Lucimia had thought Bevi was a sham, a mirage over hot stone. Yet now there’s actually someone called Bevi?

Rexi didn’t lie?

Her mind went blank like frost on glass. She stood rooted, still as a marker stone in the wind.

If Bevi was real, then Rexi hadn’t lied. Yet caution rose like a blade at her throat.

A shiftless punk cradled a bottle, snapping and whistling like a sparrow at dusk, and sauntered for the door. He slipped out into the street, shadow melting into shadow.

The blue‑haired man flicked a look at his three teammates, quick as a darting fish. One ran to pay, and three rose in unison and filed out.

Lucimia watched, cold as a hawk on a ridge, taking everything in.

Why so secretive? Was Bevi’s intel a nest of thorns, and the rendezvous buried in layers to dodge knives?

Seems my read wasn’t off; they’re tied to Bevi, thread to needle.

Their earlier scanning wasn’t idle; they were checking for a signal, like sailors reading stars.

Should I follow?

Doubt tugged tight like a rope in rain, and she hesitated.

If Rexi and Ment were in league, then the Bevi in Rexi’s mouth might be bait on a hook.

Rexi had stressed Bevi was an information broker, and many adventurers dealt with him, like bees drawn to nectar.

That hit Lucimia’s needs squarely; adventurers could point her to Bevi, breadcrumb by breadcrumb.

So Ment might guess she’d come to the guild for Bevi, then plant this team to stage a paper theater in front of her?

But there was a snag, a pebble in the shoe. Intel on Bevi wasn’t essential; Nirael could tell her, sooner or later.

Why lay such a trap then? The thread didn’t weave clean.

Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe Rexi’s decent, Bevi’s real, and he is a broker. Maybe Ment simply used a special gambit so I couldn’t Devour the memory with Authority Power.

Thoughts flew like startled birds through her mind, sparks leaping branch to branch.

She weighed, guessed, judged, and let the scale settle.

Don’t follow.

There was no need to risk a pit for Bevi’s sake. Better to slip out the city, find a high slope, and arc a shot to crack the clock tower.

At range, city fangs couldn’t bite; distance would be iron armor.

With the plan settled, she slipped into the air and swept past the walls, a black petrel over gray surf. Soon she found a knoll.

A jutting hillock held a broad stone like an altar. The view was wide; Erwei City lay like a chessboard below, and the clock tower stood dead ahead.

Nice spot for scenery, she thought, like a painter’s perch. She stood atop the stone and fixed her gaze on the tower.

No need to calculate a perfect parabola; with enough force, a straight shot was a thunderbolt. Nothing blocked the path.

She stepped back two paces. She raised her hand. Mana gathered thick and rich, a storm cupping in her palm.

A crossbow of pure mana unfolded before her, sleek as moonlight over steel. She patted it and murmured, “Been wanting to try siege work.”

She leveled the massive mana bolt at the clock tower, a spear aimed at the sky’s heart.

To blunt the tower’s Magic Array and Ment’s Authority Power, she laced Devouring into the bolt. She set Fuzzy Orb atop it, mouth clamped on poison, ready to fly tandem.

Break the tower’s shell, expose the Cross, then Fuzzy Orb could deliver its venom, drop by drop.

No fear of layered defenses; with Devouring Authority, layers were onions in boiling water. One shot would do; no need to volley before sending Fuzzy Orb.

Plan fixed, she poured mana into the bolt. It shone like a newborn sun, power narrowing to a single point. The surge rippled outward and tripped Erwei City’s alarm Magic Array.

That caught her off guard, a bell in mist. City wards could sense mana from the outskirts? Erwei City truly was thriving—big city bones.

Her voice stayed calm, a lake under wind. She didn’t think their defense net could hold her.

Two figures rose from the city, twin flames climbing a night wall.

She couldn’t see clearly, but through Fuzzy Orb’s vision, shapes sharpened, like ink finding lines.

One was a white‑haired elder in a mage’s robe, hands clasped behind his back, steady as an old pine. His aura thrummed; she judged him a Ninth Rank Mage.

The Empire had only two Ninth Rank Mages: a very young woman, and—by the feel—this old man.

The second figure was younger, a man bright with promise. He felt like an Eighth Rank Mage, a seed that might grow into the Empire’s third Ninth Rank. His hair was tea‑colored, warm as autumn bark.

The elder opened his Magic Eye. His first glance speared the petite silhouette on the ridge.

A maiden stood there, a blade of grace in the wind. Her eyes burned scarlet—disguised—and two teardrop moles lent her a sultry edge. Her skin was flawless, and two sharp fangs pricked her smile. Her hair was black as ravens.

She wore black‑toned clothes and a cloak, meeting the cold head‑on, her stare straight as an arrow.

Bloodkin?

The thought leapt in the elder’s mind like a spark on dry grass.

Lucimia’s current look was the classic Bloodkin noble’s mask; even she didn’t know that two teardrop moles marked a lineage, one traced back to the progenitor.

The elder had seen much and read more; he recognized it at a glance. His lofty calm fell away; caution closed over him like armor. He lowered his flight, eye‑level with her, respectful of storm signs.

The tea‑haired man didn’t catch it. He frowned at the elder’s descent, puzzled as a bird at a sudden still pond. He wanted it done fast and said, “Teacher, she’s just a kid. Probably using some magic crystal to play tricks. I’ll teach her a lesson. No need to trouble you.”

He moved to go, but the elder’s glare snapped like a trap. A strong pull grabbed him and hauled him back, leaf on a river’s tug.

He stared, confused, searching his teacher’s face for reason.

The elder saw rashness written on the surface, impulse untempered. He shook his head and said low, “Child, do you really think she’s just a little girl?”

“Uh…”

“Child, she’s Bloodkin. Do you even know the Bloodkin?”

“I know the word, but I’ve never seen one. Books don’t say much.”

“Mm. True. That’s not your fault,” the elder nodded, voice like worn stone. Erwei City’s academy texts barely touched on the Bloodkin; the elder had learned elsewhere.