“Crimson-Feathered Wyvern?” Shelika asked, confusion fluttering like a moth at a lantern.

It was the first time she’d heard a beast called that, a fresh name falling like first snow.

“What kind of beast is it?” she continued, voice steady as a still pond.

The gem merchant painted it in detail. “It’s a wyvern-type. It breathes fire and casts spells.”

“Its horns are valuable, prized for forging treasure-grade artifacts. I’d like you to get them.”

Shelika propped her chin, thoughts swirling like smoke in a brazier.

“Fine, I accept.”

“Wonderful, then no time to waste—” The merchant’s smile flashed like morning sun. As he spoke, he took Shelika’s True Crimson Whirl. With professional tools, he set the Dragon Heart and another unknown core into both sides of the chain-sword’s hilt.

He handed the chain-sword back, the twin cores seated like small stars.

Shelika’s fingers closed around True Crimson Whirl. Power surged up her arm like a river thawing in spring.

Strength flooded her limbs, a quiet tide under her skin.

It still wasn’t the roaring vigor she’d had as Lance, that storm she remembered like thunder on bone.

But sprinting and flight—the hard burn of motion—no longer left her gasping like a fish on shore.

No doubt, the Dragon Heart had taken hold, glowing like embers in iron.

Joy rose in her chest, warm as tea.

Alongside joy came a prickle of doubt, like a thorn under silk.

“I haven’t brought you those horns yet. Aren’t you afraid I’ll just run off with this?” Her tone flicked light, like a fan in cool air.

The gem merchant laughed, calm as a stone in rain. “I don’t think you’d do that.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

He returned to business, tone turning brisk as wind. “Listen. The Crimson-Feathered Wyvern is a dangerous Grade-A beast. Its habits are vexing for mages. I hope this Dragon Heart helps you. And—”

He outlined the wyvern’s lair and shared the lessons other successful hunters had bled to learn, words dropping like pebbles into a map.

Shelika nodded. “I understand, Mr. Alba.”

The talk of the Crimson-Feathered Wyvern settled like dust.

Before leaving, she asked, “Since it’s a beast hunt, why not hire official hunters?”

The merchant gave a complicated smile, pointing toward the Central Exchange. Lines of hunters moved like ants under stormlight. Several armored knights flanked stern-faced officials at the counter, their voices low as thunder.

He explained, voice heavy as lead. “Oriel City has suffered more than one beast tide in the past half year.”

“Most resident official hunters took an assignment fifteen days ago—to destroy the source of the tides. They formed an expedition.”

“But no one’s returned yet,” he added, worry hanging like fog.

Shelika weighed the news, silence dropping like a stone into water. “I see. All right—”

She accepted the merchant’s request, resolve snapping shut like a clasp.

“We’ll await your good news. The Earth Mother will surely watch over you!”

Shelika left the Central Exchange. The street still bustled, a restless river of faces. She walked and sighed. “Seems things here aren’t rosy either…”

The thread she could stitch from rumors was this: after the descent of Divine Grace, the foul smog that was once mere weather grew like mold across the southern Dark Spirit Empire, turning swaths of normal land into beast-breeding grounds.

More beasts meant less space. Driven like wolves in winter, they surged into human districts, and disaster followed—a tide of beasts.

In short, the beast tides were born of the Hymn Project, a song that plucked at the world’s nerves like cold strings.

High above, the Empire’s lords had called down Divine Grace at the cost of their people’s living sky; gifts wrapped in ash.

Shelika traced cause to effect and stared at the westering sun, its light pouring like molten copper.

She murmured to her heart, a sigh like wind through pines. “No wonder that guy opposed the Hymn Project so fiercely while alive.”

Sunset slipped, and her voice fell soft as falling ash. “But that guy’s gone… and what the Dark Spirit Empire becomes is no longer my concern.”

Elsewhere, Fulin held a knot of feelings for the late Shelika—hatred that wouldn’t dissolve, and ties that wouldn’t cut, threads tangled like vines.

“Whatever comes, I’ll walk my road, steady and unshaken,” she told the quiet, a promise carved in stone beneath fading light.

After savoring the sunset’s fading gold, Shelika returned to the street, footsteps light as leaf-fall.

To take down the Crimson-Feathered Wyvern with surer hands, she chose to consult a specialist before departing.

That specialist was Charlotte, a fellow high-circle mage.

Charlotte excelled at lightning within the elemental arts and at commanding beasts like banners on a battlefield.

Three months ago, Charlotte fielded a massive three-headed, fire-breathing Blood-Seeking Hound, and Lance had reeled under its attack, like a boat in a storm.

It had been dire. If tactics hadn’t choked off Charlotte’s spell support, Lance might not have won.

Now Shelika stood again before the Beast Flavors shop, its sign curving like a crescent fang.

It was dusk. For the Blood Clan, dusk was their dawn, a pale light poured into a dark cup.

So the shop’s door was sealed, as were most doors along this street.

Few vampires walked the lane, and by nightfall the Blood Clan’s haunt felt a little hollow, like a shell on sand.

Yet light leaked from a window beside the closed door, a lantern’s eye in a sleeping face.

“Someone inside?” Shelika wondered, curiosity pricking like a needle.

She chose to test the quiet. She knocked, and called softly through the wood, “Anyone there?”

Seconds passed. Footsteps sounded within, steady as drumbeats, then neared. The door swung open.

“What’s up?” It was the burly man in a maid uniform. He spoke in a stranger’s tone, then softened when he saw Shelika. “A friend of Big Sis.”

“Come in, if you don’t mind.” He smiled and ushered her through, his hand broad as a shovel.

The café wore eclectic decor. Half the lamps were lit, not yet at opening hour. The dim amber pooled like tea, and the hush made Shelika want to stay and steep all day.

He set a simple hot drink before her and apologized, voice gentle as fleece. “Big Sis is still asleep. She’ll wake soon.”

“Then I’ll wait,” Shelika said. She lifted the cup. The drink was a sweet cousin to cocoa. A soft fragrance rose like steam from rice. Her mood eased, and she sipped in small, warm mouthfuls.

Time drifted. The man returned to the kitchen to work, the clink of tools like small bells.

Curiosity tugged. Boredom nipped. Shelika set down the cup, stood, and peered from the kitchen doorway.

“What are you making?” she asked.

The man wore a mask and gloves. His left hand gripped a large bowl. His right plunged into a white mass—dough or cheese—and kneaded hard, muscles rolling like ropes.

From the doorway, Shelika caught the rich milk scent, as thick as cream clouds.

He stopped to answer, wiped sweat with a towel, and set the bowl down. “I’m prepping today’s ingredients for Big Sis.”

“Ingredients?”

He pinched off a small chunk from the white mound and showed it. “Cut a piece onto a plate, add some light sides, arrange or stir a bit. It makes a fine dessert.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Kneading this is tiring. And getting it off a wild plains rhino is dangerous. Big Sis can be reckless, and I won’t let her get hurt.” He smiled, satisfied as a cat in sun.

“Right—right—we little brothers step up when Big Sis needs us!” others chimed in, voices laughing like sparrows.

From them, Shelika felt a fierce, gentle care for Charlotte, a sheltering wind around a single flame.

The plain warmth soothed her. Curiosity stirred. “You’re earthfolk, aren’t you? Charlotte’s Blood Clan. How did you meet?”

The scar-faced leader in the maid uniform grew solemn, expression heavy as iron.

The others fell quiet. The bright kitchen’s cheer cooled, like embers under ash.

The scarred man had finished his task. He lit a vanilla roll, breathed out a ring of smoke, and stared at the sky darkening beyond the window.

“On the battlefield,” he said, voice rough as gravel.

He gave their origin, spare as a spear. “We were soldiers of the Gaia Legion under General Gaius, stationed at the front. Back then, the Leighton Highlands hadn’t fallen. We were on mission there and drove off a United Legion squad.”

He told the turn, despair returning like night. “We thought we’d won. Then a human punk broke in—called the Blazing Fire Knight. We underestimated him. He was a monster. He alone flipped our whole battle line.”

The room held its breath. Shelika listened, silent as snow.

He went on, reliving a helpless dusk. “Wounded heavy, we fled into the forest. No food. We thought we would die.”

Then hope kindled. “That’s when Big Sis came. She saved us, fed us this sticky beast milk, and hauled us back from the brink.”

“We owe her. So we chose to follow Big Sis. That’s how we met.”

He’d said what he could. Laughter rose to loosen the air, light as bubbles.

Shelika waited a beat, then couldn’t help her curiosity. “What do you think of the Blazing Fire Knight?”