“A complete villain—he killed so many of our brothers!” one of them spat, hatred sharp as broken glass.

“Don’t say that,” their leader replied, calm as still water. “In the end, our nation fought the White Spirits to seize room to live. A Blazing Fire Knight like him is surely their hero.”

“He fights like his last breath, guarding Nordland like a sacred hearth. Maybe we’re the villains instead. Wahahaha!” His laughter rolled like a drum down a valley.

“Is that so…” Shelika’s voice sank like a stone in a pond.

Seeing her dim, he went on, curiosity flickering like a coal. “Weren’t you the one who beat him? Why ask us?”

“Just curious,” she said, light as drifting ash.

He scratched his cheek, apology awkward as loose nails. “Sorry. I tried to recruit you back then. Didn’t think I scared you.”

“It’s fine,” she answered, a thin smile like a moon sliver.

“Big Sis wants to go home, open a little shop, live quiet. See? We just followed. Wahahaha!” His words felt like sails lowering and a hearth being lit.

He laughed loud, tossing worries like autumn leaves in the wind.

Shelika watched and smiled, warmth rising like tea steam.

Her heart eased; birds of a feather indeed. Their sunny natures flocked together like sparrows on a line.

Just then, upstairs thumped—dong, dong, dong—footsteps crisp and urgent, like beads on a drum.

The burly men in maid uniforms shared a knowing look. One grinned, “Oh ho, Boss-lady finally woke.”

Outside, night lay like velvet, and the streets buzzed with the Blood Clan like a cloud of bats.

For Charlotte to wake at this hour meant she’d overslept, obvious as the sun long drowned behind the roofs.

She came out in pajamas, a few silly strands catching the air like sprigs; her pretty face was adorably rumpled.

She’d rushed; urgency fluttered around her like a startled sparrow.

She dashed to the kitchen and shouted to the boys, “Oh no, you finished all the work again!”

One chuckled, easy as smoke. “Heh. Boss-lady, you never get up anyway. Just sleep more.”

“No way! I’m the manager!” She stepped in, missed a scallion on the floor, and went down like a toppled chair.

“Ouch!” she yelped, pain popping like a bubble.

Obviously, put Charlotte on heavy chores and she’d only craft a lovely mess, porcelain hands in a muddy job.

In truth, the shop rested on her boys’ shoulders, like beams holding a fragile lantern.

She rose, spotted Shelika, and spills and lateness vanished like mist in sun. Joy bloomed, and she rushed in for a hug.

“My lady Sister!”

In the hall, Charlotte leaped and sank into Shelika’s warm, soft arms, like falling into silk.

Momentum carried them spinning a few circles, as if love itself turned the room into a carousel.

“My lady Sister!”

In Shelika’s arms, Charlotte looked up, eyes bright and pure, brimming with deep adoration like starlight in a clear spring.

That crystal-clear gaze tugged a thin thread of guilt in Shelika’s heart.

The silk-smooth press of soft skin between girls drew her into a quiet intoxication, like incense in a closed room.

Guilt and sweetness mixed with confusion—why does she adore her so much? Can mere respect burn this bright?

A passerby, clueless, murmured, “Such a sweet mother and daughter.”

The mistake snapped Shelika awake; she let go like a hand dropping hot tea.

She sat straight, tone formal as lacquered wood. “I have something to ask you today.”

Across from her, Charlotte still in pajamas, spring-light innocence peeking, murmured like a dreamer, “Hehe, hugging Sister felt like a dream.”

Shelika’s heart lifted, amused, as if she’d gained a slightly silly daughter.

After a minute, she repeated, voice calm as a bell, “Charlotte, I have something to ask.”

Charlotte snapped to, too upright. She stood and threw a military salute, earnest as a blade. “Understood! If I know it, I’ll tell you everything!”

Her overlong sleeves drooped over her head like a curtain, making her stiff pose ridiculous and adorable, a kitten caught under silk.

Shelika swallowed a smile and asked, steady as ink, “Do you know the Scarlet Winged Wyvern?”

“I do!” Charlotte brightened, dropping the silliness, facts rattling like beads. “The Scarlet Winged Wyvern is a flame-capable strain of wyvern. It roams the Empire’s south and the northern highlands. It migrates, so people sometimes spot it over busy plains. It rarely attacks first, but it’s powerful and dangerous—a Class-A threat.”

She finished, voice lively as a spring brook.

“What else do you want to know?” she asked, eyes shining.

Shelika paused, resolve settling like falling snow. “I plan to hunt it. Any good methods?”

She unfurled a map and pointed to the latest sighting—hills not far from Auriel City. She said she’d go there to hunt the wyvern.

Charlotte paled like milk spilled in ink. “Please don’t hunt it. For our Blood Clan, wyverns are truly dangerous!”

Confusion drifted over Shelika like mist. “Dangerous to the Blood Clan—how? Racial counter?”

Charlotte shook her head; her twin tails swished like brushes. “A wyvern’s horns create a Silence Field that cancels spells. Once it rages, our magic fails!”

“So it’s a mage’s bane?”

She crossed her arms, firm as a barred door. “Spells from outside the field still work.”

Her head drooped, sigh heavy as wet cloth. “But extreme-range casting needs special devices. They’re costly, military-grade. Most mages won’t buy them just to subdue a beast…”

Her words pulled Shelika back six months—sniped by a Celestial Spirit ship, its weapon a long-range casting device, cold as starlight.

“How wide is that Silence Field?” Shelika asked, voice cool as a blade.

“Never measured, but it’s big. Maybe four or five hundred meters,” Charlotte estimated from grim memory.

Confidence warmed Shelika’s tone like sunrise. “Then I have a way.”

“What way?” Charlotte’s eyes fluttered like wings.

“Not convenient to say,” Shelika murmured, secret folding like a fan.

“Ehh?” Charlotte grumbled, petulance puffing like steam.

She knew enough; it was time to leave, resolve taut as a bowstring.

Shelika rose, manners neat as a ribbon. “Thanks for the intel, Charlotte. I won’t disturb your shop. I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait, Sister!” Charlotte dashed upstairs—clatter, clang—and thundered back down, swift as rain.

She returned in a travel dress with a leather-shoulder cape, a staff in hand like a banner of intent.

Shelika blinked, puzzled, as Charlotte’s gaze hardened like steel. “Let me go with you, Sister.”