It was a risky call, like stepping onto a blade‑thin cliff in fog.

Shelika taunted the lion‑wolves while trying to speak with the Blight Serpent, like tossing sparks into dry brush while whispering to a storm.

“I can aid you in culling these beasts—how’s that?” she offered, voice steady as a drawn bow in wind.

As a giant python, it shouldn’t even have a voice; yet the hush broke like moss torn from stone.

From its nostrils—breathing vents—the sound came in shards, like pebbles tumbling in a stream: “Good… bat woman… hunt… agree.”

Being called “bat woman” lit a spark in her chest, like hot iron hissing in snow.

She bridled the brewing storm, fingers tight on invisible reins.

“Then let’s begin,” Shelika commanded, “break their rhythm first,” her words cast like stones into a flock.

In truth, the Blight Serpent needed aid, like a river choked by roots.

Its scales were hard, a shield of iron leaves, and the lion‑wolves’ bites were no trouble; yet its bulk met the forest like a river jammed by roots.

The terrain fit the lion‑wolves, and their teamwork ran smooth as braided streams under moon.

Some drew fire, some made openings, some flung spells, like dancers weaving through torchlight.

After that grind, the other Blight Serpent looked ragged, pressed down like grass under sleet.

This one had been angling for retreat, like a shadow sliding under ferns, and only turned on a few careless lion‑wolves when it saw an opening—not out of charity.

“Good… sabotage… go,” the Blight Serpent breathed, its voice rustling like dead leaves.

Once it grasped the “break the formation” plan, the giant snake rolled forward like a black river and struck.

It rammed, crushed, and whipped its tail, like boulders tumbling in a landslide.

It didn’t wound a single lion‑wolf, yet the formation scattered like birds under sudden thunder.

Nine lion‑wolf females broke away to the forest’s corners, like quail fleeing into thickets.

“Then one by one,” Shelika said coolly from the serpent’s head, perched like a raven on a stone, “hit the one under the red mushroom tree.”

Under the blight’s influence, strange flora crowded the wood, like a dream of roots; a towering red fungus, as thick as a tree, stood with a lion‑wolf skulking behind its stalk.

At Shelika’s signal, the Blight Serpent rammed the red fungus like a battering ram through wet bark.

Crack! the sound snapped like lightning through a log.

The thick stalk broke, and the lone lion‑wolf was flushed out, like a deer from brush.

Even so, these were deep woods where roots tangled like nets; without a sneak, the serpent couldn’t seize the lion‑wolf cleanly, but now Shelika rushed to aid like a red comet.

“Cover me!” she cried, and she spread her wings and dove, like a hawk striking through rain.

Seeing the Blood Clan female closing again, the panicked lion‑wolf cast its Bewitching Screen, like a glass veil dropping across the grove.

Her pulse jumped, a drum under snow; she should have toppled under the screen, but she didn’t, like a flame steady in wind.

“Cover… yes,” the Blight Serpent agreed, eyes cold as wet stones, grasping her intent in a breath.

As the lion‑wolf raised its Bewitching Screen, the serpent unfolded a Bewitching Domain, mists colliding like two tides in a ravine.

The two force fields met and canceled, like waves that slap and flatten each other to glass.

Without the screen, a phantasm beast is just a common monster, like paint washed off by rain; against a high‑born princess of the Blood Clan—a daughter of the Queen with blood gifts and deep mana—it was no match.

“Arr—!” Its long howl scraped hoarse like a torn reed; the True Crimson Whirl split its throat, and a bright scarlet fountain leapt, then it fell to earth like a felled pine.

Shelika finished it with a neat falling cut, like a star dropping clean through night.

She repeated the method and picked off the remaining lion‑wolf females one by one, like harvesting crimson blossoms across the grove.

Soon, with Shelika and the Blight Serpent moving in growing sync like paired currents, the pack collapsed; only the lion‑wolf leader remained, a lone wolf barking, like a gray banner flapping in wind.

The leader was strong, but its size couldn’t match two Blight Serpents, like a boar before twin pines.

So it chose to flee, wise as dusk slipping down a slope.

With a flicker and a blight smoke screen, it vanished like mist at sunrise, despite its size.

The two Blight Serpents didn’t give chase; they bent to feast on the fallen, like roots drinking rain.

Heads dipped low like hills settling, and Shelika stepped down to the ground, like descending from a moving ridge.

“Good… cooperation… but you… next time… are prey,” the Blight Serpent judged, its voice a cold wind through reeds.

“Then, farewell,” Shelika said, a single leaf of words falling, with nothing else to add.

Through the clash, she hadn’t forgotten to gather the lion‑wolves’ blood, like gleaning dew into a vial.

Each time her blade reached a vital, the crimson spray was carefully collected, like red rain cupped in steady hands.

She didn’t let it splash into the soil; with mana she drew the floating droplets together into a large sphere, a wine‑dark moon hovering at her side.

She set the blood orb before her and gauged it, like weighing a pomegranate in daylight.

About three liters—more than the planned one—she judged, like a jug brimming under a spout.

Then, using her Blood Armament gift, she shaped a big waterskin, leaf‑brown and supple, and slid the blood orb inside, adding anti‑coagulant berries, like bitter scarlet seeds shaken into wine.

The Dark Blood Clan always carry these herbal red fruits when hunting blood in the wild, sour and bitter like rain on bark; crushed and mixed, they keep blood from clotting.

Once sure the berries and phantasm blood were fully blended, Shelika tucked the waterskin into her bag, like nesting a gourd in straw; the canvas travel satchel bulged awkwardly, a swollen gourd under a strap.

In short, Shelika had secured the phantasm beast’s blood, like carrying dusk in a bottle.

Relief cooled her like shade under leaves; if she handed it to the High Priest of the Crimson Temple, the tribute wine would be released, like a sealed cask opened.

With the wine, she’d offer it to the God of Wine and upgrade the True Crimson Whirl into a divine weapon, like a blade tasting starlight.

No—she reconsidered, indecision branching like paths in mist; the God of Wine hadn’t insisted on the True Crimson Whirl, and she could choose to raise the Sirius Sword instead.

She’d decide which blade later, like setting a cask aside to age.

Right now she had to deliver the blood with care, like carrying a lantern through reeds.

Before returning, she needed to check on Rex, concern lifting like a quick wind in her chest.

Just as she moved to leave, a foot poised like a bird at takeoff, footsteps thudded through the loam like drumbeats.

“Shelika, are you hurt?!” Rex hurried up, worry bright in his eyes like steel under rain.

“Are you… all right?” she asked, her voice falling like soft rain through leaves.

“I’m fine,” Rex said, the ground around him swept flat like a flattened meadow. “What were you fighting?” His words came like clipped strokes of a blade.

Shelika blinked, like a moth’s wing in lamplight. “Galia lion‑wolf.”

“What?!” Shock cracked through him like lightning through cloud. “You’re a mage—how did you win?!”

Shelika thought Rex loved to make mountains of molehills; she rolled her eyes like ripples across a pond. “I found a temporary ally,” she said, her tone cool as moonlight.

“A temporary ally?” His brows arched like reeds in wind.

“Look~~” Shelika pointed toward the nearby Blight Serpent, now coiled and asleep after its meal, like a hill under mist.

“I see…” Rex nodded, understanding settling like dust, then worry leapt again like stones striking water. “Why didn’t you call for aid? Don’t you know phantasm beasts are dangerous for a mage?!”

Irritation flared in Shelika, like sparks under dry leaves. “Stop using that tone with this lady. Don’t you know I am the Queen’s child? Don’t you trust my skill?”

“In my eyes,” Rex said, his earnestness fixed like frost on glass, “you keep gambling with your life. Honestly, I worry about you. Please do less of this, all right?”

“Fine, fine~~ let’s head back,” Shelika waved him off, her words brushing past like sleeves dusting a table.

“All right…” His answer trailed like thin smoke.

By the time they returned to the Holy City, night had pooled like ink in the streets and lamps hung like stars.

They parted on Temple Street like two birds on different branches, and Shelika went to the Crimson Temple, her footsteps fluttering like moths toward flame.

At the Crimson Temple, guards looked at her with odd eyes, glints like fish under water.

Not only guards—the Blood Clan coming and going wore the same look, pricks like thorns against skin.

She knew last night’s uproar had weight, like thunder echoing in hills; in the morning, the manservant guards had looked at her with fear mixed with respect, like wolves wary of fire—why so strange now?

She let it slide, like leaves drifting along a stream; small things never snagged her.

She walked inside, incense heavy as old fog, and only then felt the wrongness, like cold seeping through stone.

Not just the lowborn Blood Clan—counts and elders, faces with rank like carved masks, all watched her with odd eyes, tilted like moons at a slant.

As Shelika started to wonder why, a clatter of chaos burst from the great hall at the corridor’s end, like chickens and dogs scattering: Charlotte’s voice flapped and squawked.

“Oh no, Elder Sister went into heat!” Her cry flailed like sparrows from a bush.

“She ran off with a man!” The words stumbled like hooves on cobbles.

“Charlotte doesn’t want to be a mom so soon!” Her wail swelled like a kettle at boil.

“So tragic!” The lament drooped like a wilted flower.

“Somebody help Charlotte~~!” The plea stretched like silk in wind.