Chapter 90: Blood (III)
"Now, now, there's no need to get so worked up," the man said.
Dawn's iridescent essence had settled, though her form still floated in the air, threads of mana shifting around her, ready to weave into spells at any moment.
"Young lady, I didn't quite catch your name. What did you say your surname was?" Seeing that she wasn't going to answer, he continued, "No matter. I can already tell you have a bright future ahead of you. I daresay none of our younger generation could hold a candle to you. In fact, you're so far above them that you needn't even spare them a second glance.
"So why don't you just wash your hands of that asshole lying there and leave his discipline to me? I know it's tough to teach manners to those born with silver spoons, especially this one, born with a whole set of silverware up his ass, which is why he can't stop shitting anywhere he sees clean. Anyway, you got my message. Getting involved with him will only dirty your hands, and you seem like a fair lady, so why don't we save ourselves both a great deal of trouble?"
Ember was unsure if all that 'shit-talking' was of any use, but it did somehow manage to de-escalate the situation enough that Dawn inclined her head, considering his offer. She even cast a glance towards Ember, as if asking for his opinion.
Ember knew nothing good would come of hunting down anyone from a bloodline clan, but Ezamin seemed to be someone who wouldn't just stop if you spared him. Ultimately, he had little experience dealing with situations like this. She probably had a better handle on it being from a bloodline clan herself.
Unfortunately, whatever de-escalation Richter brought, spouting nonsense, was soon punctured by Ezamin, as his form vanished from his spot to appear out of Dawn's shadow.
"Look out!" Ember screamed, but he was a moment too late.
Ezamin moved as if he had teleported, leaping out of her shadow to thrust his blade into her back. However, Dawn didn't make the same mistake twice. Before the blade could even brush against her gown, a golden shield coalesced into form, blocking the strike, its surface barely rippling under the duress.