"Then, let’s talk about our real aim—the Beastfolk joining the Mystic Realm."

At the crucial turn, the elder’s eyes catch light like dew on glass.

"Emmm… about their admission, we follow the same rules as other races. Equal rights, equal status, formal identity, and matching duties. Any issue?"

The three girls show no surprise, like trees that already heard the wind.

They had hashed this out earlier, but the words still make the Beastfolk chieftain gape like a fish.

"N… no, no! That… that absolutely can't."

He remembers Ling’s first visit, a seed planted about equal standing in the Mystic Realm.

Back then he refused and threw her an impossible task, like a boulder blocking a stream.

Now the river’s course has changed; Ling’s people saved his tribe, a lifeline cast across storm waves.

He owes them a favor; joining the Mystic Realm is nailed down like iron in wood.

The problem is the nail called equality; accept it, and every Beastfolk heart owes another weight.

It’s not that a favor brings disaster; his chest just can’t sit easy under such unearned sun.

"My lord, you needn’t think for us. We can stand one step lower, like grass below trees."

"As long as our children never wear chains again. Moreover…"

He leaves the last words unsaid, but the room hears them like thunder behind clouds.

The Beastfolk live under daily shadow: discrimination, pressure, and the yoke, a winter without thaw.

Their birth-given fur draws side-eyes like thornbushes; they’re kept one tier down, barred from true cooperation.

Without allies, they can’t forge sharp power; without power, they can’t lift their heads into clear sky.

It’s a vicious loop, a wheel rut in mud: scorn → stagnation → weakness → scorn.

Worse, “Beastfolk” itself becomes shorthand for scorn, like dust baked into brick.

On the third planet from the sun, “You’re a pig” hardly counts as an insult—more a dull pebble.

Use it there and you might earn a pitying look, for your empty basket of words.

But this isn’t that world; here “You’re a pig” sits among the thirteen foulest curses.

So, scorn for Beastfolk runs bone-deep, a frost that never melts; the chieftain weighs Alicia’s future too.

If Beastfolk enter the Mystic Realm as equals, the ripples could spread like oil on water.

“Hey, look, he’s close with Beastfolk. Don’t go near him; he’s one of them.”

It’s not alarmist talk; it’s a shadow that already walks, like cold wind in halls.

At school they call it silent bullying; here it earns the pretty name of worldwide cold shoulder.

The chieftain thinks in many threads; equality would be a colossal favor, a mountain gifted.

For saviors’ sake, and to avoid another debt, he has no ground to accept that spring.

Alicia watches his stance and lets a small smile bloom like a lantern.

"Old sir, do you know why we founded a place called the Mystic Realm?"

"For… what?"

She rubs the little one asleep in her arms, a quiet moon masking a mischievous sprite.

"For this little one."

The elder stares at Ling, disbelief flickering like moths at lamplight; a nation for a girl?

"You don’t believe it, do you?"

"Ah… n-no, I believe it. Absolutely, I do."

"Relax. No need to tighten your shoulders; truth sometimes wears an unlikely mask."

"We built the Mystic Realm because this kid said, ‘I want to rule the world!’"

"That…"

"‘Mystic Realm’ can mean a beautiful world that exists only in imagination, a garden behind mist."

"That’s my reading. For the real meaning, ask the little one; she always dodges like a fish."

The chieftain doesn’t hear the second half; the first half sends his thoughts flying like kites.

"Does ‘a beautiful world from imagination’ mean…"

"Ah, yes—it’s the idea of peaceful coexistence among all races, like rivers sharing the sea."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning, if you can’t accept joining on equal footing, we won’t shelter you inside the Mystic Realm."

"Do you understand?"

He falls silent, eyes locked on Alicia’s like blades meeting in clear water.

She doesn’t flinch; her pupils stay clear as mountain springs, revealing nothing he seeks.

"Absolutely impossible?"

"Nope."

"Even if being one tier lower helps your so-called world rule to spread like fire?"

"If equality blocks moves later, you’d still choose it?"

"Ah, of course."

"You’re really… strong-arming, a forced sale dressed in silk."

"Naturally. I’ve got a knack for crooked commerce, like foxes in market fog."

The chieftain tilts his head to the ceiling, as if to dam tears like rain behind eaves.

Even if they fall, fur will drink them; no one will notice the wet.

"I recall a line—‘Hesitate, and you’re defeated.’ It’s not perfect, but it rings true like bellmetal."

"I shouldn’t waver anymore. Then… I agree."