.

He jumped. "I didn’t say anything!"

"I wasn’t talking to you!"

"Well, stop yelling then!"

She groaned and clutched her head like she was about to strangle something invisible. "You are literally my system—you’re supposed to know these things!"

He frowned, whispering under his breath. "System? Is that what she calls her god?"

She kept arguing with thin air. Her face twisted in frustration; her fingers twitched; her fan was still in hand. If madness had a form, it was probably this woman.

Then, abruptly, she went still.

"Wait," she said slowly, "what do you mean the shop is locked?"

He blinked again. Shop? What shop?

"Open it!" she yelled, waving her hand at nothing. "I’m in pain, I do not have time for your jokes!"

Silence.

Then the glowing cube that had been faintly floating beside her just—blinked out of existence.

She froze. "Did you just... disappear?"

Silence again.

"Are you ghosting me?" she yelled into the air. "Oh, that is illegal!"

He was still standing there, utterly lost, as she turned to him with murder in her eyes. "Stay away from me."

He lifted both hands in surrender. "Gladly."

He took a small step back. She looked... done. Emotionally, physically, spiritually done.

And yet, as she sat there glaring, something in the air began to change.

A cold breeze rolled through the cave, carrying a hum—soft and deep, like a drumbeat from far away. Then the light shifted.

He blinked. "Wait... is that...?"

Above them, through the opening above the cave, a pale light began to form. A silver glow, gentle but sharp, spilling down like liquid.

The moon.

He hadn’t seen it fie how long now. For a moment, he just stared, silent. It was beautiful.

The light grew stronger, brighter, flooding the cavern until even the walls seemed to shimmer with it. It illuminated everything—the pond, the jagged rocks, the wet ground—and then something strange happened.

The light focused.

Not on them. Not on the waterfall.

On a patch of earth near the center of the cave, between stone and moss.

Isabella blinked blearily, still trying to keep her balance. "What... is that?"

He squinted. "The ground is glowing."

"No kidding."

She tried to stand but winced, clutching her injured leg. He took a step forward instinctively, but the look she shot him could have frozen lava.

"Don’t."

He stopped immediately. "Noted."

The moonlight grew sharper, almost solid now. The air shimmered where it touched the earth. The light pulsed once... twice...

Then the ground cracked.

From within the soil, something began to rise—a thin green stem, trembling as it broke through. The scent hit first: soft, floral, otherworldly. Then the petals unfurled—silver-white with faint hints of blue at their edges, glowing like they were made of moonlight itself.

A flower.

No—the flower.

The Moonpetal Lily.

He’d heard of it in ancient legends—one of the rarest plants, born only under divine moonlight, said to heal, to restore, to bind souls back together.

And now it was right there.

Her eyes widened, awe cutting through the exhaustion. "The Moonpetal Lily..." she whispered, breathless.

He looked from the flower to her—covered in blood, still half glaring, half amazed—and suddenly, somehow, he understood.

She wasn’t just some madwoman yelling at ghosts.

She was surviving.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached toward the light.

"That’s one of the resources," she murmured, voice thin with disbelief. "That’s what I need to save Shelia..."

The man frowned. "Who’s Shelia?"

She didn’t answer. Her focus was fixed entirely on that shimmering bloom. Her lips parted in quiet awe, her breath catching as the flower fully bloomed under the moonlight, radiant and alive.

For a moment, the entire cave seemed to hold its breath. Even the water stilled.

Her pain, her confusion, her anger—all of it fell away for that one brief, golden moment.

Her eyes shone with something rare. Hope.

And he found himself staring again.

That small, fierce, infuriating woman had just fought monsters, yelled at invisible gods, and now she was staring at a miracle like a child seeing the stars for the first time.

And he—he couldn’t look away.