Saya was holding the cock of Kazui. She was kneeled infront of him—her upper boobs were visible. She slowly opened his zip and pulled out his hard dick. The pre-cum was dripping from it.
Kazui could smell a sweet scent spread around them. And he was kind of suspicious because he was having no lewd thoughts but despite that, he became this hard.
The heat already took control of Saya, there was no way of stopping it. Kazui grabbed the head of Saya using both of his hands and violently shoved his dick inside her mouth.
He kept moving his hips, his dick going in and out. Saya didn't even get a moment to catch her breath. It was already too late, Kazui's eyes already turned red and drool was dripping out of his mouth. He was feeling pleasure—an intense pleasure.
He kept moving his hips and after a minute, he came inside her mouth—more like her throught. Saya choked a lot and he pulled his dick out of her mouth. Despite all that—Saya drank all of his semen.
Kazui calmed down for a second, controoling himself. But the scent increased and the heat again took control of him.
Saya already realized that it was because of the scent—she could feel someone staring at them, someone watching them.
Kazui violently grabbed both of her boobs and pushed her down on the ground. He violently started rubbing his head in her boobs but Saya, he didn't mind that. He started rubbing his head with her right hand. But it was not going to calm him down.
It was only a matter of seconds that Kazui was going to remove her kimono.
She said, "I am sorry master, but I have no choice. ".
Saya struck Kazui on the neck with her hand, knocking him unconscious. She gently moved him off herself, stood up, and drew her twin katanas. With two swift swings, one after the other, the blades sliced through the air at incredible speed. The surrounding air cleared, and the sweet, alluring scent that had filled the area vanished with it.
Kazui remained unconscious.
Then, Saya heard clapping—and a voice echoed through the air.
"Impressive. I didn't expect that from a mere girl."
A figure phased effortlessly through the solid stone wall, as if reality itself bent to his will. He was a humanoid crow, dressed flamboyantly in a bright pink suit and matching hat. Dark feathers covered his arms and legs, and large black wings stretched from his back. His limbs were human-like, but his entire body was wrapped in the sleek, eerie fur of a crow.
The moment he passed through the wall, it shattered behind him—crumbling into rubble. From the cloud of dust emerged twelve more humanoid crows. Unlike their leader, they wore nothing. Their bodies were covered only in their natural black feathers, and their wings doubled as arms—long, clawed, and unnervingly flexible. Compared to the one in the pink suit, they were shorter and leaner, but just as dangerous.
The pink crow's voice rang out, high-pitched and almost mocking.
Saya narrowed her eyes and asked coldly, "That sweet scent earlier… was that your doing?"
He chuckled, clearly amused. "And what if I said yes? What would you do, girl?"
Without wasting another breath, Saya dashed forward, her twin katanas flashing with deadly intent. She brought both blades down in a single, synchronized arc, aiming to sever his beak clean off.
But before the steel could find its mark, a blur intercepted the strike from behind.
Another crow soldier—one of the twelve—appeared out of nowhere and blocked both katanas with just a single wing. The feathers, unnaturally dense and sharp, clashed against the metal with a sound like steel on steel. Sparks flew, and Saya's eyes widened for a split second.
They weren't ordinary monsters.
The pink suit crow ordered his minions, " Go, kill her. ".
The crow who blocked her strike tried to cut her down with another strike but Saya dashed back and those crows got ready to hunt her down.
Saya head to kill them and protect Kazui at the same time.
The air in the underground lobby hung like a thread pulled taut—silent, dense, waiting to snap.
Saya stood still, her twin katanas lowered slightly, their tips hovering inches above the cracked marble floor. Her breath was calm. Measured. Controlled. Across from her, twelve humanoid crow soldiers fanned out in a crescent formation. Each was her height, lean and sinewy beneath black feathers that shimmered like oil under the flickering fluorescent lights above. Their wings twitched with restrained energy, the sharpened edges glinting like swords.
Red eyes stared at her with avian detachment. There was no emotion. No hesitation. Only the cold instinct to kill.
She exhaled slowly, her grip tightening.
Then came the screech.
Like a signal—sharp and metallic, it sliced the silence apart.
The crow soldiers lunged.
Their movements were inhuman. Not merely fast, but sudden, as if reality skipped a beat and they appeared closer. One came from her left, wings flared, slicing downward in an arc of whistling wind. Another flanked her right, its claws extending, aiming for her throat.
Saya shifted—one breath, one pivot.
Her right blade deflected the wind arc, while her left katana met claw. Sparks burst into the air. She ducked under a second wind slash and spun, bringing both swords across in a sweeping arc. Steel collided with feathered wing-blades—hard as metal, flexible as whips.
Three more surrounded her. The air erupted with slicing arcs of wind, launched with each swing of their deadly wings. Blue crescents flew at her like scythes.
She jumped, twisting mid-air. Wind blades tore across her legs, narrowly grazing. Blood bloomed, dark and thin, but her expression remained serene. She landed, crouched low, already moving. One katana blurred upward, carving a crow soldier's chest open. Black feathers scattered like ash.
It fell back hissing, not dead—but wounded.
Another soldier struck from behind.
Saya's blade snapped backward without looking. The tip pierced its eye. A gurgled squawk, and it dropped.
Eleven remained.
They circled her now—more cautious. Calculating. Their wings spread wide. One by one, they began to beat the air—not to fly, but to swing.
A storm erupted.
Dozens of wind arcs howled toward her from every direction, overlapping like a net of invisible razors. The lobby filled with shrieking air, marble floors fracturing as stray arcs carved deep grooves.
Saya closed her eyes.
For a moment, there was only silence in her mind. The chaotic noise faded beneath the rhythm of her breath.
Then she moved.
She ducked, rolled, her blades spinning around her in a blur of silver light. Every slash was precise—not wasted. Each cut met a wind arc, dispersing it mid-flight. Her movements weren't erratic—they were deliberate. A dance. The way her feet glided, the sweep of her arms, the arc of her blades—it was almost beautiful.
But still, it wasn't enough.
A wing-blade caught her shoulder. Her body twisted with the force, tumbling into a column. The stone cracked behind her.
Blood dripped down her arm. Her jaw clenched.
Ten seconds had passed.
Another soldier closed in. Saya barely dodged the vertical slash. Her blade met it mid-swing, but the strength behind the crow's wing was monstrous. She was forced back.
Two more pressed in. Claws swiped, wings slashed, wind arcs screamed. Saya blocked one, deflected another, but the third clipped her ribs. Pain flared.
She hissed and jumped back.
She was surrounded again—eleven enemies, fully coordinated. They moved with a unity she couldn't match alone. Their strategy was clear: overwhelm, cut off, finish.
But she wasn't panicking.
Her eyes flicked up.
Thirty seconds.
She just had to hold on.
Her foot dug in.
She darted forward, blades sweeping. A feint left, a twist right—her katana sliced through a crow's leg. It shrieked and fell. Another came from above, wings spinning like twin guillotines. She rolled forward, under the slash, then popped up—both katanas stabbing upward through its torso.
It twitched, then went limp.
Nine left.
They launched another storm of wind arcs, but Saya didn't retreat. She moved in. Her swords batted wind away like dancing fans. She was cut—arms, sides, legs—but never fatally. Her dance continued, step by step, fueled by calm and pain alike.
One minute.
They began to adapt. Two crow soldiers launched arcs high, forcing her to dodge low—straight into a flurry of sweeping wings. She barely parried, her left katana knocked from her hand.
She grunted and flipped backward, landing hard. Her right blade raised defensively.
The crows closed in. A line of five advanced at once. Behind them, four others readied wind arcs.
She couldn't block everything—not like this.
They knew it, too.
Wings raised, five arcs flew at once, then another five—layered, overlapping, impossible to dodge.
Saya's lips parted.
Her body dropped low.
And then, she moved faster than before.
She slid beneath the first layer, sword flicking up to slice the second. She rolled through the gap and burst into a sprint—not away, but toward the soldiers. She grabbed her second katana mid-stride, flipping it into her grip.
Blades in hand.
One minute, forty-five seconds.
Her footwork changed. It became lighter, even gentler. A kind of slow precision settled into her motion.
The crow soldiers noticed.
They lunged.
She whispered:
"Moon Strike."
Then, time seemed to stop.
Saya's arms moved with an ethereal grace. Her expression softened—not with weakness, but with total clarity. Both katanas blurred. Not like before. Now they moved like streaks of moonlight, silent and silver, each swing impossibly fast.
In one second, one breath—a hundred strikes.
Fifty from her right. Fifty from her left.
The air cried out as the onslaught carved through the space around her. Every crow within range was hit—again, again, again. Feathers flew like black snow. Steel tore through muscle, bone, and wing. The wind arcs they launched shattered mid-air under the precision of her cuts.
It wasn't a move of anger. It was beauty born of violence. The Moon Strike wasn't a roar—it was a whisper from death itself.
By the time her arms stopped moving, the lobby was silent again.
Six bodies dropped at once. They didn't even scream.
Blood ran in lines across the marble, forming crimson petals beneath their corpses.
Only three remained.
Saya stood in the center of it all, breathing softly. Her blades hung at her sides. Blood soaked her clothes, both hers and theirs, but she stood tall.
The remaining crow soldiers hesitated. For the first time—they hesitated.
Then they screeched and charged.
She wasn't done yet.
They came fast—erratic now, feral in their desperation. Wings slashed from left and right. Claws tore forward. One leapt from above.
Saya rolled forward between them. Her foot kicked off the ground and launched her into a rising strike. Her katana cleaved through one's torso. She spun, parried the second's wing-blade, and stabbed it through the chest.
It convulsed—and dropped.
The last one—the largest of them—screeched with fury and beat its wings. A massive wind arc, larger than any before, erupted toward her like a blade of raw air.
She raised one katana like a mirror—angled just right.
The arc split on impact.
She burst forward, leapt into the air—and brought both blades down.
The final crow soldier fell, its wings twitching.
Silence returned.
Saya stood in the center of the carnage, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Around her lay the broken bodies of twelve enemies. The floor was slick with blood and feathers, cracked from the fury of battle.
Two minutes passed.
She exhaled, lowering her swords. Moon Strike was ready again.
But it wasn't needed.
The lobby was hers.
But before Saya could unleash her Moon Strike, a figure stepped silently behind the remaining crows—an imposing humanoid crow dressed in a striking pink suit and matching hat. He raised his right hand, and from his palm a wave of energy surged forth, piercing the abdomens of all the remaining crow soldiers standing before Saya.
They fell instantly, lifeless.
The commander's cold eyes fixed on Saya as he spoke,
"Looks like i'll have to face you myself."
Saya, already wounded and exhausted, barely had the strength to stand. She had no idea that the opponent she was about to face was no ordinary crow soldier—but the commander of Raven himself.
Meanwhile, not far away, Kenta lay sprawled on the ground, half dead, blood seeping from wounds scattered across his body.