Wait, Shelika thought, the question rippling like wine in a bowl—wasn’t it the Wine God Domain?

Dilnis, a goddess who looked both pure as snowfall and sultry as midnight silk, seemed to read her mind. “That’s a rite I only grant low-tier servitors,” she purred, like a cat tasting cream.

No way, Shelika thought, the doubt pricking like a thorn—he’s already at chief priest rank; how is he still low-tier? What about the higher ones?

Dilnis flicked her tongue at the corner of her lips, a shimmer like dew on petals. “You’re very pretty, and I’m very taken with you. Consider it my favor,” she said, playful as moonlight on water.

“That’s… gracious,” Shelika said, a chill sliding down her spine like frost on jade, forcing the words past a tight swallow.

Meanwhile, those unruly men slipped back into proper clothes, like masks settling after a carnival, and stepped to either side with stiff respect.

Dilnis lifted her bare feet from the wine basin and rose into the air, as if mist bore her upward; her languor shed like an old robe, and her gaze sharpened, cold as starlight.

“Watch,” she said, voice ringing like a bronze bell. “This is the divine art I’ll grant you—Feast of Night Domain.”

With that, she produced three throwing knives from nowhere, like swallows darting from dusk, and hurled them at Shelika in a silver blur.

“You—!” Shelika’s heart kicked like a drum; True Crimson Whirl was still in her hand, so she drew the Sirius Sword in a lightning flash.

She meant to bat the knives away with that yet-unforged dagger-weapon when something uncanny unfurled, like a shadow curtain across the stage.

From True Crimson Whirl in Dilnis’s hand, a dark light spilled, a tide of ink through air; space within its wash thickened, slow as honey.

The three knives, a breath from striking, froze like leaves caught mid-fall, hanging before Shelika in a still pond of air.

“What… is this?” Her voice trembled like a reed in wind, but her body moved freely, as if she alone walked the shore while the sea held its breath.

She reached out and, like picking dinner knives off a tray, plucked all three with effortless fingers.

The dark light ebbed; the world brightened, like clouds thinning after rain.

The box was dim to begin with, a cave of velvet shadows, so even brightened it stayed half-night.

Dilnis settled back onto the jade chair, laziness draping her like a shawl, and she yawned. “Did you see? My divine art—Feast of Night Domain.”

“I saw. This power is no simple ripple,” Shelika said, her awe lingering like incense. “Is it a divine art that meddles with time?”

“Not time,” Dilnis chimed, smile glinting like a blade.

“Then what?”

“Causality,” Dilnis answered, laughing soft as chimes.

“Causality?” The word tangled in Shelika’s thoughts like threads in a loom, leaving her baffled.

Dilnis sipped sacrificial wine, the cup reflecting lamplight like a small moon. “Long ago, they called me the Succubus Queen. In death, I became the God of the Night Feast.”

Shelika searched the host body’s memories, pages turning like leaves in wind. “You’re not wrong. Before the Gaia Empire unified the lands, the succubi were a people. They vanished.”

“Mm,” Dilnis said, calm as a winter lake. “Nature’s contest; the fit survive.”

Her tone stated facts like stones laid in a path, carrying no grief.

It puzzled Shelika. “Did you never think to keep your people alive?” Her question rose like smoke from a banked fire.

“Why should I?” Dilnis smiled, faint as dawn. “Everything has a life cycle. Stretch it beyond its curve, and every extension is just ugly death-throes.”

“So, rather than a shameful struggle, let a thing fade—like twilight letting go. Understand?”

“You’re right,” Shelika said, nodding lightly, the motion small as a falling petal.

That casual nod widened Dilnis’s eyes, surprise sparking like flint.

“Is there something odd on my face?” Shelika asked, curiosity fluttering like a moth.

“No,” Dilnis sat upright, leaned in, her gaze sweeping like a fan. Then she dropped a stone in the still water. “You wouldn’t happen to not be Dark Blood Clan, would you?”

“W-what are you saying?” Panic pricked Shelika like needles, a tide rising in her chest.

But thirty years of human life had tempered Fulin inside her; the role of Shelika returned calm like snow settling.

“I’m Dark Blood Clan—genuine as iron,” she said, tone steady as a blade.

“Mm-hmm…” Dilnis’s brow furrowed, confusion curling like smoke.

“Don’t mind my slip. Most Blood Clan don’t agree with me,” she added, voice soft as silk.

“Understandable…” Shelika thought of the elders of the Dark Blood Clan, every clan’s gray pillars, all clawing for years by pouring offerings to the progenitor gods—life prolonged like candles forced to burn twice.

“Enough extra talk,” Dilnis said, words closing like a fan.

“Here, take it.” She lifted her hand; True Crimson Whirl, which had hovered at her side like a scarlet moon, drifted to Shelika, who took it as if cradling flame.

“A divine weapon’s worth a city’s ransom. Keep it safe—don’t break it,” the goddess warned, sweet and sharp as sugared citrus.

“I’ll be careful,” Shelika said, resolve firm as granite.

“Then… farewell.” Dilnis tapped the ground, a touch like a raindrop, and vanished like mist at sunrise.

When Shelika stepped out, dawn was near. The east breathed a pale shimmer, like a blade of light, and her heart clenched.

Her breath quickened, rough as wind through pines; from the soul’s depth came an urge to destroy—wild and tidal.

It was a daily storm for Fulin, a bell that rang at dawn; at the end of the day, she was a Chaos Vampire.

“No… I can’t hold it—!” The need tore like claws through silk.

In a back street’s narrow throat, Fulin showed her true form, shadow blooming like night orchids.

By cruel coincidence, at her thirstiest, a little bunny thief hopped past, nibbling like a cloud tasting clover.

Fulin saw the prey and her eyes flared crimson, twin embers under ash.

“Squeak?!” the bunny peeped, a sound like a plucked string—and then…

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” Fulin said, meek as a schoolgirl, even as its soul drifted skyward like a thin white thread.

Soon, with the destructive tide ebbed like a receding storm, Fulin folded back into Shelika again.

“Whew… lucky I didn’t show myself in the temple,” she breathed, relief settling like warm tea.

“If my true identity gets out, who knows where the river runs,” she murmured, sigh trailing like the last note of a song.

She tidied the scene with quick hands, like wiping ink from a page, then returned to the Rose Traveler.

Back in the room, Charlotte greeted her with sunlight enthusiasm.

“Big Sister!” The door hadn’t finished swinging when Charlotte launched herself, soft cheeks pressing against Shelika’s chest like marshmallow clouds.

“Eh-heh-heh,” Charlotte laughed, bright as the rising sun, simple joy spilling like morning gold.

She let go; Shelika rubbed her head, a touch like a breeze through barley. “While I was out, did you sleep enough?”

“Mm!” Charlotte chimed, lively as a sparrow. “I’m fully used to daytime now. I’m ready to stop being Blood Clan!”

Charlotte could say thunderous things with the gentlest smile, like lightning wrapped in silk.

Shelika had no words; she rolled her eyes, a ripple of helpless humor.

She took out the itinerary, her face settling serious as a moon behind clouds. “We’ve been in the Holy City for almost a week. We’ve asked what we needed in the outer district.”

“Next, we prepare to stop the Hymn Project. Understood?”

“Mm! Whatever Sister says, Charlotte will do,” she sang, loyalty bright as a banner.

“Did you actually understand?”

“Charlotte really gets it, don’t worry,” she said, carefree as a kite in clear wind.

Around Shelika, that lightness felt like a balm; helplessness and fondness twined like ivy.

“Alright, alright. Every step matters. Listen carefully,” she said, words crisp as folded paper.

“Mm!”

“First, to enter the inner district smoothly on Sunday, we need…”