Shelika heard it, and her face darkened like a storm swallowing the sun.

Without another word, she strode behind Charlotte, footsteps quick as rain.

She didn’t wait for Charlotte to react. Her hand knifed toward the crown of Charlotte’s head—an A‑rank Erasure, clean as a guillotine’s drop.

“Ow—!” Stars burst across Charlotte’s vision like shaken fireflies; she swayed in dizzy loops, then crumpled to the floor like a felled reed.

In less than a minute, Charlotte stood again, question marks dangling in her eyes like paper charms.

She stared blankly at the ceiling, as if her soul was asking, Who am I, where am I, what am I doing, like three bells tolling in fog.

After spacing out a beat, she saw Shelika’s faintly stormy face in front of her. She bloomed like a flower after rain. “Honored Sister, you’re finally back!”

Then came the waterworks, tears stringing down like a snapped necklace, and a babble of I was so worried about you.

Shelika’s temper hadn’t cooled. Hands on her hips like a brazier, she demanded, “Who taught you to say that?”

“Honored Sister, I—”

“And also, what does going—in heat—mean?” Shelika sounded more and more like a strict elder sister taming a wild cat. “And did you not see the note I left, saying I had to leave the Holy City?”

“I’m sorry…” Charlotte lowered her head like a wilted sprout. “I heard people say you ran off with a handsome guy from the Demonic Human Race, and I got anxious…”

“That part is true,” Shelika admitted, the note lacking the rest of her plan. “But you still haven’t answered—what does in—heat mean? And what did ‘becoming a mom’ mean?”

“A lone man and a lone woman…” Charlotte looked wronged, like a puppy in the rain. “Isn’t it that thing everyone likes to do…? If it goes wrong, and Sister is super mean and dumps the baby on Charlotte, then Charlotte has to be the mom…”

Shelika had to admit it: to say such punch‑worthy lines with such a pitiful face—Charlotte was a talent, sugar on the blade.

And that mind of hers ran odd tracks. Outside the Holy City, monsters prowl like a black tide; most would think of hunting them. How did this child leap straight to the…field? Does she not know field battles rack up casualties?

Charlotte’s cute, pleading face softened Shelika’s iron a shade, like frost thawing under dawn.

Seeing the crowd thicken around them like gathering reeds, Shelika led Charlotte out of the Grand Hall and back into the corridor.

She found a dessert shop along the corridor’s lantern glow, and ordered Charlotte a cup of her favorite mala—numbing and spicy—ice cream, chill smoke curling like incense.

“Thank you~! Charlotte loves this the most~!” Her soft cheeks lit up, heart buds blooming in spring.

Watching Charlotte devour it without a hint of ladylike restraint, Shelika thought again of how she lacked common sense in some things, like a wild child raised by wind.

So Shelika asked lightly, as if tossing a pebble into a pond, “Charlotte, where’s your mother?”

“Charlotte doesn’t have a mother~!” she chirped, bright as a flag in sunshine, as if it were good news.

Shelika’s eyes flew wide like lanterns catching flame.

She almost asked, Did something happen? But then the body’s original memories surfaced like ink in water, and she let the question sink. In the Dark Blood Clan, this was normal—

The Dark Blood Clan often abandon children with mediocre bloodlines.

Charlotte bore a special monster bloodline, but not an excellent one. What they called an “excellent bloodline” measured how much “Dark Blood” you carried.

Dark Blood showed in three main facets—flight, blood arts, and spellcasting talent. Shelika stood at the peak in all three, hence “pure-blood.” Charlotte couldn’t fly, couldn’t use blood arts, and only had the clan’s common gift for spellcraft—hence “mediocre.”

Children of mediocre blood drew little favor from the Blood Goddess Margaret; their caps on strength and lifespan stayed low, so they were usually cast off like leaves in autumn.

Even then, society raised them.

The Crimson Temple was a Blood Clan community, and it governed the clan like a harbor in red mist.

Every city’s Crimson Temple kept a special ward, called the Widows’ House, to raise the abandoned children like seedlings under eaves.

“Even without a mom, Charlotte’s happy every day~,” she said, smiling, sunlight on a shallow stream.

Shelika let out a soft sigh, like wind over reeds. “Good.”

By the time Charlotte polished off two big cups of ice cream, the temple’s High Priest and his attendants arrived, their steps careful as stepping on frost.

The High Priest bowed lightly. “Lady Shelika, I heard you’ve returned.”

Shelika ordered two more cups for Charlotte, soothed her to keep eating, then stepped outside the shop to face the priest under the lamplight.

“I obtained enough Phantasmal Beast Blood. Will this do?” She showed the waterskin, its liquid viscous and deep crimson, like a sleeping ruby.

At the name alone, almost everyone nearby turned their heads like sunflowers.

Age had creased the High Priest’s face, but his narrowed eyes sprang wide. “Oh—so this is Phantasmal Beast Blood?!”

It had many uses: it restored mana like rain in a dry field; it brewed into costly high‑grade mana potions; to the Dark Blood Clan it was a rare tonic; to Margaret it was a favorite offering—worth a king’s vault.

The High Priest at once ordered a container. Shelika poured carefully, the red stream steady as a silk ribbon—one liter, no more, no less. They sealed it with a lid, and attendants carried it away like a sacred ember.

“Now,” Shelika said, “may I have the promised tribute wine?”

“O-of course. Please, take it.” The High Priest gestured, inviting her to follow, his sleeve fluttering like a shy wave.

But Shelika had no wish to set foot in the Grand Hall again. The Crimson Temple set her skin crawling, like cold scales brushing the heart.

Maybe it was the lingering shadow. She didn’t want to stay here another breath.

She summoned a Vanguard. This one was special; beneath it hung not a rotary machine gun, but a mechanical claw like an arcade crane.

Under baffled stares, she ordered the Vanguard to fly to the Grand Hall, seize the tribute wine, and return, swift as a hawk.

Moments later, the bottle rested in her hand, cool and heavy as moonlit stone.

The High Priest bowed again. “As expected of the Queen’s direct bloodline. Your blood thralls always dazzle our eyes.”

“Mm…” Shelika glanced at the people who seemed to hide words under their tongues like pebbles. “I’ll be going.”

Charlotte had just finished eating. She stood and waved, “Bye‑bye~”

They left the Crimson Temple. By the time they stepped out, it was deep night.

The Holy City blazed with lights like fallen stars, and Shelika walked the road up to a terrace, looking down on the splendor like a sea of lanterns.

The night wind met them like cool silk. Watching the view, Charlotte ducked her head, tangled thoughts like knotted thread. “Do I still have to keep working afterward?”

“If you don’t want to, then don’t. I’m not forcing you.”

“No, Sister…” With few passersby, her tone shifted like a veil. “Lady Fulin, why did we come to the Holy City?”

“To deal with the Wasteland Deity.”

Charlotte’s brow creased, confusion pooling like a shadow. “If you’re that strong, Fulin, why not just kill the Wasteland Deity outright?”