"Why'd you zone out?" Ling called, her voice like a pebble skipping water.

Gill lifted his head; the kid before him looked about ten, a spring sapling under soft sun.

Her gaze was clear as springwater, a Peach Blossom Spring tucked beneath her lashes, purity untouched by the world's thorns.

Yet the purer Ling seemed, the more Gill felt he faced a misted lake, its floor hidden.

Could she be one of those forever-seventeen girls, a moon that never wanes?

The thought bubbled up; a prickle of danger pressed in, cold steel on his throat, so he snatched the idea back.

"Feels like you're thinking something rude..." Her words brushed him like a feather with a needle inside.

He had to admit it: Ling couldn't read minds, yet her sixth sense, sharp as a cat's whiskers, caught the ripples of his thought.

Outed, Gill ducked on instinct, like a turtle snapping into its shell.

"No way—haha... you're overthinking, Miss Ling," he said, tossing up smoke like smoldering incense.

Judging a girl's age to her face is a tiger's tail you don't step on, especially with a kid still two bridges from maidenhood.

"Ahem, folks, the cart's veering off the road again..."

King Alex had lost count; since Ling entered, every topic drifted like a boat teased by crosswind.

From "conversation ender" to the evolved "topic shifter," like a caterpillar molting into a quick moth?

"Relax, it's just a meeting—no need to freeze—but missing the needle's eye isn't good," Ling said, voice warm as fresh tea.

With a light laugh, she reeled the kite-string of talk back to the core.

"So, we're here to talk alliances, right?" Her words set a map flat on the table.

As the thread returned, Dorado folded away her playful smile like a fan.

"Of course. It should be a bridge over the river for both our sides."

"I get the gist. Lay out your alliance terms—no need to tiptoe; spill it. The door's open, and I'm all ears."

Ling had no taste for long wind; time was thin, interest thinner, so she'd rather thread the needle, tie the knot, and head home to a lit lamp.

Dorado and Gill had no quarrel; her initiative was a tailwind, sparing them from raising the cup first.

Gill had his arrows nocked; he loosed first, beating Dorado to the demand.

"Wuru's a tech spearpoint; we want full funding from your side, and ideally, test subjects from the Dragonfolk."

"If dragonkind's a thorn, toss us fifty or sixty elves instead—we're not picky at the stall."

"If that still jams, a hundred or so Beastfolk will scrape the bottom of the barrel fine enough."

"And make the supply tidal—one batch every three days—and if each wave brings finer subjects, all the better."

"As for our side... name something later, we'll talk," he added, leaving an empty plate as bait.

Gill's list tilted the scales so hard it looked like an unequal treaty.

Think it through: Wuru asked for bodies and coin, while the Mystic Realm got a misty "we'll see" that drifted like smoke.

No matter the angle, the table stood lopsided.

Gill wasn't dull; he knew the fence he built was crooked, a hook he'd never bite, yet he cast it anyway like a fox testing wire.

Why? Because bait shines brightest on the surface.

It's a small human quirk: at the bazaar you slash the price like hacking branches, then prune your ask bit by bit.

In the end you feel the tide's turned—"I was bleeding, but I hauled the number back, so I won," says the sailor who only kept his boat afloat.

That's the mirage: a hundred-coin good, you open at fifty, end at eighty, and sand still slips from your palm.

Gill meant to ride that quirk; he waited like a dusk fisherman for Ling to tug the line and bargain, so the net would still cinch rare test subjects.

The dream looked fat and rosy; reality sat down even heavier.

The sparring he pictured never came; Ling just nodded, let wind slip past his reed, and turned her clear gaze to Dorado.

Wait—she agreed just like that?! The thought cracked like a startled thunderclap.

Cold shock hit first; then sunlight spilled, and joy unfurled like a banner.

Little Ling was, after all, green—a lamb at a chessboard.

She didn't spar; she nodded at lopsided pacts—either soft-headed cute or plain foolish; to him, she was both, tofu brain on a silver plate.

Gill's fox-smile crept out, and Dorado and King Alex watched like two owls on a branch.

With Ling so adorably small, Dorado itched to cross swords with Gill—King Alex aside—but reason pulled her reins tight.

A pebble of guilt sat in her chest; Elusen's granaries felt full, and a pact with the Mystic Realm was just another cup on the table.

Turning it over, Dorado only shook her head, a petal touching still water.

"I'll pass. Elusen doesn't need aid from the Mystic Realm—let's be friends, and lend a hand when fires leap the fence."

Dorado finished; King Alex, a reed in the same breeze, shook his head and asked for nothing.

Watching their "kindness," Gill's mouth filled with ice; a wolf's tooth flashed in his heart.

Rulers who let feelings leash them and skip easy gains were, to him, crowns that slip and thrones that chill.

So only Gill had cast demands; Ling's gaze swung back to him like a compass to a lodestone.

Gill figured the next step was ink and seals, and inside he sharpened the knife, counting the Mystic Realm's ribs like a fat sheep's.

But Ling only looked at him and smiled, a crescent rising over calm water.

She said, "Let's sign. We'll use the Mystic Realm's pact—the one that says all beings are equal."