After that, we rested like embers dimming after a storm.

Sandryon had wanted to camp inside the Tungus Cosmic Bubble, a spark eager to leap. Aurora and Xiaoyuan doused it with two cool votes, and the formal schedule starts tomorrow.

They’re old fires that don’t need sleep, but the survey team does, like saplings needing night dew.

Yekase was led by Katyusha to the room she’d briefly used last time, a den now swept, no dust storm waiting under the bed like a startled flock.

Afraid of signal triangulation, she’d left her phone at home, a tether cut clean. She lay staring at the ceiling, mind drifting like mist, then rummaged through the Teleport Box and found a pack of tissues, a small white raft.

Probably stashed to avoid the wilderness-toilet no-paper crisis, a little preparedness against rain.

She drew one sheet, smoothed it on the table like calm water, and carefully wrote:

[I’ve settled at the stop; all is well.]

No folding; she slid it back into the Teleport Box, a message sealed like a bottle set afloat.

Hope Liu RuoYuan remembers this trick, she thought, a line cast into a quiet lake. If she opens it, she’ll see that spread napkin at once.

Done with that, Yekase opened the magic catalog, pages like leaves rustling at dusk.

No more skimming for fun; she hunted for spells she could learn fast and use, tools for a craftsman’s hands. She still saw modern magic as low-end convenience, like cheap iron; yet even iron has a shine when the work suits it.

First, learn Blood Arrow, Blood Control, and Mark of Crimson, three red threads.

…Looks like you need to slit your wrist, she thought, a chill like steel against skin.

She checked the learning requirements again, eyes like lanterns tracing each line.

She chose the shower stall for privacy, tile and steam like a cave of glass, and used Dawn of Eden to bleed, careful as trimming a rose—though she’d already done the “arterial face-wash,” caution felt like a paper umbrella in a gale. This wasn’t a spell for normal folk, she thought, a black sail on a wild sea.

Picture it: Blood Control needs the scene soaked in your own blood, a tide that ebbs after a minute. You fire as many Blood Arrows as you can, then burst for the finisher, like a devilish routine played on a drum of flesh.

Yekase had… experience. Spilling your own blood over a battlefield? It evoked Soville City, the clash with the Church’s knights.

Ten blades had cut her scalp into a crimson fountain; spray dotted the floor like a scarlet constellation. To satisfy even a fear-of-low-firepower mind, Blood Control would need at least that much flood.

No wonder blood mages live only in the pages of history, ashes in an old hearth.

Even if you learn it, Blood Arrow by itself barely stings; the weight sits with Blood Control. In real combat you treat your body like a sandbag, selling blood while padding damage, a boxer trading bruises for breath.

And the heavyweight, Mark of Crimson, hammered the point home.

Its first line was bold and bright:

“As blood within the body decreases, physical ability rises.”

“As blood within the body decreases.”

—That’s fighting with your back to the river, no retreat, cliff behind you.

And it’s back-to-the-river without any lock-HP safety net, a rope bridge with missing planks.

Blood mages not killed by learning requirements, nor by daily bleeding out, probably died by playing that no-retreat game on themselves, a star burned white-hot then gone.

But problems that break normal people don’t bite someone who isn’t normal, and Yekase wasn’t.

She squatted in the shower a long spell, breath fogging like winter glass, learned the three spells at last, then weathered the dizziness of anemia and fell back onto the bed like a leaf.

Knock, knock.

“…Come in…”

Sandryon stepped in, a wind-chime’s shadow crossing the doorway.

“Xiaoyuan’s glued to her handheld console, won’t chat,” she said, voice like warm tea. “So I dropped by to check on you.”

“An afterthought, huh…”

Sandryon took the chair, watching Yekase aim her nose at her like a blunt spear. There wasn’t that heavy sorrow you can scoop by the handful; she seemed to accept a comrade’s death the way winter accepts bare branches. Yet she carried a new distance, a hollow like a ring of frost.

“How’s your state? Say it straight.”

…

“…It’s… just this,” Yekase said, turning half over to face her, a cat curling into a patch of sun.

“Feels like someone carved out a slice of my heart. Touch it now, it throbs; leave it be, it’ll knit into a scar, a branded obsession. I’m not short on brands.”

“Mm. More practiced than I thought.”

“Practiced?”

“At facing death beside you, like thunder close enough to rattle the ribs.”

Yekase smiled oddly, a cracked mask. “It’s not my first time sending off a comrade.”

“Good that you’re okay. But… obsessions? Best not wear too many, like stones in a traveler’s pack.”

“Why?”

Sandryon didn’t answer; she turned the page like a breeze. “Longlifers hiding in Huaxia include me and Xiaoyuan—and one more. If we joined up, the Huaxia Branch would be nothing, a paper wall. Maybe you’ve blamed us in your heart, why refuse responsibility when we’re able, why tolerate a Sinister Organization in a world that still has spring.”

“I haven’t… okay, I have,” Yekase sighed, like steam from a kettle. “But that’s your right.”

“Because every Longlifer is ash burned to the end,” Sandryon said, a candle speaking to another candle.

“We already burned in our own eras; what remains is a handful of ash without fire, a thing that won’t change, not now, not later. We keep one or two brands: Aurora wants the dragon race to rise like dawn; Xiaoyuan wants to watch a city from birth to ruin, a time-lapse in stone; I want the ultimate of Ancient Alchemy, the last furnace. But your brand is too deep, too heavy. When that time comes, it’ll hurt, like winter in the bone.”

“…Because I haven’t burned yet,” Yekase said, eyes like cold pond water. “Maybe at your stage I’ll be slack, a banner left in the dust.”

Sandryon watched her in silence, a hand smoothing Yekase’s hair like wind over wheat. She smiled gently, turned to leave, footfalls soft as snow.

Yekase called to her back, an arrow across the hall: “Who’s the other one?”

“She’s called Jixia, lived for 2,400 years,” Sandryon said, a number like a slow river.

…

…

Next morning, after washing, Yekase drifted to the terrace of Sidonia Dragon Fortress, steps like foam.

Calling it a terrace wasn’t quite right; that roof doubled as Aurora’s throne, an icebound throne gleaming like a glacier.

It was cold, the wind a knife straight from the north. “I’ll build a nest tomorrow,” she muttered, breath like smoke.

Five minutes later, her body adapted; it felt like sitting under an air conditioner, summer across winter.

Dragons seemed to sleep long; the terrace held only Yekase, a lone figure scanning horizons like a lighthouse. Everywhere was snow-draped forest, a tapestry of white and pine; soon her eyes felt bored, like a sparrow sick of a single branch.

On normal days, she’d have gone back to her room to idle, a fish sinking to the cool bottom.

For some reason, she hopped onto a pillar’s crown, squatted, and stared into the forest, mind blank as a page.

Do nothing; think nothing; just watch, like frost watching dawn.

“Exploration team’s prepping in the hall,” came a voice like a string plucked. “The Sky Spear’s giving a speech up front. Aren’t you picking gear?”

Xiaoyuan padded near, hopped onto another pillar, squatting like a cat with a lollipop.

“Odds and ends are all in my Teleport Box,” Yekase said, words like pebbles dropped into a stream.

“That box is handy. Give me one,” Xiaoyuan said, eyes bright as coins.

“Just sticking out your hand?”

“Buy it, of course,” she said, adjusting her balance like a tightrope walker. “Or if you want Huaxia rumors, I know more than Crystal, that shut-in moth.”

“Didn’t expect you to be an intel peddler,” Yekase said, a smile like a hook.

Think about it: Xiaoyuan loves games but isn’t house-bound; when you move, you weave networks like vines.

“How many intel pieces for a Teleport Box?”

“Depends on the intel,” she said, words like scales weighing grain.

What she wanted from Huaxia… Eastern dragons, any survivors left in the clouds? And the thousand-year monster Sandryon mentioned, that old willow?

“How many cadres in the Huaxia Branch, and how strong?” she asked, tossing the question like a spear.

“Starting heavy, huh,” Xiaoyuan said, amused as a sparrow. “Crystal told me your annoying fake smile was gone, worried you were hit too hard. Looks like you’re fine.”

Annoying fake smile…

Yekase felt her temples swell like thunderheads; she breathed deep, a wave settling, and asked, “So, do you have it?”

“That’s not just one piece… but fine,” Xiaoyuan said, flicking her wrist. “Count it as a long-term partner discount.”

She pulled out a gadget like an old MP3, tossed it across the gap. Yekase caught it; a tiny screen stared back like a one-eyed beetle.

“It’s all inside. Read when you’ve got free wind.”

“Thanks.”

Intel on a portable with no network is a locked chest; in danger, you flood it with Infinite Power and melt it, a candle to slag. A mature trick.

Yekase pocketed the MP3 and raised a light fist, knuckles like pebbles. “We haven’t hung out much, but sometimes it feels like you’re… me, after burning to ash.”

“Mm,” Xiaoyuan said, the sound like a hand tapping wood.

“Living is constant losing,” she added, a tide taking sand. “You still lack some numbness.”

“Appreciate the tip,” Yekase said, a nod like a leaf.

“Burn once, Mechbreaker.”

They bumped fists; Xiaoyuan hopped down, slipped inside, a shadow through a doorway.

Burn once, huh…

“Don’t call me by that nickname!” Yekase shouted, voice like a thrown stone, and chased into the hall.

The hall was packed with people and dragons, yet orderly as combed fields, lines straight as spears. Xiaoyuan stood by Sandryon; Yekase joined them, three points on a triangle.

“If you don’t pick a title, ‘Singing Wrecking Lady’ will stick,” Xiaoyuan said, words like glue.

“So we choose our own?” Yekase winced, a blush like heat over iron.

Self-chosen titles are embarrassing, banners that might turn chuunibyou and become black history ten or twenty years later, etched on posters like a tattoo you regret.

“I… I need to think carefully,” she murmured, mind like a careful brush.

Plus, Burns’s reply—printed on promo posters—can’t be random, ink that won’t wash.

“We’ll start when the sun hits the highest point,” Aurora called from the lectern, voice like a silver horn. “Combatants lead the way. Two teams per group enter the Cosmic Bubble. Expand by plan, orderly and wide—now, each group stand down and await.”

“I, Aurora, the ‘Iceblood Spear Maiden,’ look forward to your professional swing,” she finished, pride like frost on steel.

She seemed very pleased with her title, a jewel in her crown.

When the exploration teams peeled away, the hall held only Aurora on stage and the three below, a quiet after the drum.

Aurora rolled her neck on either side of the lectern, joints clicking like ice, and stepped down. “We’ll go in now and clear the area around the starting point,” she said, eyes like twin dragon lanterns.

This Slavic woman had twin dragon pupils and the aura of command, not Sandryon’s kind, more like cold sunlight on armor. Even with more brain oddities than the three of them combined, her presence stayed intact, touched by a neat dash of approachability, a queen who drinks with the footmen.

“So, how do we enter the Cosmic Bubble?” Yekase asked, curiosity like a deer lifting its ears.

“Tear the veil of dimension and step through,” Aurora said, simple as a blade.

“Eh,” Yekase blinked, a feather caught in wind.