Dancing in a Minefield

“Hey, you wild girl, tell me—what’s your connection to Hestia?”

Unfurling massive ghostly wings, Aemiya hovered above, glaring down at the figure struggling to rise from the pit.
Her expression was sour, her crimson eyes fixed on the silver-white flames enveloping him.
They seemed gentle, but when her skin touched them, the sensation was anything but…

It was a searing burn from the depths of the soul, bypassing physical resistance, scorching the spirit itself.
Such flames were rare, silver-white in hue, and among those she knew, only the divine fire of the Firelight Goddess Hestia matched these traits.

But how was that possible?
Gods sensed each other’s presence.
Though Aemiya was merely a fragment of her original self, she still held divine status.
Hadn’t Hestia been gravely wounded long ago, left broken and dormant?

Her followers were slaughtered by demons, and with her faith depleted, she’d weakened and fallen into slumber.
By Aemiya’s reckoning, the Firelight Goddess should’ve faded in that endless sleep.
Why was her power manifesting in this elf?

Logically, wielding Hestia’s divine fire required direct divine favor and blessing.
But with Hestia so frail, where would she find the strength to grant such power to a follower?

Wait… an elf.
Themis had an alliance with Hestia.

This girl carried Themis’s direct bloodline.
Suddenly, the Vampire Progenitor pieced it together, her gaze shifting as she looked at the man rising from the ground.

If her suspicions were correct, this elf’s identity and connections were far more complex than they seemed…

“What’s that supposed to mean?
I’m Kant, thief extraordinaire, no name-changing nonsense.
If you’ve got a problem, come down and settle it!”

Kant wiped blood from his mouth, his provocative grin unapologetic.
He’d already offended her thoroughly; things couldn’t get worse.

No need to hold back his words.
As the saying goes, verbal attacks are still attacks—might as well take every cheap shot.

From their exchange, Kant noticed her rigid speech.
In a verbal spar, his trash-talking prowess outclassed her by generations.

“Arrogant brat!
I don’t know why you hide your true identity and name, but provoking a superior requires qualification—and you’re just a wet-behind-the-ears girl!”

Her petite frame stood with hands on hips, face tilted up, like a haughty loli pretending to scold a junior.
Though her tone remained harsh, subtle hints suggested her killing intent toward Kant had lessened.

She now held less desire to kill this elf hiding her identity, replaced by scheming curiosity.
This was Themis’s domain—killing her descendant here was no easy feat.

Moreover, with the Firelight Goddess’s shadow behind this elf, entangled with two gods, manipulating her promised greater gains than ending her.

Aemiya was ready to set aside her killing intent and talk, but fate’s gears twisted the scene toward chaos.
She wanted a civil discussion, but Kant had other plans.

She’d beaten him soundly earlier—now, with an opening, he wasn’t about to hold back on personal attacks.

“Wet-behind-the-ears girl?
Forget that I’m a grown man standing here and you can’t tell my gender—blindness can be treated.
And with that flat-as-a-board chest of yours, who’s calling who small?”

“Floating up there with your hands on your hips, acting like some wise elder?
Look at your development!
On the street, people would think you’re a lost little girl…”

“And don’t try to pull off the mature-sister vibe with black stockings.
That style doesn’t suit you.
If you must, go for kiddie white stockings—they’d match your look and age better…”

“Oh, and how do vampires raise their young?
Definitely not breastfeeding, right?
As the first vampire, if you relied on that, your kids would’ve starved, unable to find anything to latch onto!”

With each mocking jab, Aemiya’s face darkened further.
By the end, her pale complexion was nearly coal-black, her crimson eyes radiating murderous intent.

Her fingers clenched so tightly her nails pierced her skin, yet she didn’t relent.
If this brat wasn’t still useful, she’d have torn her to shreds already.
Who was she to keep yapping so arrogantly?

It’s well-known that the vampire royalty’s chest development is a sore spot—a hereditary flaw, evident in Aemiya’s own figure.
The royal vampires could resent their sparse genetics, but they couldn’t take it out on their progenitor.
Still, the pent-up frustration needed an outlet…

This made mocking the vampire royalty’s flat chests a death sentence on Seraris.
Such insults guaranteed a vengeful, grudge-holding vampire would silence the offender permanently.

“Brat, do you realize you’re courting death?!”

Aemiya’s attempts to temper her anger for a civil talk were futile.
Kant’s words were like dancing in her minefield, salting her wounds.

Even if she could endure, her pride couldn’t.
Her fury blazed, craving to seize this brat, tear off her limbs, and revel in her screams to quench her rage.

“Come on, breathing without choking on that pitifully flat chest?
It’s a miracle it hasn’t caved in entirely…”

Kant’s face bore a viciously mocking grin.
So what if he enraged her?

His situation couldn’t get worse.
The angrier she got, the less rational she became—perfect for his plan.
This was exactly what he wanted.

As for trash-talking, it was a bonus skill.
Back before crossing over, Kant was the kind of guy who’d wake up hot at night and still cover his roommate with a blanket—a born provocateur.