"You bastard—!!"
The sheer intensity in her voice fueled her body with bloodlust.
She moved.
Three centuries of cultivation. Vitality-thief techniques refined to the point where she had emptied continents. The specific acceleration of a body built past every ceiling this region acknowledged.
Her hand reached for his face.
Passed through.
Not through him — not an evasion, not a speed differential she could compensate for. Through the 'space' where he was, through the solid visual fact of a man standing in front of her, like a hand passing through the reflection in still water while the water holds perfectly still.
She blinked.
Her hand was reaching through nothing.
He was still there.
Still looking at her.
The butterfly landed on her shoulder.
Black.
One.
Its wings opening and closing once, with the specific unhurried pace of something that has not arrived alone.
"Fufu."
