CHAPTER 418: CHAPTER 418: TOO SLOW

She could see it, the smooth curve of the silk, the faint pink shimmer dancing across its edge. But no matter how far she reached, it kept slipping just beyond her grasp.

Her fingernails scraped the stone. The fan slid further away with a soft clink.

"No... no, no, no—come on!" Isabella gasped, dragging herself forward, her elbow digging into the ground, her body screaming in protest.

A low, wet sound came from behind her—a shuffle of feet and the crunch of gravel under too many legs. She could feel their breath now. Hot. Damp. Reeking of rot and old blood.

One of them exhaled right beside her ear.

The air trembled.

Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest.

They were closing in.

The shadows warped around her, stretching long fingers toward her back. She could see them in the corner of her vision—pale feet, cracked hooves, and long, trembling hands that almost brushed the ends of her hair.

Her hand shook violently as she stretched again, desperate, choking back a sob. Her fingertips grazed the fan’s handle once more—

—but the nearest creature was already bending low behind her, its mouth splitting into that too-wide grin, whispering in a voice that didn’t sound real—

"Too slow."

And its hand reached for her throat.

Her fingers grazed the handle once—then again—and the cold grip on her ankle tightened like a vice.

She screamed, thrashing, kicking, nails clawing at the dirt, every muscle in her body burning. Her lungs were begging for air, her mind spinning. She could feel it—those thin, clawed fingers creeping higher, scratching her skin, dragging her slowly backward into the mist.

The fan was right there. So close. So damn close.

"Move!" she hissed to herself, her voice breaking. "Come on, Isabella, move!"

Her hand stretched again, trembling violently—and then something clicked inside her head.

She froze.

The fan wasn’t just hers. It was bound to her.

Bubu’s words echoed in her mind, that smug voice she used to roll her eyes at: "This fan isn’t just pretty, Host. It’s synced to your life force. If you die, it dies. If you grow stronger, so does it."

And through the haze of terror, she remembered.

The fan wasn’t only an object.

It was hers. It answered her.

"Summon—" she gasped the word through tears, her voice shaking, "—to me!"

A blinding pulse of pink light exploded from the dirt. The ground cracked, the air howled, and the fan tore itself from where it had fallen, flying straight into her outstretched hand like a loyal hound returning to its master.

The creature holding her ankle barely had time to blink.

With a sound like slicing silk, the fan’s edges extended—razor sharp, glowing gold—and she swung it upward with all the strength she had left.

A sharp gust roared through the clearing—

and crack!

The creature’s body split cleanly in two, from neck to waist, black ichor splattering across the stones. Its upper half twitched once before dissolving into mist.

The others stopped.

For a heartbeat, the entire mountain went still. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then Isabella wrenched her leg free, stumbling to her feet, panting hard. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she looked down at the fan in her hand—its glow brighter, almost alive, the silk flaring pink with every breath she took.

"What... what are you doing?" she whispered, her voice shaking as the fan vibrated faintly in her grip, humming like a heartbeat. The mountain wind circled around her ankles, playful yet protective. "Are you... reacting to the mountain?"

But there was no time to think.

A hiss slithered through the mist, sharp and wet. Then another. Then a chorus.

She turned slowly—and froze.

The remaining creatures were watching her from the edge of the clearing, their smiles stretched wide, their heads tilted in eerie synchronization. A few crouched low, their limbs bent backward, their hooves cracking against the stones. Others stood too still—just shapes in the fog, flickering in and out like mirages.

"Two," one of them rasped in a warped, echoing voice. "Two gone."

"Little mortal killed two."

"Little mortal thinks she’s strong."

"Let’s play with her."

The laughter started again—high-pitched, childlike, but hollow.

Isabella’s fingers tightened around her fan. "Stay back," she warned, even though her voice shook.

They didn’t listen.

The shadows darted forward, their movements jerky and unnatural. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stepped back, raising her fan.

"Fine then," she whispered. "Let’s play."

She swung the fan sharply to her right—Wind Slash Mode—and a thin, pink arc of air shot forward, slicing through the fog. But the creatures dodged effortlessly, their movements blurring, mirroring her again like reflections mocking her every move.

She grit her teeth and fanned it again—Gale Mode.

A massive gust exploded outward, howling like a beast. The force sent pebbles scattering and tore at the mist, revealing brief flashes of their twisted faces—but when the wind faded, they were gone.

Her pulse raced. Sweat slicked her palms.

"Where—" she started, turning quickly—

and one of them appeared behind her, whispering right against her ear, voice almost human, almost familiar.

"Too slow again, Isabella."

She spun, slashing wildly, her fan cutting through nothing but air.

Laughter echoed all around her. But the laughter started changing.

It wasn’t just theirs anymore.

A woman’s voice came first—soft, trembling, full of sorrow.

"You’ll end up like me, Isabella..."

Her mother.

Isabella froze. "No—no, that’s not—"

Then came a deeper voice, warm, gentle—heartbreakingly familiar.

"Isabella," Cyrus’s voice whispered, "I never wanted to hurt you."

Her throat closed. She shook her head, backing away. "Stop it. Stop it, this isn’t real."

But the whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder. More distorted. Her mother’s tone turned accusing. Cyrus’s turned pleading. The creatures were speaking through them, mimicking the sounds of her pain.

"Owned."

"Used."

"Just like your mother."

"You’ll never be free."

She swung her fan again, desperate, angry, terrified—all at once. Wind bursts exploded around her, slicing through trees, tearing up dirt, but nothing hit. The creatures vanished and reappeared like ghosts, their laughter bouncing off invisible walls.

Her vision blurred with tears. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "Shut up!"

She kept swinging. Again. Again. The air howled around her, but her movements were sloppy, frantic. Panic made her clumsy. Every attack missed. Every whisper landed.

"You’re weak."

"You’re his."

"You’ll always be his."

"Stop it!" she screamed, voice raw, her arm trembling. "Stop—please—"

And in her panic, her thumb slipped—

pressing the fourth button.

The fan pulsed in her hand.

For a second, she thought she’d broken it—then a soft giggle echoed beside her ear.

She turned—

and saw it.

A tiny, glowing figure made entirely of wind and light, no bigger than her hand, floating near her shoulder. It had soft, fluttering wings made of mist and a mischievous grin on its translucent face. Its laughter was bright. Childlike. Pure.

"What the..." she whispered.

The little wind spirit twirled once in the air, its glow rippling through the fog—

and the creatures’ laughter stopped.