“Why does Qianya always slip ahead on her own, like a cat melting into dusk?”

Qianya paused mid-step, a reed swaying in wind. “Because you two drag your words like wet laundry. Too slow. Too fussy.”

My voice snagged like a fishbone. Why am I sounding like little Xuewei used to? Is this just-sprouting body tugging at my habits like new sap?

No, I don’t drag my words. This is normal girl talk, like teacups clinking under a willow. It’s Qianya who’s off. Yeah, Qianya’s the pebble in the shoe.

“Tangxue! Watch your back!” The warning flew like an arrow through mist.

“...?” I turned. Air stood clear as glass, nothing rippling behind me.

“What is it, Lan’er?” My question spread like a ripple over a pond.

“Not that! That Goblin dove into the ground like a mole. It ran!”

“Underground?” I tilted my head, a sparrow listening to rain.

Suddenly a Goblin burst up from the soil, like a spring tearing the earth’s skin. A dagger flashed like a fang, stabbing for my lower belly.

“—Tangxue!” The shout cracked like thunder over slate.

“I’m fine...” I patted my clothes, brushing frost like drifting snow. The Goblin froze mid-snarl, ice blooming over it like white blossoms. The dagger glazed solid, fell, and shattered like brittle glass.

“...Are you hurt?” Worry gathered like a gray cloud at dusk.

“? No...” I checked my belly, moon-quiet and smooth. Then I crouched, and heat flowed from below like a sudden river under ice.

Qianya narrowed her eyes, a hunter reading wind. “There’s the scent of blood.”

“...”

“Tangxue, what’s wrong? Your face looks washed-out, like paper in rain. Are you really hurt?”

“Mm... hurt. I might not reach full strength, like a tide pulled back by the new moon. Uuu...”

“Ha...?”

“This smell... you’re on your period?”

“Mm...” I hugged my lower belly and crouched, a curled leaf under drizzle. Once it starts, it’s a stream that won’t dam.

“Tangxue, why are you squatting there like a mushroom after rain...”

“If I stand, it’ll leak out, like a cracked jar...”

“No way, is this your first time? Didn’t your mom tell you to wear a pad during your period?” Lan’er planted her hands on her hips, cheeks puffing like a kettle.

“Don’t scold me... uuu...” Tears pricked like dew.

“Honestly... you’re so careless. Good thing I brought pads.” Her sigh drifted like warm steam.

“Eh?”

“No ‘eh.’” Lan’er blushed, peach-pink under sunlight, and pulled a pack of pads from her backpack. “My cycle’s these days too.”

“Wow, what a coincidence! Lan’er, fate’s red thread tied us together~”

“Idiot. How do you forget something like this...” Qianya saw it wasn’t my first time and tapped her forehead, a knuckle knocking a wooden fish.

“I know, I know! Before this, I never had to remember, like someone else kept the lamp filled...”

“Hm? What did you say?”

“Nothing... What about this Goblin? It’s frozen stiff like a winter statue. Should be... not dead, right?”

“Not dead. But you’re amazing, Tangxue. You even froze the dagger into shards, like hail smashing a blade.”

“Accident, pure accident, haha... It spooked me, so my winter snapped out.”

“So you weren’t bragging before. Didn’t expect you to be really this strong.” Lan’er’s eyes lit with tiny stars, night sky caught in her lashes.

Qianya didn’t speak. She only nodded, a pine under snow. She knows my strength. She watched me one-shot a high-tier magical beast, mountain falling in a single strike.

Cultivation in this world is lopsided, like jagged peaks beside flat plains. Ordinary folk can’t cultivate at all, dust in still air. Without talent, you grind a lifetime and maybe reach Tier Four, a candle against wind. But the gifted, born under silk roofs, can hit Ninth Tier before twenty, wildfire strong enough to erase a small nation like a sandcastle in surf.

Even among Ninth Tier, gaps yawn wide like canyon mouths. Better to grade power, especially past Ninth. Xuewei used to be true Ninth-Tier peak, a blade’s edge under the sun. She could solo a dozen ordinary Ninths, storm against reeds. Now those basic Ninths can’t last ten seconds before her, foam in a riptide—she’s broken past the ridge.

Above Ninth lies the pseudo-god, a crest where lightning lives. Anything brushed with “god” is absolute, like iron singing under thunder. The so-called mimicked god-state peaks at pseudo-god reaction speed, mind flickering like sparks. Pseudo-gods carry reactions, mana stores, and bodies far beyond mortal grain; most crucial is divinity, thought moving faster than life allows, reshaping a battlefield in a blink, like wind flipping a banner.

There are only a dozen or so at that height. The Queen of the Radiant Empire, and her sister Kerlinveil Xuewei. Casviel’s Emperor, Franshid. The nameless Queen of the Blood. The Elven Queen of the Elven Dominion. The Demon King of the demon cities. And the four Undead Lords of the Necropolis, bones whispering under moonlight.

The one at home isn’t a pseudo-god. Her strength has stepped beyond a true god, like dawn beyond night’s border.

As for me... I’m above Ninth, not yet pseudo-god—like a hawk riding thermals, not at the sun.

“Stay sharp next.” Qianya’s gaze swept like a knife over grass. “These Goblins might pop from underground. Close ranks, like geese in flight. Don’t spread out.”

“Mm. Tangxue, did you change your pad?” Concern fluttered like a handkerchief.

“Almost... Don’t come over!” I waved them back, a willow shooing sparrows.

“As if we’d peek! Please. What do you take us for, Tangxue?” Lan’er huffed, steam puffing from a pot.