“Alright, at least Wasan Village is right ahead—look,” Lucimia said, her voice thin as wind through reeds.

Desty rolled over like a lazy cat and lifted her gaze to the distance. A dozen wooden huts sat not far away, scattered like dice along both banks of a ribboning river.

She saw villagers hauling buckets for water, and a few kids clambering up trees, picking fruit like sparrows in an orchard.

“Finally,” she breathed, the relief loosening like a slackened bowstring.

“Mm, let’s rest a bit, then head in.” Lucimia drew a small wooden chair from her Storage Ring like a conjurer pulling a dove from a sleeve, loath to let earth-stain crawl like dusk over her clothes.

Desty didn’t care about dirt; if anything, the ground felt like a cradle of warm earth, offering truer rest.

She rolled again like a fish in sun-warmed sand and asked, “What do we say when we go in? Adventurers? Travelers passing through? Merchants? And that pitch-black Cross—how do we find it?”

“Mm… saying we’re adventurers works best. We specialize in clearing beasts, and the Empire’s crawling with them—sounds right.” Lucimia sifted Gendi’s memories like stirring a cloudy pond, then shook her head. “Sadly, in Gendi’s mind the Cross sits in darkness like a sealed cellar, no way to confirm the exact spot.”

“Alright. Darkness all around means underground or a locked room,” Desty said, her tone steady as a stone dropped into a well.

“Exactly. Hmph, didn’t think you’d start using your head,” Lucimia arched a brow like a willow leaf and smiled at Desty.

“Tch… I’m just a bit slow, not broken in the head,” she muttered, the words grumbling like a cart on gravel.

After a short rest and watering the horses, the two girls stood and took their reins, warm breath puffing from the animals like kettle steam, and walked toward the village like a slow tide.

A knot of worry tightened in Desty’s chest like a twisted rope. “Do you think… the people in the village will welcome us?”

“…I don’t know,” Lucimia answered, as dry as a pebble in a stream bed.

“I heard some villages hate outsiders. Staying’s one thing, but some even attack passersby with whatever’s on hand—ugh, that’s scary,” Desty fretted, her thoughts scattering like startled sparrows.

“…I don’t know,” Lucimia replied, her voice flat as still water.

“How do you not know anything? Aren’t you supposed to be clever?” Desty snapped, her tone bristling like a hedgehog.

Lucimia rolled her eyes like marbles in a bowl. “I can’t see the future, and I can’t read minds—how would I know what they’ll think? Besides, you’re a fourth-tier Swordmaster, a mountain among hills—are you really scared of a few swings?”

“That’s not so simple.” Desty’s finger curled a lock of hair like a vine wrapping a twig. “In a world this dangerous, if you’re not top tier, you don’t matter much. Fourth tier makes you a big fish in a school pond, but out there the ocean’s full of bigger fish.”

Lucimia held her tongue, her silence settling like dawn dew; inwardly, she agreed like a quiet nod.

“And I asked to see if you’ve used Reversion,” Desty pressed, tiptoeing around the thought like a cat along a fence. “Your rules say you can’t say it first, right? If I ask, that’s fine. What if this time your Reversion didn’t keep my memories from being reset—am I wrong?”

Lucimia’s eyes lit like new stars. “Huh? Didn’t expect you to think that far. Looks like you’ve gotten much sharper.”

She patted Desty’s shoulder, the gesture light as brushing flour from a sleeve.

She’d meant to pat her head, but she was a head shorter like a missing rung on a ladder, so the shoulder had to do.

“Buzz off.” Desty pushed her hand away like swatting a moth. “Hey, a few adults are coming to meet us.”

“Ah, wait, I need to dress up a bit,” Lucimia said, turning like a crane preening its feathers.

“Dress up? For what? This isn’t a date or some noble banquet,” Desty said, puzzled, her voice rippling like water around a stone.

“Dummy—didn’t I just praise you?” Lucimia’s voice dropped like thunder under clouds. “Ment runs the whole Empire like a hawk over a field. He won’t let us wreck his plans. He controls the narrative, so he can spread word that we’re criminals or servants of a Dark Deity, have us wanted, and set other regions on guard. So a disguise is a cloak we must wear.”

“Wow, that’s solid.” Desty tapped her chest with a finger like a drum. “And me? How do I change?”

“You don’t need to. The focus is me. Black hair stands out like ink in snow—I’ll be recognized at a glance. I should change color… what about white? But they’ve already seen me from afar; shifting color now would be weird, like a heron molting mid-flight. Maybe I should use Reversion first.”

“Change color…” Desty thought, the idea sprouting like a bamboo shoot after rain. “There’s a way without changing. Just say you’re Bloodkin. Your skin’s pale as moonlight—grow two sharp fangs, and no one will notice.”

“Huh? Bloodkin?” Lucimia hit a blind spot, her mind blank like an uninked page. “Are Bloodkin all black-haired in this world?”

“Mm…” Desty frowned, her brows knotting like willow twigs. “Back in school, the books said Bloodkin have black, blond, white, and red hair. Four colors. Black and red are most common, and I heard nobles tie into that, but their internal stuff’s fog to me. Anyway, if you claim Bloodkin, it should pass. I can pretend I’m Bloodkin too.”

“There’s something you might not know. My red hair’s common among humans, like fire in a hearth. But your black hair seems to appear only in the Town of Tranquility—almost none elsewhere, just a rare few. And most regions barely know the Town of Tranquility, so among folk there’s a saying like wind-borne rumor: see black hair, and ninety-five out of a hundred it’s Bloodkin.”

“I didn’t know that,” Lucimia sighed, the sound soft as a reed flute. Skipping school left holes in her map of the world like blank patches on parchment.

“But… pretending to be Bloodkin might mean pretending to be noble. If we’re found out, will it cause trouble? How are Bloodkin with humans?”

“I heard there were old grudges, then peace—rust sanded off like a blade cleaned. Now tensions aren’t that big. Bloodkin aren’t Demonkin, and humans clash with Demonkin like flint to steel. Back in school, one Swordmaster student was Bloodkin, but they graduated and vanished like a bird returning home.”

“Alright. We’ll do that for now,” Lucimia said, the choice dropping like a pebble into a pond.

She conjured for them both two signature Bloodkin fangs that gleamed like frost, and just then a handful of villagers approached like a slow tide.

Leading them was an elderly man, weathered like a pine on a windy ridge.

Three sturdy men followed like oxen, one shouldering a hoe like a spear at rest.

The elder’s gaze swept over the girls like a lantern beam. One wore costly fabric, silk-smooth like moonlight—clearly a young lady. The other had light armor and a sword at her hip, steel catching light like water—clearly a guard.

Black hair and red hair stood side by side, ink and flame; and Lucimia let her Bloodkin fangs show like pearl knives. The elder’s respect settled in like lowered sails as he said, “Honored Bloodkin ladies from afar, what brings you to our village? If you only wish to rest, we do have an empty house, if you don’t mind humble boards. As for blood… if you’d kindly…”