At high noon, the sun burned like a white brazier, and Fulin jerked awake in the carriage, a skim of frost crawling over her skin.

Her chest tightened, a weight like a river stone pressing down.

“Ehehe~~ Charlotte, this is bliss~~”

Fulin—no, right now she was Shelika—flipped the blanket back. Under it, Charlotte had buried her face between Shelika’s valleys, nuzzling like a child seeking missing mother-warmth. Shelika’s voice held a mild bite. “Charlotte?”

She didn’t seem to hear. She floated in the tender haze of sleep, murmuring like a dreamwalker. “Ehehe~~ Lady Sis, so big and so fair, Lady Sis~~”

Three hours ago she’d sworn, solemn as a funeral bell, “I pledge my loyalty to you.” Now she used Shelika’s body like a pillow.

The thought lit a fast little fire. Shelika rose in a snap, grabbed Charlotte’s twin ponytails, and lifted her like a rabbit by its ears.

“Ow—!”

Pain blinked Charlotte awake. Flustered hands fluttered like trapped birds. “What’re you doing, Lady Sis~~?”

Shelika pointed at the other bed, cool as shade. “Charlotte, aren’t you supposed to sleep there? Why are you on my bed?”

It was the tone of an elder sister scolding a wayward little sister.

“I don’t know…” Charlotte drooped her head like a wilted flower, then lifted it and fell back on habit. She tilted her cheek and tapped her temple with a finger. “Ehehe~~ maybe I’m a messy sleeper~~”

Shelika looked at the bed: blankets kicked into a storm, sheets torn, a pillow split open, beast-fur spilling like snow. Her willow brows arched; her hands planted on her hips.

“Honestly! I took you in as my attendant. Why am I the one taking care of you?”

She scolded as she tidied the nest, hands moving like reining a runaway wind.

Charlotte stood off to the side, small and aggrieved, and offered a soft apology. “Sorry… Lady Fulin.”

Shelika sighed like a slow exhale of rain and corrected her gently, as if chiding a naughty daughter. “Don’t call me Fulin when I’m like this. And drop the ‘Lady.’ If someone hears, they’ll get suspicious.”

“Okay~~” Charlotte said, rubbing sleep from her eyes like dust.

She turned to head back to her bed. Her lids slid shut mid-step, and she toppled backward, folding into Shelika’s arms like a falling feather.

“Hey?” Concern pricked Shelika’s voice.

But nestled against her, Charlotte was already breathing sweet and steady, sinking into a deep tide of sleep again.

Shelika let out another sigh, warm as steam. “Stop making me babysit you.”

She carried Charlotte back to her bed, tucked her in, and smoothed the blanket like calming a restless lake.

Watching Charlotte sleep, face soft as milk, Shelika’s feelings braided tight. “Honestly, you’re supposed to serve me… ah.”

She didn’t truly blame her. It was noon. For the Dark Blood Clan, noon is like human midnight—deep and heavy. Charlotte had been sleeping well into that night, then Shelika yanked her up.

Charlotte drifted only a moment before mumbling dream-words again. “Ehehe~~ Lady Sis…”

“Ah…” Another sigh, like a cloud thinning.

A Shooter crawled in from outside the carriage, legs clicking like beetle limbs.

The Shooter drone guarded their route; when suspicious figures drew near or crowds thickened, it would scuttle in like this to warn Shelika.

She stowed the drone and peered out the window. The avenue flowed with people, a tide of pilgrims surging like a river after rain.

“Are we close to the Holy City?” she murmured, voice shaded with wary light.

They were. Fulin’s party had nearly reached the Holy City; the wheels rolled now within its breathing distance.

The road brimmed with pilgrims, hearts cupped with devotion to the Earth Mother, feet following the path like grains following a furrow.

Shelika surveyed them—men and women, old bones and young faces, rank and rags all mixed. Even around Fulin’s carriage alone, thousands moved like a murmuring sea.

Seeing Shelika lean out, a horse-riding trader edged close, reins creaking like twine. “Miss, are you here to make pilgrimage too?”

“Yes. I’m here to make pilgrimage.”

His horse jolted, bumping someone ahead like a loose branch tapping a trunk. He sighed, a breath of dust. “Ever since ‘Divine Favor’ descended, there’s way more people going to the Holy City. Roads are hard to squeeze through.”

“Mm.” Shelika’s reply was polite, a leaf skimming water.

The traveling merchant pressed on. “By the way, Miss, what kind of divine art are you seeking?”

He answered himself first, voice warming like embers. “I’m here to ask for a fire-making divine art.”

Shelika remembered: any devout of the Earth Mother who offers, and receives ‘protection,’ can wield divine arts until the protection’s span ends.

In Nordland, divine arts are the gods’ power—power itself—distinct from Battle Aura and arcane power, high and sovereign like a summit.

But in the Dark Spirit Empire, the Earth Mother’s divine arts often serve daily life, like wells and bread.

This merchant, Shelika guessed, couldn’t afford to learn fire spells, so he sought a fire-making divine art instead.

Beyond fire, there were arts that bolster stamina, and ones that cure simple illnesses—small lights for ordinary days.

Pilgrims of the Earth Mother could get these practical divine arts by making pilgrimage, so nearly all subjects of the Dark Spirit Empire were her followers. Who doesn’t want life eased a little? Shelika found nothing wrong with that.

Yet for ‘Apostle Conversion,’ ‘Wind of Calamity,’ ‘Curse of Disease,’ and other fierce arts of attack, one couldn’t be a common follower; at least a priest was required—Shelika’s former station.

“I’m not seeking any divine art. I’m here to offer to the Earth Mother.”

The traveling merchant’s tone turned reverent, like hands pressed to a shrine. “Miss, your devotion is true.”

Ahead, the choked road suddenly opened like a slit in clouds. The merchant eyed the clear lane, then dipped a farewell. “No time to chat. I’m on a tight road. May the Earth Mother be with you.”

He clicked his tongue, and the horse stepped quick, hooves drumming like pots. He vanished from Shelika’s sight in moments, a shadow swallowed by the crowd.

Shelika lifted her gaze. Past taller carriages, her eyes climbed to the distance. High towers and tiered temples rose like jagged teeth, uncanny yet exquisitely made. Above them, even in daylight, ribbons of color drifted—silken bands floating like tame auroras.

“The Holy City… huh.” Shelika’s mood tangled like silk threads.

Here, Fulin would finish her last mission in the Dark Spirit Empire: find the Wasteland Deity and break it.

According to the Hymn Project, the Wasteland Deity would be used to rule battlefields, and might descend straight upon the Doran Kingdom. If it arrived, the kingdom would turn to ash and bones, a pit without bottom.

Fulin had little fondness for Doran. Yet in vast Nordland, it was one of the few places where she could hope for a quiet life.

For that future calm, she had to sabotage the Wasteland Deity. She had to stop the Hymn Project.

Soon, their carriage rolled with the pilgrim current to the Holy City’s gate.

A grand, austere band of monk-soldiers patrolled above, riding skyborne beasts like storm-borne kites. They watched and screened all wagons and walkers.

At the entrance, Shelika disembarked with a veil like mist to hide her face.

Such mystery was common among the faithful, like shadows under cloaks.

The inspecting monk-soldiers didn’t question her attire. They glanced at her, then at the carriage, their faces stone-calm.

“Please pay the pilgrimage fee, two thousand rupees.”

“What? Isn’t it one thousand?” Shelika froze, the shock crisp as a snapped twig.