"About that..." Shelika hesitated, like a leaf caught on the rim of a stream.

She couldn’t say, Let Lance supply Battle Aura, or Let Fulin offer her essence, like tossing stones into a silent pond.

It was the truth, yet it touched Fulin’s deepest secret, like a pearl hidden under dark waves.

If she wanted a quiet life someday, Fulin had to guard it, like a lamp cupped against the wind.

"It’s complicated. Could we talk another day?" Her voice skimmed the surface like rain on eaves.

Seeing Menea’s curiosity was casual, not a hook cast deep, Shelika chose to deflect, like mist slipping past a net.

"Alright." Menea barely minded, like a mountain not moved by a sparrow. Others might find it crucial, but she had heavier stones on her scale.

"The day after tomorrow is Sunday, so the drill is set for tomorrow—" Her words marched like drums in a courtyard.

"The scenario is ‘enemy Divine Warriors invade the Holy City,’ so we’ll stage it on Temple Street, outer district of the Holy City," she said, laying a map like a carpet of clouds.

"We won’t hurt bystanders, right?" Shelika asked, not playing saint, just setting a lantern at the gate.

"Of course not. Everything’s arranged. Rest easy, Holy Maiden." Menea’s reply was steady as a well-built bridge.

With that assured, Shelika went to what mattered to her, like a needle finding the seam. "Since the drill’s set, what’s the script?"

"We consulted Master Herman, servant of the God of Drama—" Menea’s tone rang like a bell in a shrine.

"He advised you start with the upper hand and press our knight squad. Then our squad holds the line, and your Divine Warrior ‘runs out of energy’—" Her fingers traced arcs like gulls.

"Hold on," Shelika cut in, her doubt a spark in dry grass. "What does ‘energy depleted’ mean?"

"Gree."

"Yes... sister." Gree stepped up, a shadow of grievance in her eyes like rain under lashes. "From observation, enemy Divine Warriors can’t fight long. Every three to six hours, they return to a checkpoint for resupply," she said, cool as frost on slate.

It didn’t fully answer Shelika’s knot, which still tightened like a vine.

"So," Menea continued, her voice a river returning to channel, "after fifteen minutes of fighting the knights, your Divine Warrior goes ‘low on power.’ Then you step out and surrender—"

"Our knights will accept and shake hands, like swords sheathed under moonlight."

"And we’ll remind everyone at the end it’s just a drill?" Shelika asked, setting a boundary like chalk on stone.

"Exactly," Menea said, keen and cold-bright as a blade. "Lady Shelika, we’ll proclaim you the Holy Maiden, and publicize your deeds in Oriel City, so more people acknowledge your standing," she added, spreading it like banners in wind.

Shelika groaned, the sound a drooping willow. "Why circle back to the Holy Maiden thing? This humble one said I don’t want it, okay?"

Menea was surprised, like a sparrow hearing thunder. "Why not? If you’re the Empire’s recognized Holy Maiden, your prestige rises like a sun. More knights will bleed to guard you and serve you," she said, laying loyalty like stone on stone.

"Isn’t that good?" Her last note was clear as a spring.

Most of the Dark Blood Clan loved being high above, with crowds answering a gesture, like a throne on a hill.

Fulin didn’t hate it, yet she never wished for it, like a river that prefers shade.

"Could we postpone the Holy Maiden matter?" Shelika asked, setting the request down like tea that needed to cool.

"Why?" Menea’s question was a straight arrow.

She couldn’t say, I only want a quiet life, like a sparrow nesting in bamboo. So Shelika set a reason the other side could accept, weaving words like thread through a loom. "Lady Menea, you know this humble one is of the Dark Blood Clan. A high-and-mighty style only breeds ill will among our own, like thorns under silk. And I am the Queen’s child. When needed, I must unite the Blood Clan like a banner in storm. I can’t step over our unwritten code. I beg your understanding," she said, bowing like a reed.

Menea heard and fell silent, like snow settling on tiles.

"Dark Blood Clan..." she said at last, a touch of regret like dusk smoke. "Your Highness Shelika, we presumed too much. We didn’t weigh your burden, like porters miscounting crates. I’ll apologize for the others. Please accept it," she added, palms open like calm water.

"No need, no need." Fun on a screen is one thing, like lanterns at a festival; handling it in life is tiring, because they love to nitpick like ants.

"Oh, right," Menea said before leaving, memory flicking back like a kite. "A certain general proposed—"

"What did he say?" A bad premonition rose in Shelika’s chest like a cold wind.

"This—" Menea returned to her desk, drew something from a cabinet, and lifted it open. It was a piece of clothing, bright as a fallen petal.

Shelika swallowed, her throat tight as a drumhead. To her, it was an idol outfit, a bridal battle suit in its cut, like lace over armor. Wearing it now would be shame blazing like noon.

Not wearing it, but keeping it as a collectible, she could accept, like a pressed flower in a book.

In Fulin’s previous life, she had waifus by the dozen, like stars in rotation. Every three to five months, a new constellation—sweet as honeyed plums.

She had just taken the outfit, meaning to use it to memorialize those waifus now worlds apart, like boats on different rivers, when—

"We hope on the day of the drill you’ll wear this Holy Maiden dress to meet the soldiers and the crowd," Menea said, dropping it like a pebble that ripples the whole pond.

"Wait, wait—!" Shelika flushed, heat rising like steam. "This outfit’s indecent. How can a Holy Maiden wear this?" Her voice fluttered like startled birds.

"Oh, really?" Sadly, Menea was slow here, calm as a stone. "I think it’s fine."

"How could it be fine!" Shelika snapped, shame prickling like nettles. "If you make me wear this, I’ll look like a pervert!"

Local custom left Menea unmoved, like a cliff against waves. She even wondered if the Dark Blood Clan’s minds were never pure, always straying down odd paths like fox tracks in snow.

"Then how about this one?" Menea pulled another from the drawer, fabric spilling like water.

Ahem—same kind of pin-up idol getup, a limited artbook edition, bold as a scarlet fish.

"This one’s even more shameless!" Shelika pushed it away, face scarlet as maple leaves. Wearing it felt like being laid bare under noon sun.

"Then..." Menea tilted her head, puzzled like a crane, and produced a third. "This one should work, right?"

It looked like that ‘Heroine X’ from a certain JRPG, a silhouette clean as a sword stroke.

The shame level was high, yet unlike the first two, it had a cloak-scarf, thin as mist. It barely covered, but better than nothing, like a cloud over the moon. Forced into a three-of-one, Shelika chose this.

Soon, when the changing room opened like a paper screen, a figure stepped out. Aside from hair color, face lines, and a fuller, rounder form, she was almost that heroine’s mirror, a star set low.

"Is... this alright?" she asked, voice small as a bell under snow.

"Uh..." Menea, a girl herself, stared with everyone, eyes wide as ponds in rain.

"Shelika, it suits you!" Rex, steady even in storms, praised her, words clean as steel.

"Don’t look, don’t look—don’t look at that fox spirit!" Gree hopped and waved before Rex, a small flame trying to block the sun. Her height couldn’t cover anything.

"Eheheh—Charlotte’s so happy." The little loli slid to Shelika’s side like a cat, sticking close as dew. "With such a pretty elder-sister, Charlotte could die without regret~"

Rex heard that claim and drew his sword with a ring like ice. He barked at Charlotte, voice a thundercrack. "Junior of the Blood Clan, say that again if you dare!"

"Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo! Big sis is Charlotte’s. Not giving, not giving!" Charlotte’s defiance danced like sparks.

"What?! Take this!" Rex snapped, temper flaring like a gust.

"Don’t underestimate me—ya ya ya, ha!" Charlotte matched him blow for blow, stance rooted like bamboo.

They grabbed fruit and potted plants, flinging them like meteors across a night market.

"Watch my move—Combat Skill: Wild Down-Throw!" Rex hurled an apple, force ripping the air like a hawk’s dive.

"Useless, useless—Spell: Telekinetic Volley!" Charlotte answered with buckshot made of thoughts, a scatter like hailstones.

The flying objects collided midair, clang and clatter like windchimes in a storm.

Caught in the crossfire, poor Gree crouched, clutching her head like a quail. "Please stop—" she whimpered, voice thin as smoke.

A pear nailed her, thunk, and she fainted on the spot, falling like a felled reed.

"Stop, you two, stop—!" Shelika tried to soothe, her words like water on a wildfire, and just as helpless.

Chaos bloomed again, petals spinning in a whirlwind, while Menea smiled knowingly. "A beauty brings calamity... not wrong at all," she murmured, like an old proverb riding the wind.

After watching a while, she turned toward the window, gaze gliding like a bird. From this height, the Wasteland Deity in the inner city came into view—

A massive, proud eagle perched on the square, muscles like braided rope. Its eyes were razors, fixed on the front like stars locked on the horizon.

"May the Hymn Project run smooth as a river," Menea sighed at last, worry drifting like fog.