The Ait business had ended, like a storm that blows through and leaves the trees mostly still. From Ling’s view, the real impact was small.

If she wanted to nitpick, like sifting sand for one black pebble, the only change was a conspiracy gone. That made her days feel dull again.

As for Amelia, who executed her own brother, her heart was a closed lake. Yet the tear at her eye when the blade fell felt real.

In short, Ling and Alicia stumbled into solving an Elvenfolk feud, like tripping over a buried root and finding a path. Their reward was a decent adventure, and a goat‑headed brute.

Yes, the same goathead that had traded blows with Alicia, like rams clashing under cold stars.

Once the matter was settled, the Elven soldiers started collecting Ait’s leftovers, like ants clearing a battlefield. Records, tools, corpses—everything went into their care.

When they tried to process the goathead, who lay unconscious like a toppled statue, Alicia leapt in and blocked them.

“Stop! This goathead stays with me! I’ve claimed it!” Alicia’s voice cut like a banner in the wind.

Her swagger rolled out like thunder, and the soldiers froze, eyes sliding to their Queen.

Luckily, Amelia had no interest in that big oaf, and she waved them off like brushing dust. The soldiers set it down and hurried to carry other things.

Alicia never said why she wanted it, her silence tight as a knot. Ling guessed the brute was key, given the seals stacked on it like layered ice.

Anyway, there was Elfe’s birthday banquet next, like lanterns waiting to be lit. After that, they had to prepare the Elvenfolk alliance with the Mystic Realm.

Then back home, another stack of paperwork like snowdrifts on the doorstep.

“Ah! Why am I this busy?!” The cry burst like steam from a kettle.

The promised isekai harem tour felt like a brochure for someone else. Other travelers collect wives and sisters like flowers, and daughters stick like warm cats.

They live carefree, with no crushing bureaucracy and no gnawing problems, like birds on a mild breeze. Why didn’t that fate land on me? Damn it!

For the first time, Ling truly wondered if she even had the face of a transmigrator, like wearing the wrong mask at a festival.

“Hey! Why the long face, little one? Come on, have a drink and wash the gloom,” a bell‑bright voice chimed.

The speaker was Elfe, a true loli the same size as Ling, like twin saplings in one garden.

She handed over a cup, and a tic‑tac‑toe vein popped on Ling’s forehead, like ink cracking on parchment.

We’re the same size, Ling fumed, her temper flaring like a match. I’ve got an adult living inside, at least half a grown‑up!

So why is she acting older than me, like a granny under a child’s hood?

The more she thought, the hotter she got, like coals stoked with a bellows. Ling flicked Elfe’s forehead, neat and crisp.

She snatched the cup and tipped it back, letting the clear liquid slide down her throat like spring water.

“Gulp… huh?” The word dropped like a pebble into a pond.

She lowered the cup and stared at the drink, puzzled, like peering at a moon through mist. It was sweet and held no wine bite.

Ling glanced at Elfe, and Elfe dodged her gaze like a sparrow. The dodge widened, like a shadow stretching at sunset.

“This wine feels odd,” Ling said, the question soft as rain. Elfe shivered like a wire jolted, then looked away even harder.

“Th‑this… this is our Elvenfolk specialty,” she stammered like a broken flute. “It’s called… called… called Apa wine. Right! Apa wine!”

Ling didn’t mind Elfe’s quirks, her patience smooth as river stones. She wouldn’t blink even if Elfe did a ritual jog back to her ancestors.

Apa wine, huh, Ling thought, the name sitting warm like bread. Hard to dislike, like a cat purring.

She kept drinking, and the sweetness clung like honey. She kind of liked it, like sunlight on the tongue.

Seeing Ling focused on her cup, Elfe exhaled in relief like a breeze, and her eyes returned like birds to a branch.

“Has the banquet started already?” Ling asked, words drifting like smoke. “I heard we had about an hour.”

Elfe pulled out another identical cup, a straw poking up like a reed, and she sipped before answering.

“Don’t worry. We’re the banquet’s contractors, money‑throwers by design,” she said, smiling like moonlight. “Sneaking in a table and starting early is no sin, like nibbling before the feast.”

“Tch. The ugly face of capitalism,” Ling muttered, her scorn sharp as vinegar.