Demonic Kitsune

Two days after the grand night, the Heavenly Saintess gathered with nine saints and saintesses. Her best friend, Isolde—the Ice Saintess, along with the acting Archbishop of the Central Holy Church, Wenceslas. They toasted her triumphant return from the Demon City, where she had vanquished the seven fearsome generals of the demon army. 

In that moment of celebration, she made a shocking announcement. It echoed across the Salamander Continent like a thunderclap, plunging it into chaos. On that day, the hidden faces and sinister plans of the ten best guilds, the seven great families, and the four great continental clans and their collaboration with the Central Holy Church to host a crusade aimed at seizing the life of the Heavenly Saintess started in full swing.

Apart from the Nine Saints, the Saintesses, and the Council of Archbishops—especially Isode, the Ice Saintess, and Blanche, the Song Saintess—if one were to tally the number of knights, assassins, and third-chain fighters from their respective clans and families, the total capable of wreaking havoc on Salamander would exceed a thousand. Yet, on that fateful day of the crusade, she managed to deal with the majority of them.

However, the ringleader Wemceslas and others from the Ten Best Guilds, the Seven Great Families, and the Four Great Continental Clans were still alive, perhaps even thriving. Given the power Clare now held, revenge against them all seemed within reach. But even if she regained her former strength, fully utilized the “Ancient Text,” and ascended to the level of a Transcendent as she had once intended, she would still fail.

That’s why she chose to ally with the Demon Clan. This clan was unlike the demon lords or demon cities she had conquered in the past—more mysterious, more hidden. The Demonic Arrancar Clan would be more effective than any individual force. In fact, all of Salamander’s human powerhouses, including the Central Holy Church, were already the Clan’s enemies, so there was no moral conflict in using them for the Holy Grail War she had caused.

So, there was no need to rush. 

She didn’t have to hurry. 

After all, “slow and steady wins the race.” No one knew how long the war would last, but that didn’t matter. As long as she could strike at their hearts in the end—especially by severing the heads of her betrayers and outsmarting the acting Archbishop—it would be enough.

The first step was to strengthen her power and influence in the Demon Clan. Clare opened her eyes, her tails pulsing with heat. She glanced at the entrance, where the house-sized bear blocked most of the howling blizzard outside. With a sigh, she pulled a small book from her cloak and flipped through its pages until she found the one she sought. Holding it just above the fire, she watched as the heat coaxed translucent letters from the paper, revealing information hidden in special ink.

The page detailed the growth of the FrostAvalanche Clan over the past nine years—its founder and history, its officials, key figures, movements, and bases. The Demon Clan had kept meticulous records. As Clare’s eyes scanned the page, they narrowed at a name she had never expected to see.

The current leader of the FrostAvalanche Clan, who had joined nine years ago, was believed to be the Song Saintess, Blanche—the second saintess of the Saints and Saintesses, whom Clare had slain in her previous life. The same woman whose connection to her Divine Being, the Goddess of Song, Clare had severed, just as she had done with Isolde, the Ice Saintess.

“Song Saintess, Blanche,” Clare murmured, a smile spreading across her face. Her fangs gleamed, and her expression darkened. Who would have thought that a High Elf, even after losing her connection to her Divine Being and being reduced to a fraction of her former power, could become the leader of such a Clan? If someone had told Clare this before, she wouldn’t have believed it. But now, the evidence was before her eyes.

Right, Blanche must have learned and mastered "Frost-Yin Magic Swordsmanship." Unlike the "Rhythm Holy Mana" she once practiced. The "Rhythm Holy Mana" was an art focused on creating songs that liberated minds, purified evil spirits, conjured illusions, induced hypnosis, and formed powerful arrays. 

But now, she wielded the elusive "Yin Holy Mana,"  a power far more elusive and difficult to wield. Adapting to and accumulating Frost-Yin Holy Mana was a feat in itself—akin to the Icy Cold-Holy Mana that Isolde, the Ice Saintess, had mastered, though subtly different.

Isolde’s unique Icy Cold-Holy Mana had been so rare that it couldn’t be passed down unless one was chosen by its Divine Being. But Frost-Yin Holy Mana was different. It could be inherited by one person each generation, without any divine contract, as it originated from Nature itself. With each generation, this technique had grown more refined, yielding even greater power.

The current successor of the "Frost-Yin Magic Swordsmanship" is Dimitristsim Von Spaze, a High Elf. Born into the Ice Elves Clan, he was chosen as a child to practice the "Frost-Yin Magic Swordsmanship," a technique that was merely a mid-level heirloom at the time. 

Dimitristsim, driven by a desire to broaden his horizons, joined the Holy Academy. There, he discovered various techniques in the academy’s library, which he fused with the verses of the Original Holy Mana of the Holy Church.

This combination allowed him to perfect the “Frost-Yin Holy Mana” and its swordsmanship. By the time he graduated at the top of his class and was recognized as a Saint by the Holy Church, he had elevated his abilities to an extraordinary level. However, Dimitristsim soon left the church, setting out on a self-made quest.

Years later, who would have known that, after many years, Blanche would not only become the new Successor but also rise as the current leader of the FrostAvalanche Clan? Clare sighed as she left the cave the next morning, once the blizzard had stopped. 

She began her climb up a snowy hill.

The Salamander knew that Dimitristsim Von Spaze's chosen successors and their respective Clan would undoubtedly lead the new generation. Yet Clare was all too aware of their darker side. They were obsessed with maintaining their power over common folk, never letting their grip on superiority and treasure slip. They would stop at nothing to ensure that only their descendants could surpass them—a bitter truth Clare had learned in her past life. Now, with one of them poised to meet her scythe, Clare felt a grim satisfaction.

But finding Blanche, the ex-Song Saintess, leading the FrostAvalanche Clan in such a remote area of the "Great Edge" puzzled her. If Isolde, the Ice Saintess, had been involved, it would have made sense. Isolde’s ambition to cultivate a new power akin to her former one was predictable.

As Clare reached the top of the snowy hill, she stopped, her ears perking up as unease crept into her thoughts. Something about this area felt wrong. This wasn’t Ice Elves Clan territory, and it made little sense for Blanche to lead the FrostAvalanche Clan here.

Clare absentmindedly twirled one of her curled bangs around her finger. Nine years had passed since Blanche joined the FrostAvalanche Clan, and in that time, the once-ordinary Ice Clan had risen to prominence.

Shaking her head, Clare reminded herself that there were no coincidences in Salamander. To survive in this world, one has to think that way. If something seemed coincidental, it was wiser to tread carefully. Only by moving cautiously could one hope to endure in the continent of Salamander. Clare tightened her grip on the curled bang, biting her lip in frustration. Something was definitely amiss, but she couldn’t quite grasp what it was. It felt as though "something was right under her nose, yet her eyes couldn’t see it.”

‘Then I will just catch her and ask her.’ She thought.

Clare grabbed the wrapped scythe strapped loosely to her back. In just a few steps, she reached the entrance, a remnant of its former glory. Once a grand sanctuary, it now stood as a run-down, snow-covered hideout—still sturdy, but a shadow of its past. The once-majestic gate had become a rusted iron barricade, barely keeping the snow from completely blocking the entrance. Beyond it, Clare, with her “Seventh Mind,” sensed the presence of some members of the FrostAvalanche Clan. Among them, she couldn't feel Blanche, the ex-Song Saintess.

Moving smoothly and precisely, Clare erased her presence like an expert assassin stalking prey at night. She flicked into existence behind the elf combatant lookout. Before he could react, she snapped his neck, then dragged his body into the snow, burying it to hide her tracks. Silently, she leaped inside and slid up to the pillar that supported the roof of the sanctuary.

“Kekeke. Drink some booze. It’s made from the flesh of the Ice-Elf Clan! Kekeke!” one of the rogue elves cackled, his voice dripping with malice as he clinked his mug against another's.

“If only we could get some meat! But those damned bears went into hibernation and hid away,”  another grumbled, his voice thick with frustration, eyes narrowing as he slammed his fist against the table.

Like these, many rogue blue-skinned elves in both genders, with their sharp ears twitching, were chatting and drinking, their plundered belongings piled up inside. Clare’s emerald eyes scanned the scene, cold and calculating. Perhaps their leader was away, but that wouldn’t save them from the fate that awaited them at her hands.  

At least, she should save one for interrogation and slay everyone else—the thought echoed in her mind as her eyes closed for a moment. When she opened them again, they gleamed with a venomous green light, like a serpent eyeing its prey in the dark. 

Without hesitation, she dropped silently to the snowy ground, her descent so graceful that not a single flake stirred. She paid no mind to her surroundings; her focus was her actions. The pathetic FrostAvalanche clan was about to face a death they'd never imagined—the death known as Clare Ederson.

It was a one-sided slaughter.

Clare moved like a wraith, her “Mana of Fossilization” seeping into the air and coiling around her like a living bracelet. With a flick of her free hand, she formed the tiger sign, and the “it” exploded outward, spreading like a thick, suffocating fog in all directions. Her intense mental fortitude amplified the power, causing the air itself to thicken, and the ground beneath her feet began to harden into stone. 

The elf combatants' swords either passed harmlessly through her shadowy form or turned to solid rock, falling with a dull thud.

The fog began to petrify everything in its path. Snow, pillars, belongings, even dust—all turned to solid rock and pebbles. As Clare melted back into existence, the elf combatants who entered the fog's range sealed their fate. 

The moment the fog touched their flawless skin, they were as good as statues. Clare's ears twitched as she moved with intent. Her unwrapped scythe hovered in the air, its every edge brimming with death. With a single sweep, she cut through her enemies, reducing them to pieces.

Those who had keen instincts felt her approach, but their bodies—already half-stone—failed to respond to their desperate will to survive. The elves fell one by one, their last thoughts swallowed by the Mana's creeping tendrils. Even those who attempted to channel their “Frost-Yin Holy Mana” into a final, desperate strike were met with swift defeat. Clare's scythe arced through the air, cutting through stiffened necks like a knife through butter. The fallen elves crumbled like ancient statues, shattered into pieces as they hit the ground.

Whether slashed in half, dismembered, or simply broken, the blue-hued elves were no match for Clare. Not one of them escaped her wrath. But a few hadn't completely fallen, clinging to life, their bodies trembling as they fought against the petrification. Their screams echoed through the fog as they forced their limbs to move, using every ounce of their Frost-Yin Holy Mana to resist. Blood seeped from their mouths as they gritted their teeth in defiance.

"Damned Fox-Demon!" one of them spat through gritted teeth.

These elves were stronger than Clare had expected. Despite being from a mere clan, they showed resilience. Their training, no doubt a grueling process of adaptation and endurance, had prepared them for such trials before mastering “Frost-Yin Holy Mana accumulation.”

Take, for example, the elf now charging at her—her calves bulging with muscle, every sinew in her body taut with power. But Clare was faster. Her tails curled with anticipation as she leaped into the air, effortlessly avoiding her blade. The weapon struck the ground with a thunderous crash, creating a crater in its wake. Clare, still in mid-air, delivered a powerful kick to her face. The force of the blow sent the elf hurtling backward, crashing into the partially petrified wall of the Sanctuary. The impact was devastating—the wall crumbled, sending dust and debris billowing into the air.

Clare stared at the fallen Elves before her with a strange gaze. “Who did you learn that technique from?” she asked. She already had a good guess, but she needed confirmation.

The Elf lying on the petrified ground groaned and shook her head. "Go to hell, Demon Fox," she snarled, refusing to cooperate and choosing to curse instead

Clare spared her no mercy. “I’m already in hell,” she replied coldly, then swiftly slashed the Elf's head from her neck. Moving to the next one, she wiped the clotted blood off her scythe and repeated, “I’ll ask again. Where did you learn that technique?”

As she spoke, Clare’s tails began to swell, growing larger and more menacing. They writhed and coiled in the air, reflecting the malice burning in her eyes. And she radiated an aura of terror, her scythe ready in hand. The murderous intent of a Demonic Kitsune was unmistakable. The remaining Elves, pale and trembling, could barely hold themselves together.

“Well, it was Big Sister Che,” one of them stammered.

“Yeah, an Elf has his pride. It's the truth,” another added, despite their trembling voices.

The name Clare was searching for was Blanche, not this "Big Sister Che." However, it was possible that "Che" was an alias.

“Does this Big Sister Che have long raven hair, light green, hooded eyes, a beautiful temperament, large breasts but not that large of an ass, and a mole beside her red lips?” Clare described.

It was a precise description, but Clare knew it was lacking in some details that anyone in Salamander might have. Still, it was enough to gauge their reactions.

The Elf began to sweat profusely, his voice shaking. “How the fuck do you…?” He cursed again. “Who the hell are you? Are you from the Central Holy Church?”

Clare’s lips curled into a grin, showing her fangs. With her Half-breed Nin appearance, she was far from anyone affiliated with the Central Holy Church. “Let’s rephrase the question. Could this Big Sister Che be Blanche, the ex-Song Saintess…?”

She had been trying to gather more information but stopped herself. There was no need to continue… Raising her scythe, Clare turned her attention to the direction of distinctively low, familiar footsteps. They tickled her ears, coming from the main doors of the Sanctuary opposite her. The doors creaked open, revealing a pale woman with sharp ears dressed in titanium-white robes with matching white embellishments.

“What the hell is going on?!” The woman demanded, her voice filled with disgust and irritation as if she had been disturbed from a much-needed rest.

Clare turned her head to see the woman’s face and greeted her with a cold familiarity, “It’s been a long time, Big Sister Che.”

The woman was older than Clare remembered, but the signs of aging made sense. Clare glanced at the respawned enemy she had faced in the Central Holy Church cathedral on that despairing day fifteen years ago.

It was the godless Ex-Song Saintess, Blanche.