Barely a lane apart, Shelika stepped from Entertainment Street into Commerce Street, like crossing a stream from light to shadow.

Both were equally dazzling, yet the air shifted like weather. On Entertainment Street, people drifted like clouds. On Commerce Street, they hurried like arrows, all on urgent errands.

That wasn’t just a feel; it was fact, solid as stone. Commerce Street held shops and shrines tied to coin, their bells chiming like clinking silver.

There was the Shrine of the God of Money, its incense smoke thick as rivers; the Shrine of Fate, less smoke but packed like a hive; likewise the shrines of Honesty and Treasure-Seeking, all brimming like harvest barns.

These attendant gods offered blessings like steady wind in sails, all aimed at earning coin, so their temples clustered along Commerce Street like birds on warm roofs.

People hurried like migrating birds because most came to renew those boons. Put plainly: the attendant gods’ buffs were expiring; pay the monthly tithe to keep them, a clock ticking like rain.

Usually the boons lasted long, like winter stores—one year at least, ten or dozens at most, time stretched like old wood.

Even so, the flow never thinned, a river of believers proving how crowded those smoke-rich shrines were, faces flickering like lanterns.

Shelika wasn’t surprised, calm as still water. The Dark Spirit Empire was a country where faith braided into daily life like threads in a robe.

Reaching Commerce Street, she took a quick loop, her steps light as a cat through stalls, eyes sweeping like a fan.

Her first thought flickered like a candle: could she earn like in Ori City, using spells, neat as knots?

She was handy with magic now, skills lined up like tools on a rack. She couldn’t fully wield Spell Level Lv.13, yet she had a basket of everyday arts—kindling fire, cleaning grime, stripping rust, sterilizing, even boosting virility—like charms tucked in sleeves.

She could easily run a spell-service and make bank, like rain filling a cistern. Many shops here were hiring that kind of mage. Yet Shelika couldn’t apply, a door closed like iron.

It wasn’t that they wanted her for sketchy, suggestive gigs. Their placards all required an Academy Graduate of XX Magic and an XX Spell Certification badge, stamped like seals on jade.

Plainly: the first was a diploma; the second, a skills license, proof from a guild that you truly had the XX ability and weren’t faking—clear as daylight on snow.

With so many hoops and hoops again, you could see it: even in the Dark Spirit Empire, freelance hedge mages were left in the cold like stray dogs in wind.

Shelika wasn’t one of them. In magic, she was pedigreed—elite, rich, and radiant, a white lotus in full sun. Two Academy diplomas hung for her. Certifications? So many badges they almost covered a wall like clustered leaves.

So, where was the snag now, like a thorn in silk?

Simple as a bell: she could do the spells, but she carried none of those diplomas or badges on her, pockets light as paper.

Her memories were clear as mirror water: everything was back home, in the Blood Clan demesne of the Dark Spirit Empire’s capital, towers rising like spears.

She couldn’t just run home for them, not now, not with storms on the horizon like bruised clouds.

The capital lay far from the Holy City, mountains and miles like a long river between. And she was the Dark Blood Clan’s third princess. Go back, and many would ‘greet’ her—chains in silk gloves. Depending on the winds, she might lose her freedom, a bird slipped back into a gilded cage—

If she went just to fetch papers and ended up locked in a castle like a storybook princess, everything would knot tight like wet rope.

In short, she couldn’t go home; she couldn’t get the papers; she couldn’t prove her mage’s identity. So in the Holy City’s Commerce Street, spellwork was a closed door, rain on a window.

A soft ache rose first, like dusk in her chest. “Sigh... am I down to manual labor?” Shelika exhaled, breath thin as smoke.

Life bites hard; Blood Clan sighs, like a meme caption drifting across a gray sky.

The slump lasted only a heartbeat, a cloud passing the sun. She squared herself to grime and grind, then headed to a nearby restaurant and found the boss inside, heat rolling like a hearth.

The owner, also the head chef, was a bald Demonic Human Race man in his middle years. His body was solid as an ox, his tailored chef’s uniform crisp as linen wind.

He radiated masterly aura, the kind that made you imagine his food could rip clothes right off the eater like a thunderclap, flavors striking like lightning.

Shelika stole a glance toward the tables, worry fluttering like a sparrow. A guest took a bite; only delight bloomed on their face, no fabric exploded. She let her heart settle like a pond.

Then she asked the chef, her voice like a soft breeze, “Boss~~ do you hire plate wipers?”

“Huh~~?! Plate wipers?!” His voice popped like hot oil. The manager-chef was mid-command, conducting three cooks like a drummer driving a march.

The sudden interruption soured him like vinegar. But seeing Shelika—beauty, curves, and cuteness wrapped together, a Blood Clan stunner—his annoyance dissolved like sugar in tea.

He ducked his head, shy as a schoolboy spoken to by a girl, a bashful smile breaking like dawn.

A hulking Demonic Human Race man acting shy felt odd to Shelika, like a bear sipping from a teacup.

He lifted his head and squared up, tone steady as a blade. Hearing “plate wiping,” he eyed Shelika’s well-kept, rose-petal hands, and asked, puzzled, “Who wants that job?”

“This lady. I’ll do it,” Shelika said, pointing to herself, voice clear as a bell.

“You?” he asked, confusion like mist.

He pointed at the cleanup sink, where dirty plates stacked like a small hill. He pointed at the water, filmed with grease like an oil slick.

“Miss, you sure you want that?” His brow furrowed like plowed earth.

“Is that not okay?” she asked, voice cool as water.

“It’s not that.” The chef scratched his bare head; under the spell-lamps, it shone like a little bulb. He thought a beat, silence like a held breath, then offered, “Alright. If you really want to work, we’re slammed these days. We’re short a runner. Be a server.”

Relief rose first, warm as tea. “No problem,” Shelika agreed.

“Then let’s not waste daylight—” He ducked into storage and fetched a work apron, cut for a man yet oddly fitting her like a tailored breeze. “Put this on and get moving!”

“Okay~” Her tone floated like a lazy cloud.

Hearing that languid lilt, a painter’s languid beauty come alive, the chef’s worry pricked like thorns. He barked, “Let me be blunt, miss. If you slack, don’t blame me later!” His words snapped like a twig.

Maybe his masterly aura was too much; in earnest, the chef felt intimidating, like thunder rolling close.

Her pride stirred first, bright as steel. “Understood. This lady won’t slack,” Shelika replied, snapping to like a drawn bow.

“Good,” he said, firm as stone. “I’m Viktor,” a name pinned like a badge. “You’ll run dishes,” orders flying like arrows. “Here’s a pen and paper—note the orders and table numbers,” tools set like compass and map. “Get to it~!” His command cracked like a whip.

“Got it.” Her answer landed neat as a stamp.

And so, with a brief exchange as swift as a breeze, Shelika became a temp at Savory Demon Prawn. She started the night shift, weaving plates through lantern-lit crowds like a quick river.