Adelaide sat there a long while, until the biggest firework burst, its blaze swallowing her earlier collapse and shame into the ink‑dark sky.

So lively.

The night market’s chirping clamor hopped into her ears like sparrows, and her pupils pulled back into focus like a lens.

This time, no hysterical anxiety hid in her gaze; a clear calm settled like still water in a moonlit bowl.

She breathed Mira’s name in her heart; the tug‑of‑war in her mind chose a side, like a rope finally slackening.

She’d decided what to do next, a path inked in one clean stroke.

With that clarity, the rest turned simple, like clouds parting to show a single star.

She stood. She even had the leisure to snap her fingers; red, narrow sigils streaked across her black robe like fireflies, whisking away the dust.

Only when everything met her neat‑freak standard did she smooth collar and cuffs, graceful as a crane, and prepare to descend.

Follow this road down, and the lantern river of the main street would return to her feet.

By plan, she should have stayed in shadow, catching Elves’ crumbs of talk, combing signs, magazines, and papers for news of the Savia Rose.

But now, the knot in her chest had loosened.

She wasn’t that useless girl. She was Adelaide—and Adelaide never let a blade dull in her hand.

Dream had taught her Chinese. She should wield it like a key that opens locked gates.

Why skulk if she could walk openly under lantern light? Ask citizens directly; it’s straighter than a sword, and truer.

Yes. Get the intel fast, go back… and apologize to Mira, like rain softening dry earth.

Resolve set, her steps fell like drumbeats as she headed for the night market.

With the weight gone, her eyes finally drank the world; overlooked details sprouted like moss after rain.

For one, Elf society felt stranger than she’d guessed, like a mirror hung crooked.

The slope she’d sat on was a fine lookout. On the way down, she passed Elves staking spots for fireworks like fishermen along a bank. Ignore their gold hair and pointed ears, and they looked like they’d walked out of Dream’s period dramas—hanfu‑style robes, silk sleeves flowing like streamers.

Yet that antique impression didn’t match the hum of their tech, gears hidden under brocade.

“Right, this firework show’s way better than last time! The Carne Family’s taste hits different, miles over the Illuin Family’s—hold up, lemme show you—”

A slender Elf lounged on a wooden rail, lifted a bronze‑like card, and intoned, “pusta (stasis).”

Glyphs on the card lit like coals, and a blinding flash popped. Adelaide shielded her eyes with a wing of her hand as nearby Elves shouted.

“Who was that! So rude, using a flash lens here!”

“Oh no, busted~” the slim Elf whispered, tongue poking out like a kitten. She spoke to the card, “Image sent, sweetheart, you get it?”

At the same moment, Adelaide felt magic radiate from the card like heat from a brazier.

It linked to the huge array etched across the sky like a spiderweb, then raced along its lines toward the horizon’s rim.

...

In that instant, one word barged into her mind like a bird through a window.

A… phone?

The bronze card likely had another name, yet the truth hit like a stone in a pond. And the Elf’s chatter carried more.

It took her a beat to realize Carne and Illuin matched carne and Illuin, the Elvish words for red and blue. That didn’t answer why Elves spoke Chinese; it thickened the fog.

Elvish clearly existed—she’d heard “pusta” before the snapshot. So why transliterate Elvish into Chinese and speak it that way?

The more she thought, the stranger it seemed. This wasn’t a plain period fantasy, nor the Empire’s crystal‑pure utopia. It was a simmering hotpot of high tech and magic, Elvish and Chinese, Chinese‑flavored bronze‑punk.

Stranger still, not the differences—but the similarities mirrored back.

For instance, in this obviously all‑female society, gender still split like a river into two banks.

You saw it in long and short hair halved like yin and yang, and in matching clothes; you heard it more in speech and manner.

“I bet tonight’s tab. The Flower Dancer will be the Carne Family again, believe it?”

“Nope. They’re in danger. Illuin’s poll numbers last month were the best in eight hundred years,” the other countered, voice like a struck bell. “Plus a new contender… what was it? Right, the Fana Family. Carne won’t cruise this time.”

“Fine, say Illuin. But you really think the Savia Rose should go to the Fana Family, those Nacha Tribe backers?”

“Why not? We need diversity. If it’s always Carne versus Illuin, the bureaucracy ossifies like a stagnant pond.”

“What are you saying? The northern seal might fail any day, and the country’s a pot of porridge.” The first voice rose like a rising wind. She stopped cracking sunflower seeds, slapped the table like thunder, and stood. “You think we need ‘diversity’ now? A big reshuffle here, and those Nacha refugees will seize the tide! Anyone with a bigger‑picture mind knows stability first. We can only back the Carne Family!”

“Sheesh…” came the reply, an eye roll wide as a wheel. “Hope your voice is this big when you tell your wife about that girl in your bed, oh hero of grand narratives.”

“Th‑that was… a mistake any Elf would make—no, what’s that got to do with this?!”

Adelaide sat aside, mind grinding on the rift between their words and the scene, like a crack splitting ice.

Their voices were silver bells, and their cherry lips prattled while cracking seeds; either face could draw crowds in the Empire. Yet they sounded like two middle‑aged uncles at a bar, dodging chores by arguing politics over foam.

The more she listened, the faster her Elf fantasies shattered, porcelain under a hammer.

Where was the promised grace, the pledged deep love? She’d grown up on ballads of Elves with one partner, dying of heartbreak. Were those minstrel tales all spun sugar?

For an Imperial, it was too much; glance away, and her thoughts slid off the rails into static like wind through wires.

Meanwhile, the sunflower seeds were gone, and the “uncle” Elves boiled over. Neither could win. They turned—and caught Adelaide staring like a deer in torchlight.

They traded a look, a thread tugged taut, and agreed on how to settle it.

“Hey. You, spacing out.”

“…Hm?” Realizing they meant her, Adelaide tensed; her thoughts clicked back like beads on an abacus.

“Yeah, you. Who do you think will take this Savia Rose?”

Their mouths asked her, but their eyes threw invisible waves like stones across water. Her answer would crown a winner—and probably decide who paid the bill.

Realizing that, Adelaide thought for a few heartbeats, each one a drum under ribs.

She let the moment steep like tea, then didn’t pick a side. She tilted her head, accentless Chinese flowing like a calm stream.

“I’m curious. Times are this turbulent, yet you don’t seem worried…”

“?”

“About the Savia Rose being targeted by some nameless, skilled thief… and simply stolen.”