At that thought, Shelika’s chest tightened, guilt nibbling like frost on a window.

“Shelika, Shelika, may your spirit rest in the sky,” she prayed into the wind, pleading it not carry more trouble as she flew.

She skimmed over two, three streets; curious stares pricked like fine rain on bare skin.

She dropped by a food shop on the commercial strip, sun washing its sign like gold leaf, and ordered two ultra-spicy blood‑powder cup noodles.

She packed the heat like embers in a paper sack, then rode the air back toward the inn like a swift.

In the lobby, one glance made her sigh, the sound drifting like smoke across still water.

“Big sis… hungry…” Charlotte lay sprawled like a salted fish on a summer dock, eyes dulled, hunger’s miasma coiling like stormclouds.

A gingham-clad maid behind the counter called, sing-song like a bell, “Hey~ you very big, very pale guest.”

“What does ‘big and pale’ even mean?” Shelika’s brows met, a sparrow’s wings twitching in doubt.

“Look down,” the maid said, flicking her wrist like a fan in a teahouse breeze.

Shelika looked, and yes—two marshmallows, snow-white and shameless, hovered like clouds over her ribs.

Heat rose to her cheeks like a peach bloom, shame licking soft and quick.

“Please don’t call me that. I’m Shelika,” she said, voice steady like a bamboo flute.

“Whatever~~” The maid waved lazily, then pointed at Charlotte, whose hunger aura roiled like black wind. “Handle your bestie, or I can’t sell a thing.”

“You’re right…” Shelika looked again; the air around Charlotte throbbed like a thunderhead.

Couples who’d entered all giggles turned like startled starlings, scattering from the storm.

Shelika tugged Charlotte’s sleeve, gentle as a tide against sand. “Charlotte, I brought food.”

Charlotte stared at the ceiling, then her small nose twitched like a field mouse. “That smell…”

Aroma curled through the room like steam through pine, and light flared in her eyes like lanterns. “Ultra‑spicy blood powder!”

She loved sweets, and she loved spice; what scorched others like dragon breath, she craved like summer sun.

“I’m digging in!” she chirped, joy popping like firecrackers.

Lid lifted, wooden fork poised; she slurped, and the vivid red—blood or chili—streamed in with a whoosh, like a comet tail.

One cup vanished, the way rain vanishes into thirsty soil; then the second cup followed, meant for Shelika, gone like a stolen peach.

“Thank you, Big Sis~~!” Charlotte’s smile bloomed, and her flushed cheeks glowed like ripe cherries.

Seeing that satisfied, adorable face, Shelika’s anger cooled like embers under evening dew.

Charlotte tugged her sleeve, rubbing sleepy eyes like a kitten after milk. “Rest, Big Sis… Charlotte didn’t sleep all day… so tired…”

“Mm… alright,” Shelika breathed, a soft leaf settling on still water.

They returned to their room; on the bed, two girls nestled like doves, sharing honeyed breath, drifting into night’s velvet.

Morning arrived; they stepped outside, dew bright on stones like beads, and Charlotte held a small parasol like a lotus leaf.

“The sun bites,” she grumbled, voice smoky as dusk. “Following you, I’m becoming unlike the Blood Clan.”

“Up at sunrise, rest at sunset,” Shelika said, posing with a smile, the street bright as a painted scroll. “Is that so strange?”

“No Dark Blood Clan lives that way,” Charlotte insisted, chin lifted like a stubborn reed.

“Alright, alright~~” Shelika patted her head, touch light as falling petals. “Go work, and don’t stir trouble.”

“Yes~~” Charlotte clenched two small fists, her gloom burning off like morning mist. “For Big Sis, Charlotte will work hard!”

Shelika watched her go, that cute back swaying like a little kite, until it slipped beyond the commercial street’s far bend.

She turned toward temple street, breath steady, and lifted her gaze to the divine pillar—signature of the Earth Mother Grand Hall—rising like a spine of stone.

She drew out her pocket watch, its lid blinking like a silver eyelid, and checked the time.

Nine a.m., crisp as an apple; still early, and Delicious Great Demon Shrimp hadn’t opened its doors.

It was only her third day in the Holy City, a new leaf turning in the wind, so she raised her eyes to that towering pillar again.

“Try the Earth Mother Outer Hall once more,” she murmured, resolve ringing like iron on stone.

She chose to probe again before afternoon, casting her net where yesterday’s currents had flowed.

Maybe a different receptionist would yield different tides; so she headed for the Earth Mother Outer Hall.

Morning in the outer districts ran thin; fewer feet, quieter airs, birdsong threading perfume like silk through shade.

She carried that clear mood like water in a bowl and walked toward the hall’s open arms.

With the stream of pilgrims, she entered, and followed the colonnade’s cool ribs to the chapel.

As the faithful gathered, several priests came forth, robes moving like waves across moonlit sand.

“Pilgrims, on behalf of Priest Chancellor Findley of the Earth Mother Outer Hall, we welcome you,” they intoned, voices deep as bell-metal.

Shelika frowned, curiosity fluttering like a moth; even the lines felt different from yesterday.

These priests weren’t yesterday’s young shoots; they were seasoned trunks, their seniority ringed like old cedars.

Power rolled off them like a wide river, divine pressure humming against her skin.

Why send such heavy branches just to greet believers? The question buzzed like a hidden bee.

They spoke on, building the moment like bricks: “We’d love to answer your classics, but first, please meet—”

Under a crafted solemn hush, eyes converged like birds on a single seed, and a figure stepped from the rear sanctum to the main dais.

“Welcome the officer from the Gaia Legion’s 318th Special Knights—Second Lieutenant Rex,” a priest announced, words flashing like steel.

Before he even reached the stage, the hall roared, a hive kicked open by a boot.

“What? The Gaia Legion?!” Shock cracked like thunder across the pews.

“The 318th Knights!” Voices surged like surf in a storm.

“That Second Lieutenant Rex—Rex of ‘Oblivion’!” The title struck like a black banner in the wind.

Tumult churned, and Shelika’s confusion rose like mist from a marsh; was this last night’s Rex?

The one who’d been the original Shelika’s ex, that handsome Demonic Human Race man carved like dark cedar?

But “Oblivion” clung to his name like a shadowed crown, and that was strange as winter rain.

She knew titles used the genitive, like the Blazing Fire Knight’s “Flame of Chaos,” thunder bound to a single blade.

Only knights with special might earned such names, power singing like lightning in a held storm.

From the body’s memories, Rex’s knightly skill was average among the Demonic Human Race, a steady stream, not a flood.

Had he become that strong in the sixty lost years, growing like oak from sapling to titan?