(1)

Under amber lamplight, a girl sat before the vanity; her raven hair braided fine as inked thread, falling soft over slender shoulders like a quiet stream.

Her eyes ran deep, hiding galaxies; they sparkled with wise starlight. Her skin was snow-pale, clear as winter air, untouched by worldly smoke.

Her lips tipped up, a small crescent; mystery and gentleness mingled, a still lake that quietly pulled you under.

“I’m beautiful.”

The girl’s voice dropped like a pebble into water.

The next heartbeat, the door flung open with a gust.

“Lucimia! You’re still doing your hair? First period’s over! We said we’d take Swordmaster class together—where were you?”

A redheaded beauty in light armor braced the frame, breath rushing like wind, her gaze scolding Lucimia.

Lucimia set down the comb; her tone carried weight like a slow bell. “Sigh, Desty, you don’t get it. I’ve been wondering, over long hours, if there’s a weapon easier than blade and sword.”

“Speak human.”

“Too tired. I don’t want to go.” Lucimia laid her cards out like stones.

“You…! Fine.” Desty gathered a rebuke, then let it scatter like leaves.

After all, Lucimia wasn’t a Swordmaster student; she was from the magic academy, and Desty kept dragging her to try sword classes.

The girl had sat in for a few sessions, no complaints; hogging her time felt rude, a thorn catching in Desty’s chest.

Thinking that, Desty sighed; she walked to her bed and sank down, like a reed bent by wind.

“Ugh, I’m beat. My arms ache like lead.”

Lucimia blinked at her, a playful spark like fireflies. “How about you quit too? If training drains you, once I finish my magitek gun, I’ll stomp every Swordmaster except the absolute top.”

She paused, a thought flaring like a match. “Oh, and mages too!”

“Gun?” Desty knew the word, but Lucimia’s claim sounded crooked, like a misplayed note.

“Research a gun? Doesn’t the academy have them? Those long spears… why research one? Sure, spear work beats many Swordmasters, but it’s even tougher to learn.”

At Desty’s confusion, Lucimia smiled and shook her head, like willow leaves in a breeze.

“Hmph, my gun beats that ‘gun’ by miles. If you can channel mana, even a regular person could kill a Tier Four beast.”

“Uh… alright.” Desty didn’t know what thing Lucimia meant, yet she asked, hope nudging like an elbow, “So, how’s that gun coming?”

“Oh, I’m short on materials. You feed mana in, but where to store it? What holds the charge? And how do you release stronger kinetic and thermal energy without chewing through the parts? Sigh, this magitek gun is harder than a normal gun.”

Desty stared, eyes blinking like owls, lost amid words that fell like strange snow.

“Huh? What kinetic and thermal?”

“It’s… eh, that’s a hassle to explain. I’ll tell you later.” Lucimia waved it off, like shooing smoke.

Desty: “…”

Words failed her; fog filled her head, and silence felt safer.

The black-haired girl was Desty’s age, yet she was the First Seat of the magic academy; rumors said many professors trailed her in mastery.

When she cast, it looked like play; no one knew how many spells she’d learned. Like a legendary Tenth-tier Archmage, any spell fell to her hand like fruit from a branch.

She brimmed with odd ideas, making little wonders like fireflies in a jar.

Music boxes, pocket watches, clocks, spectacles—her fingertips coaxed them forth like dew.

She even crafted better paper, then steel pens, pencils, and… printing. Ink flowed like rivers across the world.

These things shocked the world, crowning her First Seat like frost on a peak.

Desty admired her genius, a quiet flame warming her chest.

The black-haired girl kept combing; she switched styles, still unsatisfied, like a painter rewriting clouds.

Desty stared, speechless, and said offhand, “Stop changing it. Just wear it loose.”

At that, Lucimia’s smile curved like moonrise. “You think loose hair looks good?”

Desty thought a beat, then nodded. “It does. Honestly, loose hair suits you; other styles feel off, like a sharp note in a calm song.”

Lucimia’s eyes lit, lanterns in mist; she plucked out the hairpin.

“Alright, loose it is.”

“Uh… You drop it just because I said so?” Desty felt flattered, a flutter in her chest like sparrow wings.

“Yeah.” Lucimia looked as if it were obvious, calm as a stone in a stream.

“Okay, okay.” Desty kneaded her arm, muscles sore like ropes. “You heading to class next? Looks like magic class.”

“No. I’ve learned what they’ll teach. I’ll keep working on the magitek gun.”

Lucimia rose from the vanity and sat at her desk; blueprints sprawled like maps, books on materials stacked like bricks, and scorched scraps from failed heat tests lay like dead leaves.

“Oh, right—bring me lunch!” With a flick, she sent a gold coin spinning into Desty’s hand, a falling sun.

“The rest’s yours, pay for the favor!”

“Uh…”

Desty stared at the coin, then at the girl busy at the desk; heat rose in her chest like steam.

A spark of anger. Yes—anger, crackling like dry twigs.

Lucimia had noble money to burn. Desty didn’t. She trained in swordwork and took adventurer jobs to earn coin.

Lately, Lucimia holed up in the dorm, tossing her gold to have Desty bring meals; she never said what to eat—Desty chose, and Lucimia ate, no fuss, no extra words.

The leftovers counted as payment.

A gold coin mattered; because of that, Desty hadn’t taken guild work in a while. She felt guilty, so she bought good, pricier food, hardly skimming anything, even picked up materials for Lucimia.

If a string of days brought several coins, she’d refuse outright, like shutting a door.

So… that sounds nice, right? Then why anger?

Truth is, she didn’t know the exact thorn.

She just felt it was bad for Lucimia to nest in the dorm, sunless for days, and they hadn’t gone out to eat together in ages. The feeling gnawed like a mouse.

It felt like being kept by Lucimia; that rubbed her wrong. She preferred pay earned by her own sweat.

Bringing lunch is work, isn’t it?

That…

It kind of is.

Desty’s fire sputtered, smoke thinning.

Forget it. I’m still not happy!

With that thought, she stood and stepped toward Lucimia, each pace steady as drumbeats. “Lucimia, since you’re skipping class, how about… coming to the Adventurers’ Guild with me?”

“Adventurers’ Guild?” Lucimia’s brow gathered like clouds. “We’ve got money. Why go?”

“For training, obviously! I’m a Swordmaster; real combat matters most. And don’t forget—our academy prioritizes it. At finals, beyond student duels, everyone hunts magical beasts; even as First Seat, you can’t skip.”

Her meaning rang clear as a bell.

She wanted Lucimia out the door, to hone battle sense like sharpening steel on stone.

Lucimia frowned slightly, thoughts rippling. She spoke slow, like tasting bitter tea. “Honestly… I feel my combat sense is strong. Very strong. Like I’ve fought many battles already.”

Desty looked flat at her, eyes dry as winter.

“Please. If you don’t want to go, don’t toss flimsy excuses. Since enrollment, you’ve been with me; you barely fought outside. Where’d rich experience come from? Do I look that dumb?”

“Sigh.” Lucimia breathed and brushed her hair, fingers like wind through reeds. “I don’t know why I feel that way either.”

Fine.

Desty chose to believe; she let the line down for both of them.

“If you’re seasoned, even better. You can watch my back. Plus, some monster materials might help that gun of yours. You said you need mana storage and heat shielding? Let’s ask the beast-research profs or students. If we find likely targets, we hunt.”

Desty thought, then quoted a phrase Lucimia once taught her, words like a lantern. “What’s that saying? Don’t… don’t build behind closed doors! Right, don’t shut yourself in and invent in a vacuum, yeah?”

Lucimia listened, thoughtful as falling snow, and nodded.

“You’re right… I’ve been shut in too long, ramming the wall when ideas stall. That only makes the work tougher.”

“See?” Desty’s smile bloomed like sun over frost.

“Right. You’re right, Desty.” Lucimia sprang up, excitement ringing like chimes. She turned to Desty and clapped her shoulder hard, a drumbeat. “Let’s go find people!”

(2)

Sophie was a girl with long, softly curled red hair, and she liked round, black-rimmed glasses like twin moons.

Among students, her research on magical beasts stood near the peak, sharp as an eagle’s eye.

On the way, Desty chattered to Lucimia about Sophie, words spilling like beads; supposedly the two had bumped at a hallway corner, then laughed at sharing hair color, and became friends.

“What?! You know other girls besides me?”

Lucimia hadn’t heard the rest; she stared at Desty, alarm flaring like a startled cat.

“What’s wrong? That’s normal. I know lots of people—Davis from the library, Miss Rika at the tavern, the smith A-Wei, the Adventurers’ Guild…”

Desty counted on her fingers one by one, names marching like ants; the more she listed, the farther Lucimia edged away, her body trembling like a thin reed.

“No way. Absolutely no way. You know that many people? I only know two!” Lucimia gaped at Desty, eyes wide like moons.

Desty rolled her eyes at the air, a helpless drift. “You’re too much of a shut-in. You never go out. Tons of students say they’ve never seen you. Some even doubt you exist.”

“Hmph.” Lucimia snorted, a little thundercloud, and stopped talking to Desty, sulking like a cat.

Desty couldn’t read her mood; she chalked it up to genius quirks and led on in silence, steps even as a metronome.

When they left the dorm, some students spotted the black-haired girl behind Desty and swarmed like a tide, asking if she was Lucimia and begging for signatures.

Lucimia hadn’t expected fans; wasn’t it just high-level magic and a few little inventions? The attention washed over her like rain.

Once they slipped free of the crowd, they reached an activity room, Sophie’s lab, a den of notes and jars like a beehive.

As the student who knew beasts best, the academy granted her space and support, stones laid so she could climb higher.

Lucimia had one too, but she never found her rhythm in a lab; in the dorm, her state settled like a calm lake.

Desty stepped up first and knocked, a woodpecker tapping the door’s bark.

“Sophie, it’s Desty. Are you in?” Her voice chimed under the eaves like a small bell.

Silence pooled behind the door like a still pond. Desty knocked again, ripples fading to nothing.

“Weird. Maybe she’s out?” Her brow gathered clouds.

Arms folded, Lucimia sighed, breath heavy like storm air. “What a wasted trip. We need a device for long-distance calls, and fast.”

Desty knocked once more, knuckles like rain, but no answer came.

“She might be out. Want to check the library? She borrows books there.” Pages seemed to whisper in Desty’s mind.

Lucimia nodded, quiet as a shadow at dusk.

They turned to leave when a girl’s urgent shout fluttered out like sparrows. “Wait, wait! Coming—don’t go!”

Bang!

The lab door burst open. A red-curled girl in black frames spilled out, a gust from a warm room.

She grabbed the frame and panted, sweat beading like summer dew, clothes askew, one white shoulder bright as moonstone.

“Whew.” She tugged her shirt up, breath like wind through reeds.

Desty stared at Sophie, stunned, eyes like lanterns. Lucimia’s gaze cooled, a thin frost on water.

They stood in a hush that stretched like winter fog. Desty finally broke it, her words dropping like stones.

“Sorry for interrupting. I didn’t know you were… doing that.”

She turned to go. Sophie caught Desty’s arm, quick as a cat, while Lucimia’s brows tightened like drawn bowstrings.

“What are you thinking? I just woke up!” Her protest rose like a sunrise.

Desty blinked, surprise flickering like morning light. “You just got up too?”

“Too? Who else— you?”

Desty shook her head and pointed to the shadow behind her. “Her.”

Sophie looked and saw a petite girl with night-black hair, features clear as autumn water, a cool allure like winter moonlight.

Only now her face wore a storm, dark and unkind.

“Huh? Black hair? You’re… Lucimia?!”

Shock flashed like lightning, then Sophie sprang toward her like a lively fawn. She grabbed Lucimia’s hand, eyes bright as stars. “You’re Lucimia? You’re gorgeous! I’m a fan! Your inventions are so handy—my glasses, and those monster prints on paper—make research smooth as running water!”

Sophie bounced as she spoke, joy popping like firecrackers.

Lucimia’s eyes rolled, a leaf caught on wind. She shook off the hand and murmured, voice cold as a creek, “Fox spirit.”

“Eh?” Sophie froze, smile icing mid-bloom.

Desty’s eyes widened, lanterns flaring. She hadn’t expected Lucimia to shoot that arrow, nor why it flew.

Feeling the air dip, Desty stepped in with a smile like sunlight through bamboo. “No, no—Lucimia means you’ve got fox charm, all sleek and captivating. She’s praising your looks! She just talks like that. Think of it as… genius quirks.”

“Oh… okay.” Sophie blinked, trust flickering like a candle, half and half.

She tried to answer in “genius-speak,” lips curling like a crescent moon. “I think Lucimia’s like a fox too, full of charm. You’re a fox spirit! Mm!”

Lucimia’s fist knotted, stone under silk.

Desty bumped her with an elbow, a nudge like a soft wave. “Hey. We came to ask for help. Be civil.”

Lucimia said nothing and turned away, a reed bending from the wind.

The brief farce drifted off like mist. They stepped into the lab.

Lucimia’s gaze swept the room, cool as rain. Jars gleamed with monster organs, glass forests of eyes and viscera, while scales and horns sat on shelves like dry riverbone.

Books crowded the table, spines like stacked tiles. A glance showed habits, weaknesses, and uses—what each beast’s parts could be forged into.

She knows her craft, Lucimia thought, respect rising like smoke.

Sophie dragged over a chair and flopped back, generous as an open gate. “Sit anywhere!”

Desty picked a spot, light as a sparrow on a branch. Lucimia stayed standing, a pine that refused to bend.

Desty led with a gentle smile, spring rain before words. “Sophie, I came to ask a few questions.”

“Questions?” Sophie’s round eyes blinked, owls at twilight. She glanced at Lucimia, then tested the water. “You want monster materials?”

“Eh? How’d you know?” Desty’s surprise popped like a bubble.

Sophie puffed her chest, proud as a rooster. “Because you brought the inventor Lucimia, and I only know beasts. If you’re asking me, it’s about beasts.”

“Makes sense.” Desty’s look cleared, fog lifting. “You’re pretty sharp.”

“Of course!” Pride flashed like a banner.

Lucimia rolled her eyes at empty air, irritation rustling like thorns.

Anyone but a fool could see that.

Putting on airs in front of Desty? Fishing for a fool’s favor?

Cunning little fox, grit under the nail.

Sophie leaned forward, voice quick as a brook. “What kind? I probably know most of them.”

“Uh… something that can… move? Moving?” Desty searched her memory, threads tangled like yarn.

“Materials that still move after being cut?” Sophie tossed ideas like seeds. “Plenty of those. The Cours Hound’s demon eye turns even off-body. Or the Spellwrought Octopus—its tentacles keep writhing after separation.”

Sophie spoke like a fast quill, no ink wasted.

“Not that.” Desty waved, a maple leaf falling. She looked to Lucimia. “Your turn. Say it clearly.”

Sophie eyed Lucimia. Lucimia’s face stayed winter-cool, but need softened the edges. A small smile rose like tea steam.

“I want a material that stores mana. It should release that mana without magical control. Durable. Ideally it amplifies the stored mana, then releases strong kinetic and thermal energy.”

Sophie sifted the words, grains between fingers. “Store mana, durable, amplify, kinetic and thermal… Heat I get. Kinetic—force?”

Her eyes lit like flint. “Got it!” She clapped, a sparrow hop. “The Crimson Flame Dragon’s scales fit that.”

She sat up and dug out a book, pages fluttering like leaves. “Adventurers observed this dragon storing mana on its scales. Those scales block attacks, then release, with heat that chars a person to ash, while the dragon takes no loss.”

“The scales can vent flame, or convert mana into a Fireball Spell. They fire at extreme range, even rain fireballs. Many adventurers died under its claws.”

“The scales look red-gold, so folks call them Redscale. Sixth–Seventh Rank adventurers say the dragon is rare. Lowest sighting was Fourth Rank, highest Eighth. Usually only Fifth Rank or higher scales show this effect. It haunts high mountains.”

Sophie paused, breath steady as a metronome. “The Academy has little of it. I’ve never seen any. And at least Fifth Rank—finding one is hard. Hunting one? Harder. If it loses, it runs. Fast.”

Desty fell silent, throat tight like a locked gate. She was Fourth Rank; a Fifth Rank dragon was a cliff she couldn’t climb. Even high-rank adventurers shunned dragon hunts.

Lucimia frowned, thoughts whirring like gears in a clock.

Sophie, hearing the quiet, offered another path like a side trail. “There’s a lower substitute.”

Both lifted their ears like foxes.

“A Fire Crocodile. Observed from First to Fifth Rank. Fifth Rank is usually the local boss, sometimes a tribe leader. Few leaders exist, so you can still hunt one, or hire adventurers.”

“Their tails hold a red ‘gem.’ Not a true gem—just gem-like. It stores mana and can fire fireballs, but weaker. They can’t use it continuously. When the tail feels hot, they dunk it in water to cool. So they haunt riverbanks.”

Sophie chuckled, a pebble skipping across water. “They play with fire yet fear the burn, choosing waterside life—unlike other fire beasts who roam rock ranges or deserts.”

Lucimia listened, patience like a deep lake. Ideas threaded together, silver lines on dark cloth.

Redscale: durable and potent, perfect for an automatic, near-limitless arcane rifle.

Fire Croc gem: heat-fragile, needs cooling. Fit a cooling module, and it could still run almost nonstop.

Hmph. Fox spirit she may be, Lucimia thought, but her beast lore was solid as iron.

She nodded, mind settling like snow. Her view of Sophie shifted, a leaf turning.

“Do these two work?” Sophie asked, eyes bright as embers.

Desty looked to Lucimia, a swallow seeking the wind.

“They do. Thanks.” Lucimia smiled, spring-tender, and set a gold coin on the table. “Consider it… payment.”

Sophie stared, stunned as a bird at glass. Then she waved fast, hands like fluttering wings. “No, no—no need! It’s my honor to help you. If you insist, then…”

Her eyes spun, catching mischief like sun on water. “Send me one of the monster corpses you fell.”

“That works.” Lucimia slid the coin back, smooth as silk.

A single corpse—small matter.

“By the way!” Sophie called as they turned, words tugging like a sleeve. “Lucimia, what are you inventing? Can you hint a bit? You usually use ores. Why use beast materials now? A wand?”

Lucimia’s laugh cut cool, a blade under snow. “Hmph. A weapon that can one-shot a fox spirit— no, a fox monster.”

“Eh?” Sophie blinked, confused as a chick.

Desty covered her face, embarrassment rising like heat.

Lucimia offered no more words. She took Desty’s hand and left, their footsteps fading like rain.