An hour later, Sandryon, fresh from a private talk with the chair, knocked on Yekase’s door, knuckles tapping like rain on lacquer.

The door swung open. Yekase stood there beaming, her skin rosy and smooth like polished jade; she looked so lively she could’ve passed for seventeen.

Perfect timing. Let’s head straight to the banquet hall… what did you do in here?

Sandryon leaned in over her shoulder, gaze sweeping the room like a lantern’s beam.

No one, of course.

Which made it stranger, like finding a temple empty at noon.

In Sandryon’s memory, Yekase never matched the word “serious,” but she wasn’t a mindless giggler either.

Nothing much—just, y’know, took care of myself.

Oh. Took care—

Her voice cut short, like a clock stopping mid-tick.

Sandryon froze as if time itself paused; only her eyes blinked at Yekase, two shutters clicking.

Y-you, you, you—

Her face flushed scarlet, words stumbling like pebbles.

Yekase glanced down the corridor, calm as a pond. We’re meeting the other attendees in the public lounge next, right?

Explain to me! M-masturbate…? Why here…?!

Suddenly remembered I hadn’t in a long while.

So you just—?!

You were busy, the bed felt comfy, I put on some audio and went for it. Relax, I laid down tissue.

So casual?!

You’re overreacting.

Yekase scratched her head, puzzled by Sandryon’s fuss. Then she simply took Sandryon’s hand and headed toward the sign that pointed to the banquet hall, steps light as paper cranes.

Sandryon hid her face under her wide-brimmed hat the whole way, silent as if walking through fog.

At the door, she had to lift the brim. Her glare shot like an arrow.

Once we’re in, don’t speak unless I tell you to.

Got it—

Sinking into post-nut clarity, Yekase reflected a bit; okay, maybe she’d crossed a line. At least wait till we’re home—

Sandryon pushed open the banquet doors, and warm light poured out like honey.

The vast room held a dozen or so people. Most looked in their thirties or forties, a couple were old men, and the youngest seemed barely grown.

Some stood chatting like sparrows on a eave, some sat alone like stones in a stream, some picked small bites from platters—a feast so lush it shone from afar. Even Yekase, whose tastes were simple and horizons low, could see the cost glittering in every dish.

Welcome, Lady Crystal Witch!

The servers called in unison and flowed back to work like a well-trained dance troupe, but it was enough to turn the Alchemists’ attention, faces tilting like sunflowers.

Sandryon’s gaze skimmed every face in the room, then she tipped her witch hat and nodded, guiding Yekase toward a long table.

They passed a wrought-iron stand piled with salmon sashimi and tiny dishes of caviar—Yekase snatched two plates like a magpie—and only then did she spot someone hidden behind it.

A little girl in pure white lace sleepwear.

It’s you?!

Loose golden hair like silk, nightgown stark as moonlight, a face too cold for her apparent age—

You know even her?

Sandryon sounded surprised. You always bring me surprises from the strangest corners… well met, Crescent. This is my new apprentice, Yekase. Looks like you two have history?

The golden-haired girl labeled Crescent lifted her eyes at Yekase. One word fell, clean as a blade.

Who?

Her tone was as before—neither emotionless ice nor the deliberate distance of a PeaceWarrior—more like someone who had trained every muscle and nerve to speak in crystal clarity, stripping away warmth in the process.

I was transformed at the time, so fair you didn’t recognize me. The subsonic one.

She nodded once, slight as a moth’s wing. Oh. You.

Yekase explained to Sandryon, precise as chalk lines. One day I wanted to see if my body could break the sound barrier. I rode my staff and sprinted the sky, then met this… Ms. Crescent. She mistook me for an alchemy doll. We cleared it up; not really “history.” I didn’t even know her name.

Sandryon murmured oh, like a bell tapped softly.

Yekase recalled the notes she’d read on the ride, then leaned into that hero-sense that sniffed out true selves, and remembered a title with “Crescent” in it.

From Britain: the Crescent Puppeteer, Alicia Alicia.

In Yekase’s sight, Sorcery flowed inside the girl, not as a random current in a civilian’s body, but cycling along precise pathways like a clockwork river.

Puppeteer. Alchemy dolls.

Is this golden-haired child really her true body?

A pleasure to meet again, Ms. Alice.

This time Alice didn’t even nod. Pride sat on her like a velvet mantle—just as the dossier said.

Standing here talking with Sandryon at 150-plus and Alice at 130-plus, Yekase felt like a young giant in a toy garden, which was delightful, so she didn’t feel awkward at all.

She flashed Sandryon a look—

Then turned to the table and began to eat, hands moving like a swift script.

Caviar! Giant lobster! Moon Clams! Whole roast lamb! Vinegar-sautéed seafood shreds with no name! The raw cost alone could probably make Shen Shanshan happily wait tables for a month—and here it was, free as rain.

Yekase stacked empty plates in her left hand and wielded a fork in her right, two points, one line, cutting and lifting in a crisp rhythm, while her eyes scanned the spread like a radar dish.

Master, aren’t you eating?

She almost choked, paused to breathe, then held out a piece of sushi to Sandryon, offering like a bird with a seed.

I’m not hungry. You go ahead.

But Sandryon was chatting with Alice, elegant and measured, every sentence like a chess move; neither the wine nor the food was their true aim.

Yekase believed in this: when you eat, eat well; when you work, work hard.

Sometimes she’d work till she forgot meals, but she respected food like a craftsman respects steel.

The ingredients here were rare, the cooking meticulous; the roast gleamed gold and crisp, the sashimi clean and snap-fresh, the plating and sauces chosen like brushstrokes. You could taste the chef’s attitude—no less devoted than she was to her inventions.

Leaving dishes untouched to make small talk felt like building a new machine and never turning it on—a pure desecration.

Those two were already that far gone; Yekase couldn’t save their souls, so she ate their share, like a pilgrim gathering fallen offerings.

Lady Crystal Witch, no offense, but how did you take such an uncultured bumpkin as a disciple?

When Sandryon and Alice’s small talk ended, a middle-aged lady in a wine-red gown drifted over, eyeing an opening like a hawk.

Yekase was busy evolving her stomach capacity and didn’t spare her a word.

Please reconsider my son Martini, would you? I’m not bragging—he’s diligent, humble, and polite. Look, he’s still studying with a scroll even now.

Sandryon followed her gaze. Indeed, a boy in a tiny suit sat in a corner clutching a scroll, posture stiff as a post.

Mm. I can see that.

Questioned about her eye for apprentices, Sandryon neither hurried nor fretted; she answered lightly, like brushing dust from a sleeve.

Your family name is Ma?

The lady covered her mouth and laughed, pleased as if tasting sugar. To leave an impression on you—what an honor, truly humbling.

Tengma Group’s contributions to the Alchemy Association’s Huaxia Branch are plain for all to see. Of course I remember.

Then about the apprenticeship—

Urgency tugged at her face, hope burning like a lantern. In her view, the sole heir of Tengma Group—the sponsor that helped the Association’s Huaxia Branch stand firm on this land of Mind Energy—deserved a mentor who matched his bright future and polished his résumé to a gleam.

Sandryon sighed. Even the soft smile beneath her blue wool witch hat fell away like a mask.

But your son is just too dumb.

…Wh—

An exchange symposium is for showing results, learning, and critique. Still cramming dead words from a scroll now—doesn’t that mean his mind was too dull to learn earlier? Or is this “diligence” a façade?

This…!

The lady flushed and faltered, unable to argue against Sandryon’s sharp blade of words. She glanced around in panic, then her eyes landed on Yekase, who was trying very hard to be invisible.

To be fair, Yekase wasn’t playing possum; the seafood was too good, and her mouth had no spare time for talk.

She had just picked up a bowl of wasabi Moonbeast tendrils—ordinary on paper, yet leagues above the mall version. Eating it felt like a fine current brushing through her body, subtle as a cat’s whisker.

She’d heard Moonbeasts, those mutated cephalopods, evolved some control over gravity. The older and stronger they grew, the more potent their gravity organs became, extending micro-control to the nerves at each tendril’s tip.

So these were those nerves? Yekase savored the trace, surprised to find the energy’s level and waveform eerily familiar.

It was Soul Power.

…It was Soul Power.

Mind Energy and Soul Power are hard to separate; the biggest difference is that trained animals can learn a bit of Mind Energy, while Soul Power only works when humans pair up with partners in deep tacit sync.

So Soul Power stands as humanity’s pride, proof of the “spirit leading all living things”—hence the name.

But how do Moonbeasts wield Soul Power? Did they develop team coordination—maybe even a society?

You! I’m talking to you! If your eating manners are crude, fine—but do you lack basic courtesy too?!

Yekase snapped back from imagining Moonbeast hives and studied the lady calmly, eyes cool as a well.

She pointed to her cheek, puffed like a squirrel’s, then shook her head, showing she couldn’t speak at the moment and wasn’t ignoring her on purpose.

Ew!

Yet despite her stuffed cheek, Yekase’s eating was surprisingly tidy; no oil on her lips. The quick, no-tooth chew made her look a bit like a small animal nibbling seeds.

The lady frowned. Fine. I won’t press that. Since Lady Crystal Witch says this symposium is for results and critique, as her disciple you must have something worth showing, yes?

Yekase nodded, simple as a gong note.

Oh? And what kind of work is it? Surely something elegant, powerful, and arcane—something that shatters everyone’s assumptions and does your master proud?

Yekase nodded again, giving face like offering tea.

She meant it; she even forced herself to stop, swallowed everything, and took a sip to clear her throat before speaking.

But breaking your assumptions is boring. That part’s just collateral.

The lady glanced to Sandryon for rescue, but beneath the blue wool witch hat, Sandryon’s face carried a smile of bright interest, like watching fireworks in a clear winter sky.