“Explosive, True Crimson, Whirl?” Shelika froze, her thoughts snagging like silk on thorns.

The name sounded edgy and feral, yet it clashed with the chain-sword in her palm like a tiger mask on a paper kite.

To her eye, no part of the chain-sword looked ready to explode. Its blade wasn’t true crimson, just steel cold as river ice. Its handling had nothing to do with any whirl of wind.

The village elder answered her doubt with a wistful gaze that drifted like smoke. “It’s a name passed down from our ancestors. Why it’s called that, I’m not sure.”

“The core was sold off,” he added, voice hollow like a gourd. “If you wish to use it, you’ll need a new inset.”

“I see. This humble one understands,” Shelika said, her uncertainty eased like a knotted cord loosening.

She studied the True Crimson Whirl again. Beyond the loud name, its craft was fine, links gleaming like fish scales, and it had been well kept.

In Doran, even as mere craftwork, a piece like this could fetch a tidy sum, value deep as lacquered jade.

“So this is your heirloom,” Shelika asked, like testing a hearth-flame passed hand to hand. “You’re fine giving it to me?”

“I only saved two youngsters, nothing more,” she added, light as a feather.

The elder smiled. “Kakalit Village is said to be founded by a kind-hearted mage. No mage arose in our line. If his relic enters hands as kind, that’s our greatest blessing.”

He’d said it to the hilt. Shelika felt a blush like dawn and let it be.

“Very well. Take care, all of you.”

“Safe travels, Magus. May the Earth Mother shelter you.”

Shelika left the village, her steps scattering like fallen leaves.

After the long string of troubles, she reached Oriel City at daybreak, the sky pale as rice paper.

The streets held little trace of the Blood Clan, night’s scent thinning like smoke.

Early risers drifted onto the roads like ants from a nest.

The rising sun felt heavy as a bronze gong. Weariness pooled in her chest like slow ink.

So she holed up in the inn till noon, letting time trickle like sand.

At noon, the Gray Pearl’s proprietress knocked, bamboo-quick on the door. “Time to renew your room, miss.”

“Already the third day…” Shelika stared at the plain ceiling, blank as a white slab.

She lay there a few minutes more, floating like driftwood. Then she tidied up before the mirror, cold as pond water. She left, went downstairs, and stopped at the reception.

“Here. Fifteen rupees.” She paid with an easy hand, tossing the coin like a pebble.

The proprietress blinked and slid her long pipe from her lips like a reed. “Little Blood Clan girl, found work so fast?”

“What else?” Shelika thought it a silly question, the words landing like damp straw.

The woman folded her tone like a fan. “Looks like I meddled.”

Shelika didn’t know why she’d nosed in, and didn’t care. She left, boarded a public beast-cart with a creak like an old ox, and headed for the Central Exchange to sell the Evil Barrier Crystals in her pack.

Inside, she found the Alba Gem Shop she’d visited yesterday, its sign glinting like mica.

“A pleasure, a pleasure!” The gem dealer wore a business smile like lacquer.

After brief pleasantries, Shelika laid the Evil Barrier Crystals out on the counter like frost.

“How about these, Mr. Alba?” She pointed, finger light as a brushstroke.

“Let me see…” His face tightened like a knot. He fetched his instruments, lenses like dragonfly eyes, and examined each crystal with care.

It took longer than yesterday, minutes stretching like noodles.

Shelika checked her pocket watch, impatience drumming like rain.

An hour flowed by, clock hands trudging like soldiers.

He finished, voice suddenly bright, words snapping like sparks. “These are brand-new crystals. Where did you find them?”

“Kakalit Village ruins,” Shelika said, keeping it plain.

The tip had come from people at the Central Exchange, truth sitting like a stone.

“Kakalit ruins?” He frowned, lines folding like paper. “I recall it was mined clean.”

“Is that so?” Shelika admitted, fog in her voice.

He explained, combing facts like a hive with eight teeth. “Oriel City has eight crystal crews. Their hunters harvest Evil Barrier Crystals from major sources on schedule.”

She caught on, a lantern clicking alight. “Then these must be freshly spawned.”

“You’re right. Fresh crystals are very pure, perfect as spell cores.” He laughed, coins chinking in the sound. “They’re valuable military stock.”

Her spirit lifted, but caution tightened like a bowstring. “So, how much?”

He raised one finger, cloak-and-dagger, the gesture glowing like a candle flame.

Curious, she asked, “A thousand rupees?”

He shook his head, cleared his throat. “Ten thousand.”

Shelika covered her mouth, surprise fluttering like a sparrow. “That much?”

As with Lance, Fulin had inherited Shelika’s memories like torn scrolls. She lacked much everyday lore of the Dark Spirit Empire, bricks missing from whole walls. As a knight, she’d rarely studied implements, shelves locked to her. No wonder she didn’t know crystals hid such sums, wealth like a spring under stone.

Yet on reflection, sense settled like silt.

In Nordland, once an item touches military need, costs climb like wildfire.

Take the Sirius Sword. In Golden Bay City, repairing its magic stone alone cost sixteen Gold Mage Coins—1.12 million—money burned like oil.

If these crystals become spell cores and get set into the right implements, the final sale would dwarf ten thousand rupees, profit swelling like a tidal bore.

As ever in any world, the arms trade runs as a fat river of gold.

The dealer winced, apology hanging like wilted grass. “I only have two Grand Rupees left in the shop. Can I pay part now?”

Grand Rupees were larger crystal coins with higher value, moons in the palm. One Grand Rupee equaled ten thousand. In the Dark Spirit Empire, they rarely circulated.

“When will you pay the rest?”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow!” He gave a strained smile. “Come at this hour tomorrow.”

“I see…” Shelika thought for a moment, her mind turning like a slow wheel.

Then she asked, “Do you also deal in implements?”

“Yes, that’s right!” He answered lightly, mood buoyant like a kite.

“In that case.” Shelika produced the True Crimson Whirl she’d acquired, laying it out like a sleeping serpent.

“A sword? An implement?” He was as baffled as she’d been, eyes blinking like shutters.

She showed the empty slots on both sides of the hilt. “How much to set a matching spell core in here?”

He saw the grooves and the faint circuits only a loupe could read. Clarity bloomed like ink in water.

His tone turned deliberate, professional like a whetstone. “The cost depends on your needs.”

“Needs?” Shelika asked, puzzled, her brow folding like a fan.

“If you only want to cast, a cheap mana focus core will do.”

“Mana focus core?” Shelika echoed. As the one wearing Shelika’s role, Fulin had never heard the term, the word a stone in the shoe.

“You don’t know that? You’re not some hedge mage, are you?” He doubted her, words sharp as pins.

She had an answer, voice steady as stone. “This humble one is a Blood Clan mage. I rarely use implements to cast.”

In the Dark Spirit Empire, pure-blood Dark Blood Clan wield superb talent. Unlike common folk, they need no implements to cast. It’s one mark of their gift, clear as spring water.

The dealer shelved his doubt at once and apologized, words bowing like willow. “Ah! My memory, forgive me!”

He went formal, precise, laying terms like bedrock. “A mana focus core, as the name says, gathers mana while casting. It’s the foundation of an implement.”

He drew his walking staff and showed it, the wood gleaming like a river reed. “People like me can’t gather mana, let alone cast, without the focus set here.”

He added, half envious, green as willow shoots. “You Blood Clan are born archmages.”

Shelika said nothing, silence smooth as jade.

He continued, then produced a plain, clear glass bead, a drop of ice.

He set it gently on the counter, touch soft as moth wings. “Mana focus cores are cheaper. Average quality runs about three thousand rupees. Better quality gathers mana faster, your chant speeds up.”

Before she spoke, he whisked the bead away after a few seconds, motion quick as a sparrow peck.

He continued. “But what you need isn’t a focus core, it’s a mana function core. Equip it, and the wielder gains effects,” runes waking like hidden birds.

He took out another bead. This one glowed with a faint red that tugged at the soul, an ember at dusk.

“This is called Dragon’s Heart. Inlay it and infuse mana, and it boosts the wielder’s physique.”

“Dark Blood folk are usually frail. You surely need this Dragon’s Heart!”

The dealer was a born salesman. His patter flowed like a river, and Shelika felt her heart sway.

In truth, Shelika’s body was weak, thin silk in a storm. She didn’t take hits well and had little raw strength, a reed in wind. Beyond mana and Blood Clan gifts, she was just a normal girl, a wildflower by the road. Else she wouldn’t lean on drones like scouting sparrows to avoid direct fights.

Tempted, Shelika asked, “How much for the Dragon’s Heart?”

He stayed silent, raising four fingers with ceremony, bamboo shoots at dawn.

“Forty thousand?” Shelika guessed.

He sighed, then smiled. “Four hundred thousand.”

Fulin wasn’t one to cling to what she couldn’t have, her grip opening like a petal.

“Alright. Goodbye.” Shelika sighed and turned to leave, a leaf caught in a light breeze.

The dealer panicked and trotted ahead, breath quick, panic flapping like a startled pigeon. “Don’t rush, miss! Money can be arranged!”

His tone pricked annoyance in her chest like a thorn.

She kept her poise and said plainly, “You can see I can’t afford it.”

He smiled, apologetic, bowing like a reed. “You’re formidable. Help me with one task, and the Dragon’s Heart is yours for free.”

“What task?” Shelika smelled trouble; pies don’t fall from the sky.

He chuckled, eyes down, the request coiling like incense. “Beasts have been rampant lately. One high-threat kind showed up. Help me bring down the Crimson Winged Drake. I want its horn. Give it to me intact, and the Dragon’s Heart is yours.”