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Under the swaying lights of the lanterns, carrying wishes, there was the Bistrot Des Fleurs, the drizzling of carrots on pizza, the sizzling of shrimp-fried rice—
—and the fizzling of cola, bubbling irritably beneath the surface.
This was no other than the sore loser, Devil, who had been roped in by Angel to do 'good and kind deeds' after their bet with the golden apple.
Angel had dragged Devil by his tail, as if taking a Cakehound for a leisurely evening stroll, and said, "We're going to help Carrot and Beet with their restaurant. Feeding happy friends and families, isn't it fun? You should try it."
He had whined and whinged and wriggled, but Angel only smiled, not budging in the slightest. Singsonging with a touch of sly promise, a faintest trill on the first syllable of like, "You might li~ike it."
Li~ike. More like big, fat lie!
Devil had no intention in honoring their bet, but after witnessing Pancake and Custard III run away from 'evil' vegetables, he thought he might as well agree to Angel's demands. A festival is best for causing mischief, anyway. Angel couldn't watch him all the time.
As he stole the greenest, grossest, scariest veggies from the storage area, Devil spotted someone.
A swordswoman standing resplendent on the stage, golden as the apple, crushed into pitiful purée under unforgiving steel. Crushed under defeat's heel, she had once came crawling for a devil's deal.
"Mhehe... now that's a familiar face."
It was an eerie mirror of the Grand Champions League, but the blisteringly bright sun had been traded for a cold sliver moon; thorny rose vines for serpentine lotus stems; Raspberry Mousse for Raspberry.
As luck would have it, White Choco had lost her handkerchief.
This was enough to insult Raspberry, who plucked it from her pocket like an ugly weed. She disdained its floral pattern and fresh scent.
"This crime is worse than wearing a rose on your chest! I challenge you to a duel!"
Couldn't she have returned it like a normal person? A simple, civil act—was that too much to ask?
Her fierce glare was exactly like Raspberry Mousse.
White Choco was tempted to blow a raspberry, like her opponent had been named for. Tit for tat, this for that. If adults are to be immature, they should be ready to receive immaturity in kind.
But she was better than that. Better than her.
"I accept."
On the palace rooftop, the Lotus Dragon only had eyes for a single dancing rose, but whom did everyone else have eyes for?
White Choco's blade burned as she crossed swords with Raspberry.
Though she had said that Dark Choco would've been strong, even without the darkness, she had understood why he had succumbed. She also had...
"Look away at your risk!" As the crowd roared its approval, White Choco secretly wished for ice to douse the ever-eternal flames.
This was the price of victory. Freedom from invisibility. Freedom from obscurity.
Keep your eyes on me. Not on my beauty, but my victory—
It's the only beautiful thing about me. The only true thing in this hazy, dreamy existence. The only living thing.
With victory, I am alive. Alive.
Loss follows like a funeral shroud, foggy and shapeless. Only victory can fight this invisible enemy, as it rises from the dead—again—again—again.
I have to keep winning. I have to keep living.
Desperation drove her. For all she called for everyone to look at her—look at her!—she didn't dare to look at herself too closely.
She burned too bright, too quick; a thin, frail candlestick burning on both ends. Still, she will cling to her arrogance to the very end.
She won't surrender. Her pride won't let her.
If she couldn't endure this trivial amount of pain, she would be ashamed to call herself a knight.
Beneath her gauntlets, her knuckles were red and raw from polishing her armor. Hours spent. Hours wasted. White Choco had sworn not to waste a second, yet she barely noticed. Her delicate precision was a source of pride. Not anymore. She neglected her body for a temporary golden shell. Her skills fell into disuse, her muscles atrophied. Food was replaced by hollow battles, hardly filling to the stomach. Water was fed to her hissing blade to quell its hunger.
Her training regimen, once faithfully kept, was forgotten. Left in the dust.
The sword was no longer an extension of her; she was an extension of the sword. A shadow cast by the laughing tongues of flame. They were the cruel, impersonal audience to her transformation, cackling, crackling like caramel popcorn, burnt sugar. A sweet treat to accompany her suffering. Smoke lingered like loss, like laughter, like grief. Like a bar of chocolate greedily snapped between teeth.
If her suffering had a taste, it would be delectable, decadent, delicious in its richness. It would be a heavy, heavenly taste of hell. Utterly divine.
White Choco couldn't afford for her armor's gold to chip away, for its luster to fade.
She couldn't.
So she had accepted Raspberry's duel without a single protest. Victory guaranteed in a single swing. Somehow, it tasted like the opposite.
Above them, Rose danced as free as she had always been, unrestricted by family duty and dark deals.
Within the meticulously manicured gardens, there were three flowers, each prouder than the last. Selfish. They were each selfish in their own ways.
Hydrangea, the faithful attendant, spoke first. "It seems that the Great Dragon likes your performances. Why not accept their generous gifts and stay? Traveling is too much work. They don't offer this to just anyone~~"
"I have no interest in your palace's treasures." Rose's practiced refusal gave the sense that she had done it many, many times. "Tango is my sole passion."
"Then, a wish." A gentle strumming of a mandolin, an old habit. "Since you are so determined to bid the Cookies' paradise farewell, then I will send you off with a wish."
Carelessly, Hydrangea handed Rose a slip of silver paper, like a perfect square of moonlight, carefully cut with scissors. Her irreverent movements highlighted how unnaturally flawless the paper was. So much that it almost seemed a shame to mar it irrevocably with ink.
"Go on, go on, make an interesting wish~~"
With a critical eye, Rose inspected the paper, blank on both sides. "It isn't golden, but it'll do," she said, fulfilling her wish with her own two hands.
The sound of ripping was unbearably loud. Rip. Rip. Rip. Together with the ribbiting frogs, it was the strange symphony. Ribbit. Ribbit. Ribbit. The ripping didn't slow down, nor did it speed up. Unhindered by the two observers, it was like it was happening in a world separate from the idyllic paradise.
Lotus Dragon stopped playing their mandolin, staring in a turquoise-shade of disbelief. Hydrangea shielded her face with her fan.
"I wish to see confetti, because it isn't a true festival without it." Silver scraps spiraled in the air, dancing. Struck by inspiration, Rose seized Lotus Dragon by the shoulder. "Shall we dance?"
The dragon's pet, Lotus Polliwog, swerved to catch the falling mandolin. It was much more useful than Hydrangea, who never passed up the opportunity to tease her master.
"But the Great Dragon doesn't have legs."
"You don't need legs to dance," she answered, as naturally as breathing. "All you need is to embrace the moment. Like your land's flowers, it will not last, but it will be beautiful. It will be life. Light. Liberation."
Lotus Dragon, who rarely left their throne, was led into a dance.
"I watch Cookies. I do not dance with them."
"You play music. It's the same. Your fingers dance upon the strings, and the wind dances with you. The people dance with you." Rose let go, arranging Hydrangea to be Lotus Dragon's next dance partner, arranging them like flowers in a vase.
Unlike her spirited tango, this was business-like. Professional. Like an impartial teacher, she instructed, "Watch."
Carried away by the night, the two flowers danced, and the third escaped the gardens.
After all, roses are beautiful because they grow wherever they want, and are thus unsuited for the life of lotuses, who grow in stagnant pools. Nor are they suited the life of hydrangeas, who grow in soils regulated for their acidity, so that they can become the gardener's desired color.
Neither the lotus nor the hydrangea can match the rose's peerless, passionate red.
Through the eyes of his bats, Devil had watched everything, endlessly entertained by what he saw. Golden armor, silver confetti. Raspberry-red resentment, rose-red ignorance of resentment.
Not his best work, but not bad, not bad at all! Wind Archer would never like Devil, but he didn't need to be liked to play with the wind. A measly handkerchief? Easy-peasy, make-someone-queasy. A flash of anger there, a dose of distraction there... all done from a distance. All in a day's work.
His candy-red pitchfork was snagged away by a farmer's pitchfork.
"Hey, that's MINE! Give it back, Carrot!"
"Work, work, work! No time for daydreaming, we have to work hard to serve customers!" In her other hand was a shining spatula. She tossed the pitchforks into a closet, tucking Devil under her arm like a sack of potatoes. He likely weighed less.
Devil flapped his wings furiously, but he couldn't move. Was this how Angel felt when they failed to fly? "I'll curse you! I'll curse your crops! PUT ME DOWN—"
With unerring accuracy, Beet threw an omelet into Devil's mouth. He almost spit it out to spite her, but it was delicious, so he chewed reluctantly.
"Mhe hehe! The amazing and mighty me will help with the food."
"I'll make sure that Devil doesn't eat all the food," Angel volunteered. "Some of the leafy green vegetables are missing. I didn't know you liked them, Devil. I'll be sure to remember it from now on."
Why... why did that sound like a threat...? Angel's eyes narrowed into the creepy stare, as if Devil was a sugar cube to break apart with a pickaxe. He shivered slightly. He... he wasn't scared! No way! Angel was the laughable victim who had been mistaken for attempting to murder Gingerbrave.
"So you agree that raw vegetables are delicious! Don't worry, I won't let my little worker go hungry. I'll prepare a special buffet for you. All-you-can-eat veggie paradise!"
Maybe Angel should change their name to Devil...