Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World-Chapter 487: A Dance of Blood and Thread

Kaaz struck first.

Not with a flourish—just a direct, fluid step into range. His blade-arm snapped forward in a blur, edge aimed straight for Asmodea's clavicle, as if carving out her breath.

She twisted.

Not dodging—unfolding.

Her vines peeled from her shoulders like living ribbons, intercepting his slash with a burst of thorned bloom. The impact cracked through the frost, green-red tendrils wrapping around his wrist before he slipped away, already resetting his stance.

A second vine followed, jabbing low.

He spun, redirected it with his forearm, severed it near the base with a flick of his blade, and surged forward again—three quick slashes in a tight arc aimed at her chest.

"Fast hands," Asmodea breathed, her body swaying between them like a flame in the wind.

She didn't parry. She moved in close.

He gritted his teeth the moment her breath hit his skin.

Her palm landed softly against his chest.

Not a strike.

An invitation.

The next instant, he shoved her off with a kick to the abdomen, boots grinding into snow as he leapt back three meters.

The vines exploded where he'd been standing—bursting from the ground in a jagged lattice of scarlet roots. One thorn carved a deep gash across his thigh.

First blood.

Asmodea raised a finger, licked the side of it slowly, eyes glowing with hungry fire.

"Mmm. Cold-blooded. But not cold enough."

Kaaz adjusted his footing. The wound barely registered on his face.

"Messy," he said again.

His blade twitched once, almost too fast to see.

"Your patterns... all rhythm. No tempo. No variation."

She smiled, stepping forward again.

"I don't need tempo. I've got a melody."

Another vine sprouted beneath her heel. Coiled. Tensed.

He flicked blood from his blade-arm. Eyes locked, voice low.

"You'll find that 'Her Majesty's Teeth' don't sing."

She blinked.

Then grinned, wicked and unbothered.

"Then I'll just break them one by one."

This time, she moved with the vine—and the dance resumed.

Scael didn't attack immediately.

He rotated his body once—full circle. His arms fanned out with slow, theatrical grace. The plates of his exoskeleton clicked as they shifted, shedding a faint mist of frost.

His tail flicked behind him in slow spirals, dragging tiny patterns in the snow.

Levia didn't move.

Her knees bent slightly. Spear angled forward. Eyes locked on his feet. Her massive shield loomed at her side like a fortress wall—silent, untouched. She hadn't raised it yet. She hadn't needed to.

"Is that your warm-up?" she asked, voice low.

"This," Scael said, bowing slightly, "is choreography."

Then he struck.

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He didn't run. He glided.

The first slash came not from his claws—but from the stinger arcing overhead in a blur of crystal-blue light. It snapped downward with terrifying force, aimed squarely between her collar and heart.

Levia blocked.

Spear haft met stinger with a brutal, echoing clang. Both arms flexed against the pressure. Her boots sank half an inch into the snow from sheer force.

Scael's pincers came next—open wide, glinting with fine edges.

She twisted. Angled her spear sideways. Caught the inner jaw before it closed.

A burst of icy shards erupted from his wrist, point-blank.

She turned her face just in time.

The side of her cheek stung—tiny slivers pierced skin. Nothing deep. But the cold hissed into her nerves like poison.

He danced back a step. Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

"So this is the False Demon King's dog?" he asked, grinning. "Well-trained. But I wonder—can you fight without your leash?"

Levia stepped forward, shield still resting at her side.

"You can taunt me," she said. "But you're not fighting me. You're fighting His will."

She thrust.

Fast. Clean. A straight, vicious jab to his exposed hip joint.

He barely dodged. The tip grazed shell.

Scael hissed.

"Then let's see what your Fake King's discipline tastes like when it breaks."

Lumina moved sideways—slowly, deliberately, her weight light on the snow, her silk dress fluttering around her like a whisper.

Her eight red eyes shimmered, set across her forehead in a perfect arc. None blinked. None broke focus.

Two spider legs extended from her back, arching above her like spears, twitching in slow rhythm with her breathing.

Yuzuha mirrored her on the far side of the field.

She walked without a sound. Her kimono-like robe trailed thread-thin strands with every motion. Fingernails glinted, each one hooked with silk so black it reflected nothing. Her threads drifted through the wind like smoke.

Neither spoke.

Between them, snowflakes hung suspended. Not falling. Not melting. Just waiting.

Lumina struck first.

Not with silk—but with silence.

Her foot scuffed the snow once, and a razor-thin line shot forward—an anchored silk line, aimed at Yuzuha's knee. Subtle. Nonlethal. A test.

Yuzuha's body turned with the wind.

Not dodging. Redirecting.

The thread passed behind her, wrapping a frozen stump. In the same breath, she flicked a finger—and five black threads lashed outward like a fan.

Lumina bent backwards at an impossible angle—spine folding, legs sweeping. One thread grazed her cheek.

Blood hissed into the air.

She adjusted herself a second later, already dragging a fresh line across the snow behind her. Her spider legs stabbed down and fired her forward in a burst of unnatural speed.

Yuzuha didn't flinch.

Another thread snapped upward—a tripwire already placed.

Lumina cut through it with one of her legs as she spun mid-air, twisting above the trap.

Their eyes locked in that moment.

"Sloppy," Yuzuha murmured.

"Cute net," Lumina replied.

Both moved at once.

Neither aimed to kill.

But both wanted to see how the other bled.

Gorrhan laughed as he charged.

Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking.

Just joy.

Both of his arms dragged behind him like ploughs, stone knuckles churning the snow into powder. His back crackled—spines twitching with static, glowing faintly with each heavy step.

Vinea met him head-on.

She didn't speak. She didn't scream.

Her boots exploded off the snow, and her blade was already mid-swing before his left fist reached her.

Steel rang against stone.

The impact jolted her whole body. Her arms absorbed the brunt, blade vibrating as it ricocheted off his shoulder.

Gorrhan didn't stop.

He turned with the momentum, his opposite fist swinging low. A punch like a battering ram.

Vinea flipped backwards, toes carving a sharp line in the ice. She landed on one hand, spun, and threw herself back into a low stance, blade reversed.

He came again.

This time, she stepped inside.

One slash. Two. Quick, shallow cuts across his ribs, aiming for what soft points might exist between his rocky armour.

Flesh split. A mist of dust and red flowed into the cold.

He blinked.

"Ow," he muttered. "That tickled."

Then both arms came down—together.

She rolled. Snow exploded behind her.

A crater formed where she'd been standing. Wide enough to bury three men.

"What's your name?" Gorrhan asked, tilting his head. "You fight fun."

"Vinea."

"I'm Gorrhan! Number—"

He stopped. Grinned. Slammed his fists together like cymbals.

"Oops. Not yet!"

Vinea exhaled slowly, blade steady.

"You're stronger than you look."

"You're lighter than you sound."

He lunged again.

She stepped forward to meet him—low, sharp, and aiming not to wound.

To break.