Dong—dong—dong.

The mellow bell outside pulled Fulin from her thoughts like ripples tugging a leaf to shore.

She lifted a corner of the curtain, and the street below flowed like a river of carts and boots.

Sunlight speared through cloud but died on stone, and the shadows stood straighter like spears at attention.

Looks like noon is almost here, the thought slid in like a knife finding its sheath.

To be sure, she drew a pocket watch from her satchel like a small silver moon warming her palm.

“Eleven already...” she breathed, the words settling like dust on glass.

She had bought this watch back in Golden Bay City, a quiet anchor in a restless tide.

After she got it, companions began gathering around “Lance” like sparks finding a hearth.

Her gaze rested on the watch, and a year-old trail opened in memory like a rain-washed mountain path.

“Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison... huh.” A hush cooled her chest, then her eyes slid to the Sirius Sword dozing in the satchel like a silver wolf.

After a few heartbeats, resolve flickered back like a lantern relit, and she patted her cheeks to ring herself awake.

Time to move, she told herself, a soft bell chiming in her ribs.

The satchel was heavy with Evil Barrier Crystals, and under Shelika’s face, she had a noon deal at the Central Exchange like a needle pricking the zenith.

She invoked Dual Incarnation, and a thousand paper bats fluttered from the void like autumn leaves.

They clung and layered, sheet upon sheet, wrapping her like frost blooming on a window.

In moments, the cocoon sloughed off, and Shelika stepped out like a new mask cooling from the kiln.

“Different again when I transform,” Shelika murmured, the thought stretching like a cat in sun.

When she became “Lance,” black fog took her like storm surf, then hardened into him.

For “Shelika,” it was paper bats, not smoke, a snowfall instead of a night tide.

So the change itself isn’t the same, the conclusion perched like a crow on a branch.

“Is it because the powers don’t match?” she wondered, the question floating like dandelion fluff.

“Lance” ran on Battle Aura, while “Shelika” breathed mana like incense from a shrine.

In Nordland, the two forces part like river forks—flesh feeds the first, spirit feeds the second.

Spirit spans wide—human soul, the green hum of nature, and the whisper of gods like wind in pines.

If so, then what’s Fulin’s MP made of, the thought tapped, like knuckles on a door.

In “Legend of Dawn,” MP meant skill points, a blue bar to burn and watch refill like a tide.

But Fulin now walked in flesh, so old numbers wouldn’t paste over like paper on wet stone.

She’d have to explore it herself, and quick answers shimmered like mirages over hot sand.

She breathed out, wiping the fog from her mind like a sleeve over glass.

Forget it for now—work first, she told herself, the words stacking like bricks.

She faced the mirror like a still pond and set her makeup with the calm stroke of a brush.

She took up the satchel, opened the door like opening a horizon, and stepped into the hall.

Behind the Gray Pearl Inn’s counter, the proprietress lifted a brow like a drawn bow.

“A Blood Clan girl out in broad daylight?” she asked, the words blinking like a cat.

“Mm,” Shelika answered, unbothered, the assent falling like a pebble in a stream.

She raised a parasol, a pale moon to ward the sun, and slipped into the street.

A travel satchel stuffed with Evil Barrier Crystals bulged like a brick of ice under canvas.

A Dark Blood Clan girl out by day—lovely and a touch fox-bright—drew curious and hungry eyes like moths to a lamp.

Shelika let those gazes bead and roll off like rain on oiled silk, never looking up.

Head lowered like a reed in wind, she walked, then boarded a public beast-cart that snorted like a patient ox.

It carried her back toward the Central Exchange, its wheels humming like cicadas.

At high noon, Oriel City’s Central Exchange boiled like a market sea under a white sun.

Hunters hawked monster parts, merchants swapped tools, and weapon-sellers flashed steel like fish.

A carnival of garb swirled, so her presence sank like a stone slipping under a current.

She exhaled, a tight knot easing like thawed rope.

She slid inside and found last night’s buyer, the plan catching like a thread through a waiting needle.

“Welcome to Alba Gemshop—we deal in ore too,” the man said, voice polished like river stones.

“What can I do for you, miss?” he added, curiosity pricking like a pin.

“I’d like to sell this,” she said, and drew out an Evil Barrier Crystal like a shard of night.

Under the bright lamps, its energy warped the air like heat over a road, and the shop dimmed like a cloud crossing sun.

The gem dealer’s eyes widened, pupils blooming like ink in water.

“May I see?” he asked, voice low as a hand on velvet.

“Go ahead,” she said, the crystal cool as winter in her palm.

He took a magnifier like a small lens-moon and peered in, breath held like a diver.

He weighed it, the scale’s tongue flicking like a lizard, then raised a staff to weave appraisal spells like cobwebs.

After the motions settled, he set it down and clipped his words short like thread.

“Sixty lubi,” he said, not inviting haggling, his tone shut like a lid.

Shelika made no fuss, and she lifted more crystals from the satchel like stars poured onto black silk.

She arrayed them across the counter, and brilliance paved the wood like frost glittering at dawn.

“These too?” she asked, her voice even as a leveled blade.

The dealer blinked, joy and caution wrestling like dogs under the table.

“Let me check first,” he said, swallowing like a man before a plunge.

“No problem,” she replied, calm flowing like tea from a pot.

He repeated the rites for every piece, his brow drawing and then easing like tide.

When he finished, he counted under his breath like prayer beads and nodded once.

“Six hundred and thirty lubi in total—does that work?” he asked, the offer resting like a balanced scale.

She considered for a beat, thoughts fluttering like a moth, then nodded.

“That works,” she said, the words tapping down like nails.

“Done,” he said, brisk as flint, sweeping the crystals away like a dealer clearing cards.

He pressed a money pouch into her hand, heavy as a ripe gourd.

She checked the amount, the coins chiming like small bells, then turned to go like a shadow slipping free.

“Wait, miss,” the dealer called, the word snagging like a hook.

She glanced back, a quiet question tilting her head like a bird.

“You brought so many crystals at a time like this,” he whispered, eyes skimming the room like minnows.

“You must be a strong mage, right?” he ventured, the compliment laid like an offering.

She let the label stand, silence nodding like a lantern in still air.

“We also do arcane implements,” he murmured, hands already dipping like thieves in a market.

He drew out a finer staff from under the counter, its carvings winding like vines, and showed it on the sly.

“I can sell cheaper,” he breathed, the promise soft as a cat’s paw.

“You didn’t report this to the Church, did you?” she asked, the question landing like a pebble in a bowl.

In the Dark Spirit Empire, the Earth Mother’s Church stewards the flow of weapons like a dam gates a river.

Knights’ Battle Aura arms and mages’ casting tools both need paperwork, paid and stamped like seals in wax.

Shops must report, hold licenses, and sell only to registered knights and mages like keys matching locks.

He grimaced, a man chewing bitter herbs, then shrugged like a coat he couldn’t mend.

“The front’s about to erupt,” he said, voice rough as rope.

“We’re just trying to eat—who can afford to care?” he added, eyes darting like swallows.

“Fair enough,” she said, turning the staff in hand like a branch testing its spring.

Two spell-cores sat within, a named-grade implement, same tier as the Sirius Sword like twins wearing different cloaks.

She handed it back, the choice shelved like a book.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, words cool as shade.

“No problem,” he smiled, relief loosening like a knot in wet cord.

She glanced over the glittering displays, a garden of light, then back to the staff like a bee returning to a bloom.

“Did you make it yourself?” she asked, curiosity pricking like a thorn.

“My workshop did,” he replied, pride veiling his voice like silk.

“I’ll come again when I can,” she said, promise light as smoke.

“Much obliged!” he sang, gratitude ringing like a bell.

With crystals sold and money in hand, Shelika left the Central Exchange like a ship slipping from harbor.

As she walked, she tallied the sums, numbers stacking like bricks in a wall.

“Six hundred thirty lubi, plus yesterday’s two hundred eleven from hauling stone,” she counted, thoughts clicking like abacus beads.

“Minus the inn, minus the blood station’s meals...” she added, carving away like a chisel.

After a run of figures, a path emerged like a trail in grass.

“Two more days here, and I’ve got enough for the Holy City,” she decided, hope fluttering like a pennant.

Earning over eight hundred lubi in a day was small-comfort level in the Dark Spirit Empire, a warm stew on a cold night.

But pulling it together so fast owed luck too, as fragile as frost on leaves.

What if there’d been no wall job, or the cave held no good Evil Barrier Crystals, she thought, doubts circling like crows.

Not knowing the extra costs beyond a pilgrimage fee, she chose caution like a cloak in rain.

“Better work two more days to be safe,” she said to herself, words steady as footfalls.

So she headed to the north wall site, where the city gnawed at stone like a patient beast.

The dull labor stretched from noon to dusk, hours long as shadows on a field.

Masons kept laying brick though their arms shook like reeds, and no one set their burden down.

The foreman handed her a heavier pouch than yesterday, weight thick as wet clay.

“Ma’am,” he said, apology creasing him like old leather, “we just got word of an incoming beast tide.”

“Can you help us push the pace?” he asked, the plea rising like smoke at sundown.