Among the intel Shelika held, the thorn that stung Fulin most was the Dark Spirit Empire’s push to seize the Doran Kingdom, a shadow creeping along the map.

Two plans were known—two blades hidden in one sleeve, both aimed at Doran’s throat.

First came appeasement, led by the Dark Blood Clan, a patience play that crouched like wolves at the treeline and watched the wind of public mood.

They’d wait for anti–Heavenly Spirit sentiment to rise like a tide, then the Shadowspirit Legion would surge in like iron surf, hard and cold.

Because little blood would spill, the Dark Spirits could take Doran whole, like lifting fruit without bruising it—thus the name, peaceful evolution.

The other plan burned hotter, pushed by Abyssal Fiends, an aggressive road called the Hymn Project, like a drumbeat rolling from underground.

“Hymn” was an ancient homegrown rite, an old tree of faith in the Dark Spirit Empire, fed by mass sacrifice to the Earth Mother.

Through that offering, they’d summon and bind a Wasteland Deity, a storm chained to a priest’s hand and turned toward war.

In their faith, the Wasteland Deity stands below the Earth Mother, a second moon to her sun, yet still a force no knight or mage could touch.

With it summoned, the Shadowspirit Legion would roll forward like a landslide, crush the lines, and occupy Doran before the dust could settle.

They wouldn’t send such a deity straight at the Heavenly Spirit Empire, though, because the other side held a mirror blade—similar means in another shrine.

Power between Heaven and Dark wasn’t far apart, yet Doran was a jewel on the ridge, a pass the wind insists on crossing.

Facing Doran, the Impasse Mountains dropped lower like a stair carved by time, so airships from Doran flew faster and safer than any other human vassal route.

Most tribute and goods the Heavenly Spirit Empire reaped from humans funneled through Doran like a river through a gorge, swift and indispensable.

So the Dark Spirit Empire believed, if they cut Doran—if they severed that lifeline—then even without winning head-on, the rival would wither like a tree in drought.

Decades would gnaw the Heavenly Spirit Empire hollow, and a later war would be an easy harvest, ripe grain beneath a weighted scythe.

Hence, the Dark Spirits kept reaching for Doran, a hand always probing the lattice for a gap in the reeds.

The Heavenly Spirit Empire knew this, of course; Inquisitors stood everywhere in Doran like white herons, and a western border base sat bristling like a hedgehog.

If trouble sparked, their army would arrive like summer rain, fast and drumming, hard to dodge in the open.

So the Dark Spirits couldn’t take Doran cleanly, and thus came both roads—the Blood Clan’s peaceful evolution and the Abyssal Fiends’ Hymn Project, two currents side by side.

Both advanced at once, and both camps battled in court like antlers locking, fighting for the nation’s strength and grain.

From what Fulin knew now, neither plan had landed, like arrows that flew far yet pinned no crest.

Appeasement’s executor was Shelika, and she was dead, a candle snuffed; with the Blood Clan losing clout at home, that road would stall in fog.

The Hymn ritual, though, was a relic not performed in centuries, ancient and vast, a leviathan that needed oceans of fuel.

Even with the Abyssal Fiends in favor, for a dozen reasons that leviathan hadn’t yet stirred; the water barely rippled.

Yet neither plan had failed, not truly; both embers still glowed beneath ash, waiting for wind.

For peaceful evolution—Shelika had aimed to ferment anti-Heavenly Spirit thought in Doran, a brew steeped for years like dark tea.

Now there was the Blazing Fire Knight, a top hero blazing like a comet, who’d won back the kingdom’s face from an empire’s hand.

In this weather, many would lift him up, or fly banners in his name; movements would bud like spring shoots along a wall.

When the timing ripened, even without Shelika, the Shadowspirit Legion wouldn’t miss a feast laid out beneath lantern light.

As for the Hymn Project—Shelika had cut herself off to evade Heavenly eyes; in Doran she’d been blind to home for nearly sixty years.

She knew nothing of internal tides, and thus nothing of the Hymn’s pulse, no hint of where that river turned.

From clues she left, Fulin guessed the Hymn Project had broken through a reef, which was why the Abyssal Fiends gained the wind at court.

By that, the Hymn seemed near execution—a storm brewing past the ridge—and Doran stood perilously on a cliff edge.

“So this is the truth of Doran about to tip…” Wearing Shelika’s face, Fulin breathed out helplessness like winter mist.

After combing the woman’s mind for threads, Fulin set her hand to the next task, a needle ready for the next seam.

She had to verify what Shelika could do, measure the blade before the duel, even if the grip felt strange.

The return had been too rushed; she’d only skimmed how Shelika’s body moved, like trying on boots mid-run.

Now she had time, and a place with no eyes, a hollow in the stones where whispers died soft.

“First, open the stat panel.” Shelika murmured, voice low as a brook under leaves.

A display surfaced in her mind like ink rising in clear water, much like with Lance, though the words shifted.

[Spell Level], 13.

[Sacrificial Authority], 7.

[Dark Bloodline], S.

…and more, a different constellation than with Lance, stars in new patterns.

Clearly, “Shelika” was a mage template, a loom built for thread and sigils, not steel.

[Spell Level] ran high, near a high mage’s sea, though short of an archmage’s storm.

But there was a snag in the weave: she couldn’t cast her higher spells now, a lock clicking cold.

Not because Shelika didn’t know them, but because when Fulin used spells she hadn’t used as Lance, the feel of casting hid like a fish in reeds.

She had to relearn it, finger by finger, breath by breath; it wasn’t like “Dawn Legend” where skills snapped on like lanterns.

Cumbersome, but workable—she could still use the spells she’d learned while wearing Lance’s skin, a few tools kept dry in the rain.

Like [Spell Level], [Sacrificial Authority] also sat under a cloud, a well with a rope she wouldn’t pull.

It was a strange power granted to Earth Mother’s clergy, a green fire Shelika once used to unleash the Bounteous Calamity Gale.

Stronger, yes, but rooted in faith, a tree that drinks belief; and Fulin had been an atheist in her last life, with no shrine in her bones.

So in Shelika’s skin, Fulin couldn’t call [Sacrificial Authority], a door shut by her own stance, iron and quiet.

Lastly, as Lance bore a [Warrior’s Bloodline], Shelika carried the [Dark Bloodline], like night ink worked into the veins.

Half of it hardened blood into power, half wove a blessing into spells, a mage’s talent with a fang.

Together, Shelika could wield a unique skill—[Blood Armament]—a forge of crimson that shaped what the mind could grasp.

Blood Armament could form any weapon her understanding could hold, a mirror that made ideas flesh.

For now, it was the only thing in “Shelika” that truly fit Fulin’s hand, a keystone lodged right where she needed it.

“Blood Armament.” Now Fulin—no, Shelika—sang it in her heart, a thread pulled, and the technique unfolded like a red flower.

At once she felt strength ebb, like tide leaving the shore; what left was blood, warm and obedient.

It seeped from her skin in fine beads, then floated before her like fireflies in wine, faintly luminous and intent.

Shelika pictured a thing, and the blood thickened, the way clouds gather into storm.

She imagined the most advanced weapon from Earth in her past life, a hawk made of carbon and code.

A Vanguard drone.

A small quad-rotor armed drone, small yet not tiny, a square meter of presence and twenty centimeters tall, frame like a clenched fist.

When it flew in close, the belly-mounted 9mm mini rotary cannon would lock a foe and pour fire like blue rain.

At her thought, a dark-crimson Vanguard drone took shape, a war-kite lacquered in dusk.

It dipped as if to land, then all four rotors bit the air, hard and hungry, like hornets waking in a hive.

There came a harsh, buzzing hum, fly-like but thunderous, and the Vanguard rose to a tight orbit.

With no target, it circled Shelika, a red moon pacing its planet, slow and watchful.

“Mm-hmm, not bad~~” Shelika’s smile curled like smoke, satisfaction warming her voice.

The Vanguard wasn’t remote-controlled; it was an autonomous blade, a hawk that knew the glove and the prey.

Once released, it struck by the caster’s intent, a trained beast needing only a pointed finger.

Shelika leveled a finger at a stone pillar and gave the order, crisp as a snapped twig: “Vanguard One, attack that pillar!”

The drone obeyed; after half a heartbeat’s delay, it slid forward, swift yet steady, and held three meters off the target.

Its belly cannon spat a lance of azure light, a steady stream of spell-bullets pouring like a waterfall turned to needles.

In under five seconds, the gaudy, oversized pillar became a honeycomb, riddled through like wood eaten by ants.

Then—thud—stone gave way, and the broken shaft toppled like a felled pine.

Task complete, the drone drifted back and resumed its patient circling, a shepherd star over her shoulder.

“Mm-hmm, not bad~~” Seeing the clean bite of its power, Shelika hummed again, pleased as a cat in a sunpatch.

She’d thought about forming firearms before, but her chest was… ample; stocks snagged like branches catching a cloak, especially on the heavy-hitters.

But that worry blew away now like chaff on a breeze.

“Because yours truly’s got drones now~~” Shelika’s laugh chimed like glass, light and wicked.

Once released, the Vanguards would auto-seek enemies—perfect, since Shelika wasn’t built for straight-line duels, more shadow than spear.

In a fight, she could toss out two or three Vanguards, then slip into cover and watch the storm she’d sown.

By that logic, to keep growing Shelika’s power, she could pour all experience into [Dark Bloodline], and harden the Vanguards born of Blood Armament.

“All right, all right, the next problem is—” Her smile faded like a lantern cupped out; a small, private worry pulled her gaze to the side mirror.

The light was dim, but Blood Clan night-eyes were keen; she saw herself in glass like a rose pressed on black silk.

A beauty like a black rose—lush, enticing, with a thread of omen and a quiet promise of venom.

It was an outfit for serving the Earth Mother, a ritual bloom with thorns tucked in.

Shelika hadn’t liked it; Fulin didn’t either; both hearts wrinkled like paper at rain.

So—

“Master, I bought what you asked for.” She still wasn’t used to calling the woman before her “Master,” the word catching like a burr.

Yuna gave a small bow, set down a forest of bags, and turned to leave like a shadow leaving a wall.

The bundles were clothes from a boutique, cuts that fit Shelika’s frame and matched Fulin’s taste, threads chosen like herbs in a careful brew.

There were fresh dresses that shed the black-rose mood, corseted violets as clean as dawn air after rain.

And there were… necessities tailored to Shelika’s measure, things you had to wear under a sheath dress, scaffolding under silk.

Truth be told, even now, Fulin wasn’t used to such things; the straps felt like vines on bark, but there was no helping it.

“Yuna, I…I order you, help me put them on…” Shelika’s cheeks warmed like peach skin at dusk, and the words came soft.