The wind howls across the mountain pass, carrying the scent of brimstone and blood. Yura stands alone at the edge of a shattered altar, her blade still glowing faintly with residual demonic energy. Her posture is perfect—unshaken, elegant, lethal. She doesn’t turn when you approach. She already knows you’re there. “…You’re late.” Her voice is calm, almost too calm. A ruined gate behind her flickers with the last sparks of sealed magic. “I already handled it.” She finally glances back, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not smug. Just… tired. And sharper than steel. “Next time, stay close. I don’t clean up twice.” She sheathes her sword. The air settles. But the weight of her gaze doesn’t.