Who’d want a monthly debuff shackled to them like a lead chain? At first, my bed was a swamp that swallowed me whole. Only these days has the fog lifted a little.

Tomorrow’s the real start of class. How about we go out this afternoon—catch a last ray of sun? I’m almost back to normal, aches melting like frost.

I think... Tangxue, you’re that rabbit who starts hopping the moment the wound scabs over—spring grass under your feet, mischief in your eyes.

Impossible. The Merfolk royal line wears skin like pearl armor; blades slide off like rain on lotus leaves.

Unless it’s that black fog laced with divinity, the kind that bruises like ink under the skin. That thing’s a needle of spider-silk precision, sunk deep. You can’t pick it out under normal moonlight; you’d need instruments fine as clockwork frost. To blunt its gnawing bite, you need divine mana, a fire that answers gods. And unless you’re Ninth-tier or higher, that flame won’t gather; it scatters like sparks in rain.

Regular mana is just divinity watered down ten-thousandfold, like strong wine turned to pale stream. That dilution’s near-irreversible, a river that won’t flow back uphill. If your body carries a god’s blessing or a divine bloodline, then maybe the tide turns.

But hey, heading out this afternoon isn’t off the table. Qianya’s been vanishing like mist these days. She’s always busy with some shadowy thing; aside from dropping off snacks at dusk, she’s a ghost. I sigh like a kite in no wind—we can’t drag her out to play.

Yeah. I think Qianya’s got her own tides to follow. She’s Blood Clan, and she came here with a moonlit purpose. Better not stir that water; all I need is this—Qianya’s a friend, not a blade.

Then, Tangxue, let’s drift to the church this afternoon, ring the bells with our laughter. I heard the Holy Maiden from the Church-State just arrived. The rumor paints her with raven hair and lake-blue eyes—let’s go see the legend.

Holy Maiden, huh… I don’t remember that name; maybe it rose while I hid in my shell for over a decade. Black hair like shadow-silk… fine, we’ll go look when the sun tilts west.

Speaking of shadows, that guy in our class wears black hair too—a night-crow among sparrows.

Yeah, black hair isn’t common. Most here are born with elemental affinity; color runs in their hair like auroras at dawn. To keep it black, you’d need a cradle sealed from elements, a quiet chamber in a stone mountain.

So black stays rare. Still, in old books, the loudest heroes inked the banners with black hair. Maybe it’s a storm’s omen, a thread of fate.

Could be. Besides, I caught a trace of divinity on him—like incense smoke curling in sunlight.

I’m getting giddier by the minute, Holy Maiden… Little stars bloomed in Lan’er’s eyes like fireflies. They say she’s beautiful and gentle, soft as spring rain.

Lan’er, wipe that starry look; from what I heard, the past Holy Maidens were stiff as temple statues, blessing machines wound like clockwork, hearts locked like winter.

No way! Friends who’ve met her say the new Holy Maiden’s good as a new moon—bright and kind. They say the Goblins from our case were handed to her, settled like silt in clear water.

Goblins, huh… I lowered my head; silence pooled like rain in a basin. Lan’er, do you know what happens to those Goblins?

Mm… if a Goblin’s got reason, the Church counsels them under lamplight, helps them fold into society like threads in a loom. If they’re mindless, they get hauled off for brute labor, fed and housed like oxen in a field. Letting them loose to do harm again—no, that door stays shut like a gate at dusk.

…Too merciful. If it were me, I’d cut the root—sterilize them all, cold iron under cold moon.

Then let’s go see this afternoon; the academy’s a stone’s throw from that church. But for noon—who’s braving the cafeteria to fetch lunch, through that steam and clatter?

…The two of us, cocooned under the quilt like silkworms, locked eyes like cautious owls.

In the end, I broke the blanket’s seal like a talisman and shuffled to the kitchen fire. For me, cooking at home is a straight path; the cafeteria’s a maze of trays.

Wow, wow—this drumstick’s heavenly, skin golden like autumn leaves. Tangxue, didn’t know you could cook like a home fire. Sharing a dorm with you feels like sunlight on winter glass. How about we skip the cafeteria from now on? You cook at home; Qianya and I can buy the groceries.

Nope. I’m a devoted slacker, a cat in a warm patch. Cooking’s a whim, not a rope around my neck; make it a chore and I’ll bolt.

Mm… at least toss me a foggy maybe, something soft as a feather.

But if you’re stuffed, you’re on dish duty—plates shining like moons need hands.

Fine, fine. Then dinner… Lan’er’s eyes lit like lanterns at dusk.

…I’ll cook, let the knife gleam like a silver fish.

Yay—long live dinner! She waved her arms like confetti sparks.

After we ate, Lan’er slipped out early, quick as a breeze between bells. The Holy Maiden might already be here; we need to hurry like swallows.

In this city, there’s only one church. It’s the Church of the Holy Name, a white-stone sanctum that honors the world’s only verified deity, a nameless One seated in divinity. People call it the Only God, a silent flame without a name.

But the faithful are a river that never runs dry. One empire made it the state religion; the Church of the Holy Name keeps its seat in that crown city’s heart.