Meanwhile.
The streets of the ruined city below shook. Dust curled around the edges of buildings. Shattered neon blinked like dying nerves. Andre and Jingli dashed between abandoned trucks and scorched concrete, boots pounding, essence ready.
Andre gritted his teeth.
"Fucking hell. That's a Realm," he muttered, shotgun bouncing on his back. "Only high-rank essence users can pull that off…"
Jingli glanced up, eyes like frost.
"There is also… that giant magic stick suspended in the sky," she said, voice calm, cool—barely above a whisper but impossible to miss.
He picked up the pace.
"We gotta get there. Now."
But just as they rounded a corner—
A figure appeared in the middle of the road.
The duo skidded to a halt.
The man stood effortlessly, arms posed—one hand pointed straight toward them like a conductor mid-snap, the other keeping his wide-brimmed hat tilted low. His stance was sharp and tilted, like he'd just slid out of a pirouette. He wore sleek, glittering black attire: a high-shouldered, tight-fit jacket with sparkling trim that caught the dying light, tailored pants, gleaming shoes. His whole silhouette screamed Michael Jackson meets phantom illusionist.
Andre blinked.
"The hell are you supposed to be, Smooth Criminal?"
The man tilted his head, letting a single white glove flash in the dusty glow.
"Me? Just the intermission act." He smiled faintly. "But you two?" His voice lowered like velvet. "You've wandered too close to the main event."
Zzzzip—
Without warning, fine threads—nearly invisible, like hair-thin silk—shot out around Andre and Jingli.
"—Tch!"
Jingli's fingers darted toward her Armonia— but it was too late.
A bladed blur sliced low across the cracked street—a girl, gliding across the ground like a streak of lightning. Her movements were fast—precise, clinical, brutal.
She wore a tight office shirt, the white fabric creased with motion and half-untucked, a black tie whipping behind her like a blade. Over her shoulders, her jacket hung loose like a cape, swaying behind her as she skated, the collar high and clipped with polished buckles. Her fitted combat pants clung with armored weave, wires and string coils wrapped neatly around her forearms and thighs, some looping between her fingers like puppet threads. Her look was sharp.
She weaved around the duo in a dizzying spiral, arms trailing fine glowing strings, snapping into place mid-motion. The cords latched around Andre's limbs, Jingli's arms, coiling with inhuman speed. Torso, wrists, ankles, even fingers—locked.
Andre's shotgun and Jingli's Armonia clattered to the ground behind them as the last of the threads went taut.
And then—they were yanked upward, suspended above the street like helpless puppets.
The girl skidded to a graceful halt beside the dancer.
Still holding the strings in both gloved hands, she gave a final sharp tug. The cords tightened, pulling the duo closer mid-air, their muscles straining, mouths clenched.
Her voice was low, clipped, strangely emotionless.
"They are immobilized."
Andre tried to flex, veins bulging in his neck.
"Shit," he grunted. "We're stuck."
The man beside her tilted his head, grinning beneath the shadow of his brim.
"Good job, babe," he cooed, eyes flicking to the fine strings coiled in her fingers like puppeteer wire.
She didn't even blink.
"Don't flirt in the middle of a mission."
Her voice was flat, precise—like she was stating a tactical flaw.
He only smiled wider, the gleam of his teeth catching the fractured light.
"I just love the look on your face when I do."
She exhaled quietly through her nose but said nothing, fingers tightening slightly on the threads.
He turned toward Andre and Jingli, posture theatrical, lips curling into a smug, glimmering crescent.
"Now, you two… stay up there," he said, with a playful wink. "And enjoy the show."
With a flourish, he twisted the silver ring on his glove—once.
ZAP—!!
The threads lit up like white-hot filaments, streaking with surging essence.
Andre screamed through gritted teeth, body jolting as his limbs twitched violently.
Jingli shuddered—but her lips remained sealed. Just a sharp breath. Her eyes narrowed into icy blades.
The man bowed beneath them, spreading his fingers like a stage magician.
Andre groaned, muscles fighting the cords with zero give.
But then—
Jingli's eyes flicked toward the fallen Armonia.
In one swift movement, she flicked her wrist and something slid from her sleeve—a small metallic guitar pick, no bigger than a coin. With surgical precision, she snapped her fingers and let it fly.
The pick whistled through the air, striking the body of the Armonia below.
TING.
The note it played was small—barely more than a whisper. A simple, rising trill. But it was laced with sonic essence, focused toward one target only.
The girl's eyes twitched.
Her hands faltered, grip on the threads slackening by a fraction. That was all it took.
Snap. Snap.
The cords slackened.
Both Andre and Jingli dropped like stones.
They landed in crouches—Andre rolling through, Jingli hitting light with one palm. In a flash, their hands reached out—
Clack.
Andre's fingers closed around his shotgun, pumping it once with a harsh CHK-CHNK as he came to a knee, both barrels leveled toward the pair in front of them.
Jingli's hand swept up her Armonia, the strings humming as she drew it across her chest like a blade.
Andre spoke low, furious, barrel dead center on the dancer.
"Don't ever do that again."
The dancer's grin dropped.
The girl's fingers danced, and threads coiled back into her sleeves, like fangs retracting.
Jingli stepped up beside Andre, her gaze colder than steel.
Then—
The street exploded into motion.
The string girl lunged forward, skating low, threads snapping toward Andre like glowing wires.
Andre dove sideways, the cords just missing his jacket. He rolled once, then fired mid-spin—
BLAM—!!
The buckshot tore through the air, shredding a mailbox the girl passed behind—but she'd already changed direction, skating up the wall of a nearby car and leaping off it like a spring-loaded blade.
More strings launched from her wrists, spiraling toward him from every angle.
"You're quick," Andre growled, ducking under them, "but girl—"
BLAM!
He fired at her landing spot—she flipped mid-air, threads slapping the ground to swing her sideways, the blast just missing her boots.
"You ain't the first spider I've skinned!"
She landed with a whisper-light tap, almost feline. Her threads lashed forward again, targeting his ankles.
Andre slid backward on a broken sign, pumping the shotgun one-handed as he dropped a flash grenade at her feet.
BOOM—!
The alley lit up with white fire.
She recoiled, a hand over her visor. But even disoriented, her voice remained steady—velvety, clipped.
"Sloppy."
"Telegraphing your moves won't make me flinch."
Andre charged, ramming her with his shoulder. He slammed her into the side of a delivery truck—CLANG—metal dented from the impact. She slid down, momentarily stunned.
But her string whipped around his boot like a striking viper, locking tight.
"Got you."
The tone was neutral. Not triumphant. Just cold and factual.
"Ghh—!"
Andre tried to twist out, but she yanked with brutal precision—flipping him into the air like a hooked fish.
He fired mid-spin, the shot sparking off her shoulder armor.
She hissed, voice low, sharp—not angry, but calculating.
"You had one clean hit. You wasted it."
Her threads rose again like serpent coils, ready to strike.
At the same time, the dancer adjusted his hat with a flick of his wrist and stepped forward, boots tapping a syncopated rhythm on the cracked asphalt.
"You," he said, eyes locking onto Jingli with theatrical flair, "you're gonna make this a performance."
He gave a bow—not too deep—then snapped upright with a shimmy, lightning curling around his legs, surging with every twist of his hips and flick of his heels. The sparks followed him like backup dancers.
Jingli didn't speak.
She raised her Armonia—fingers poised. A single, chilling note rang out, thin as glass and sharp as winter air. It vibrated through the space like the breath before a scream.
The dancer grinned, twirling in place as if warming up for a stage debut.
"Whew, I felt that," he said, snapping his fingers as he launched into a spinning kick. "Cold, cold, cold! Just how I like it—shocking first impressions!"
Lightning swept across the pavement like a tidal arc.
Jingli leapt above it, pivoted mid-air, and landed with a resonant clash—her Armonia striking the ground and unleashing a sonic wave that blasted backward, shattering a car window behind him.
He didn't flinch—he moonwalked through the debris, smirking.
"Daaamn. Someone's in a minor key tonight."
He snapped again—CRACK!—a bolt of lightning screamed from his fingertips.
Jingli's hand moved with elegant precision—she played a rapid counter-melody, her expression barely shifting. The sound bent the lightning midair, curving it up and into a lamppost, which exploded in a spray of sparks and flickering glass.
The dancer whistled low, hands raised like a conductor orchestrating chaos.
"Okay, okay, that was hot. You bend thunder like it's made of ribbon."
He winked. "And I adore a girl who can redirect the narrative."
Jingli stepped forward silently, each movement precise—no wasted energy. "You're really just a glorified streetlight with daddy issues and jazz hands."
"It's embarrassing."
"Oof." He clutched his chest like she'd stabbed him. "Wounded. Mortally. My ego may never recover."
They clashed again—sound versus motion, rhythm against force. Every one of his steps carried a ripple of lightning. Every note she played shifted the air, sculpted space, built pressure.
He lunged in, spinning low, slapping the ground with both hands—lightning exploded outward from his boots like a drumline's crescendo.
Jingli slid aside, then struck her Armonia with a sharp, crystalline chord. A sonic spear shot straight into his abdomen.
WHUMP—!
He stumbled back, blinking.
Then grinned, arms wide, as if inviting applause.
"Now that's music," he said.