Chapter 618: Horse?

She watches Saber raise the jet‑black sword, the crimson pattern on the blade flaring up, a dark‑red Light Pillar spewing from the tip, blasting straight toward Berserker.

Berserker doesn't dodge; it lifts both arms and crosses them before it, the teal Flame surging from its body, weaving a burning shield in front of it.

The Light Pillar strikes the shield, exploding into a blinding white flash; the shockwave spreads outward, pushing the broken tiles and shattered pillars at the edge of the clearing several meters farther.

Saber is jolted back two steps by the shockwave, steadies herself, lifts her head, and a hint of confusion flashes in her amber eyes.

She says something, but the distance is too great for Ilya to hear; she only sees the lips moving, the expression shifting from confusion to helplessness.

Berserker gives no reply; it simply lowers its arms, the teal Flame retracting from the shield back into the cracks and holes of its body, then it charges forward again.

Ilya curls behind the stone tablet, fingers clutching the ruby in her bosom until her knuckles turn white.

Her heartbeat races as if it will burst out of her throat, not from fear—though she is indeed scared—but because she has no clue what's happening.

How did Saber end up here?

How did she become like this?

And that Berserker—what are the green flames on its body?

Why does it look as if it's broken?

Saber blocks another strike; this time she's knocked back several steps, the sword tip carving a deep groove into the ground.

She halts, takes a deep breath, those amber eyes fixed on the silent opponent before her, lips moving again.

This time Ilya catches a few words faintly: "... not... you... why..."

Berserker gives no answer.

It simply stands there, the teal Flame on its body smoldering slowly within the fissures, its eye sockets filled with flame yet void of any emotion, like two wells filled but reflecting nothing.

Saber says nothing further.

She grips the sword tightly; the crimson pattern on the blade flares again, brighter and more dazzling than before.

She lifts her head, and those amber eyes hold something Ilya cannot comprehend.

Ilya crouches behind the stone tablet, watching the two figures clash again, unsure whether to step forward or retreat.

Her legs tremble, palms slick with sweat, the ruby in her chest pressed quietly against her breast, the temperature of the Magic Staff cooler than before.

She dares not go forward.

The magical aura over there is too intense, so strong that merely standing there makes the air vibrate, so strong she feels that a single step closer would have her shredded by the shockwaves from the collisions.

She can only huddle behind the crooked stone tablet, clutching the Magic Staff twisted into a noodle shape, watching the two people she knows yet finds strange tumble together amid the ruins, unable to do anything.

Perspective shift.

In the Mirror World, the sky hangs low, so low it seems one could reach out and touch the ever‑unbreakable lead‑gray veil.

No stars, no moon, only the occasional flicker of Nihong tubes on distant surviving buildings, dyeing the streets an unnatural deep blue and dark red; those colors refract repeatedly on shattered glass façades, then vanish in the next instant, leaving a darkness deeper than night, like a pair of forever‑unclosing eyes blinking.

A Xing walks ahead, steps neither hurried nor slow, boots striking the rubble with a soft clatter.

Robin trails a few paces behind, her skirt dusted with ash, those lake‑green eyes scanning the surrounding ruins warily, as if searching for something and guarding against something.

The two walk in silence for a while.

A Xing suddenly stops.

Robin also halts, looking at her with puzzlement.

A Xing lifts a hand, casually drawing a circle in the air, the gesture as light as shooing away a flying insect.

The next second, a burst of pink light erupts from her palm, dazzling so brightly that in the gray‑dark ruins it resembles a firework exploding, coating the surrounding buildings in an unreal pink hue.

As the light fades, Robin's eyes widen slowly.

It is a horse.

A pink horse.

The horse's size is absurd, its shoulder height a whole span taller than Robin herself, its four legs as thick as stone pillars, each leg's muscular tendons bulging larger than her head, glistening with a silk‑like sheen in the dim light.

Its mane is a lighter shade of pink, hanging on either side of its neck, drifting gently with each breath; its Tail is the same hue, swishing behind, each flick stirring a gust of wind.

Most absurd is its expression—its horse face shows no emotion, eyes half‑open, pupils dilated, lips slightly drooping, looking both dumb and goofy, as if just awakened from a long nap and still unsure where it is.

Robin lifts her head, mouth slightly ajar, mind a blank.

She has seen many horses.

In Pinokanni's records, in dreams, in countless works of art—elegant, lithe, majestic—she has seen every kind of horse.

Yet she has never seen a pink horse whose entire musculature is larger and bulkier than her own head.

That extreme contrast leaves her momentarily unsure how to react, merely standing there, head tilted back, watching the pink giant horse snort, its exhaled heat washing over her face with an indescribable scent.

A Xing does not notice Robin's expression.

She has already stepped onto the stirrup and swung herself up, moving cleanly and swiftly; the Pink Horse shakes its head the instant she mounts, then resumes its dazed demeanor.

After A Xing settles, she lowers her head and extends a hand toward Robin.

The hand hovers mid‑air, fingers long and knobby, palm facing down, waiting for her to grasp.

Robin watches the hand, hesitates, then takes a deep breath and reaches out her hand.

A Xing's fingers clamp down with astonishing strength; Robin feels herself lifted by an irresistible force, her body soaring, then settling steadily onto the horse's back.

She sits behind A Xing, legs straddling the horse's belly, hand unsure where to go, hesitates, then lightly rests it on either side of A Xing's shoulders.

The sensation beneath her hips makes her mouth twitch—a feeling less like sitting on a horse's back and more like perched on a thin‑cloth‑covered iron slab, hard and pressing her Tailbone sore.