Ayame sprang to her feet, sword raised in a tight grip. The clicking of high heels echoed once more through the golden void, growing louder, closer.
Then she appeared again.
The mute woman.
She moved with unshaken grace, her golden-embroidered yukata flowing like liquid silk, her face a mask of serene, unreadable beauty. There was no hostility in her expression. No amusement. No cruelty.
Just silence.
Ayame gritted her teeth, planting her stance firmly. Although she didn't quite understand what was going on, she refused to be caught off guard again.
The woman's hand drifted to the hilt of her katana.
Not this time.
Ayame lunged forward, her blade flashing in a precise, lightning-fast arc.
But it was all for naught.
Her sword whiffed through empty air, as if cutting at a ghost.
The woman was already gone.
Ayame's instincts screamed at her. She twisted, spun, slashed—but the woman was nowhere to be seen.
Then, from behind…
She felt a sharp tug at her collar.
