Even with Shelika’s own words still ringing, Menea’s doubt clung like mist. She still couldn’t believe.

As Shelika left the chamber, Menea hurried after her, feet quick as a lantern chasing dusk.

“Miss Shelika… do you truly not mind what we did to you?” Her voice trembled like a plucked string in the rain.

Shelika felt a warm flicker toward this Nether Knight, brief as their time had been, like a sunbeam through frost—but—

“You ask if I mind? It’s just bare political theater, a wooden stage under dull light. Why care that much?”

Emotion spiked; Menea planted her palm by Shelika’s head, pinning her to the corner like a hawk pinning a sparrow.

“If this goes wrong, you’ll die!” Her words cracked like spring ice on a river.

Women of the Demonic Human Race carry a unique scent, a wild bloom under dusk.

Every maiden bears such a fragrance, yet theirs holds a special note, a secret thread in the weave.

Like wild citrus growing in the shade beside emerald grasslands, Shelika caught a sweetness that belonged only to citrus.

Instinct rose; that scent sent her heartbeat drumming like hooves over a bridge.

She fought the tide, the urge to kiss the curve of Menea’s neck, and pushed her away like a wave drawn back by the moon—

“I could indeed die—doesn’t that suit things just fine?” Her smile fell like a leaf where it must.

“Many would weep for me like rain on stone. Your call to rally the people would fly steadier, a banner in clean wind.”

“Shelika, you…” Menea looked over, baffled, eyes like clear springs suddenly clouded. “Do you really not mind?”

Talking, they climbed to the stargazing terrace; under sacred light, the night unfurled like lacquered silk.

“Don’t be like this. We’re adults; hearts tempered like steel, we don’t dwell on ‘do you mind.’”

“You know this: the Gaia Empire needs the three races united now more than ever, like a ship in storm needing every rope.”

Shelika paused; Menea lifted her gaze to divine light, ribbons of color drifting like rainbow silk.

“Unity of the three?” she asked, puzzled, words fluttering like moths. “We three—the People of the Land, the Abyssal Demonic Humans, and the Blood Clan—haven’t we always stood together like stones in a ring?”

Shelika nodded. “Indeed. But have you looked into the Celestial Spirit realm?”

“Aren’t the White Spirits the same, snow-pale wings beating in the same sky?”

“No.” Shelika sighed and reached skyward like a girl plucking stars. “Their staggering wealth and exalted height have birthed rifts like cracks in winter glass—”

“The ‘true’ Celestials shore up hegemony, stacking stones higher on the hill.”

“The nature-loving elves long to withdraw into quiet woods, leaves whispering them away.”

“The Titan-blooded refuse a station beneath the Celestials; they surge like mountains waking, marching in roaring waves of liberation.”

Menea’s respect shone, obsidian-polished. “You know it so well.”

“Anyone who’s set foot in the Heavenly Spirit Empire carries a bit of that dust on their boots.”

“How do you see it?” Menea asked, curiosity rustling like leaves.

Shelika sighed, neither glad nor sad, like wind across empty fields. “These rifts will widen, cracks spreading like ice under the moon—”

“One day, the Heavenly Spirit Empire will splinter from within like a tree rotting at the heart. If we stretch time long enough, we won’t even lift a hand to watch it fall.”

“I see…” Menea murmured, thoughts knitting like slow-moving clouds.

“Thank you, Holy Maiden. I understand why we need unity, a rope binding our ship.”

“Hm… I believe General Shulk, though he’s never seen the Heavenly Spirit Empire, has already read this board. Perhaps his strategy starts here, like stones placed under a lantern’s gaze.”

Menea’s eyes widened; conviction rose like a clear tide. “No wonder… a princess of the Blood Clan. Great figures see horizons like wide seas.”

“Aren’t you a great figure too, the famed Nether Knight? Your name rings like a bell.”

“I’m only a little stronger than the others,” she said, humble, a keen blade kept in its sheath.

One of the Gaia Empire’s strongest knights—only “a little”? Shelika muttered inwardly, a bee buzzing behind the ribs.

A meteor cut the night, a silver thread drawn across black silk; its fleeting trail lit Menea’s pure eyes.

“Ah—right,” Menea said, a thought clicking like a sealed clasp. “When I asked you to wait, it was for something important.”

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath. The inner district of the Holy City will hold a grand ceremony; bells will rise like sunrise. I assume you know.”

“Mm…” Shelika’s breath curled like mist over water.

“Then listen: during tomorrow’s ceremony, the Council of the Three Races will convene,” Menea said, laying the words like stones in a path.

“This…” Shelika’s surprise sparked like flint.

The Council of the Three Races decides the Dark Spirit Empire’s great affairs, a pendulum of governance swinging every two or four months.

It’s usually held in the First City, drums beating the notice before the parade.

This time, with no warning, it’s set in the Holy City; a storm without a herald—no wonder Shelika was shocked.

Menea waited till Shelika’s mood settled like dust, then continued. “So, the leaders of the Gaia Empire’s three peoples will attend. As for our Demonic Human Race leader—you’ve met him.”

“The Gaia Legion’s commander, General Shulk…?” The title gleamed like fitted armor.

“Right. General Shulk stands for our Demonic Human Race now, his standard planted in dark soil.”

This is how the Abyssal Demonic Humans reshaped politics after the Dark Spirit Empire unified and the demon-king crown was set aside like a rusted helm.

“General Shulk… he can be your beacon, a steady light in the night.”

Menea lowered her head, silent for a beat, a bell tolling slow. “Next is the leader of the People of the Land, Chief Minister Klein.”

The Chief Minister is akin to a prime chancellor; with no “emperor,” that office holds the keys of the court.

“Lastly—” Her breath tightened like a held string.

“My mother, Queen Shaya Rafield of the Dark Lineage,” Shelika said, her mother’s name cold moonlight on steel.

Menea gave her a complicated look, clouded like rain. “Yes… your Blood Clan Queen, Her Majesty Shaya.”

One empire, yet a warlord, a chief minister, and a queen balance each other, a tripod holding a cauldron bound by council. To Fulin, an outsider, it was strange and wondrous.

As one corner of that tripod, the queen’s weight was a shape Shelika knew like the carved edge of a jade seal.

Menea spoke like chatting over tea. “You haven’t seen the queen in a long while—sixty years, rings in a tree. Do you miss her?”

“Probably counts as… missing her.” Shelika’s feelings blurred like fog across a valley.

After all, even the original soul couldn’t tip the scale—blood bound together, yet blades cross over politics. Love or hate? For Fulin, it barely mattered, a leaf blown past her path.

“Good then.” Menea let out a deep breath, like a storm dodged at sea.

“Your queen has skipped the council for half a year. May her attendance now, with you beside her, unfasten the knot we’ve struggled with for six months.”

Curiosity pricked like a thorn; Shelika frowned. “What problem, exactly?”

“Tomorrow is the Sabbath; you’ll know then. In short, I’ve told you about the Council of the Three Races. I hope you grow into your new mantle as Holy Maiden, a fresh robe on your shoulders—and in that role, may you have a beautiful reunion with your queen,” Menea said, hope rising like spring meeting the river.