Cough—cough, cough...

The Great Sage glanced at the mirror, saw a frail, white-haired, red-eyed, overly-busty little loli staring back. She flinched like moonlight hit bare skin, looked away, cheeks pink, and hid her face with both hands.

...What was I even thinking just now? Turning into this is too awful...

Not that bad at all.

Shame hits first—of course it does. You’ll get used to it. Lingcai folded her arms, nodding like a bobbing lotus on a pond. Besides, Your Excellency, you just got your wish. You can go stick to pretty girls and live your yuri route, like a bee in a peony.

Sickly loli, white hair, red eyes—this build will snag a whole orchard of fangirls’ kinks, like ripe fruit falling into your lap.

Yet the Great Sage still covered her face and squatted down, small as a curled hedgehog at dusk.

...No, please no... How did I ever think like this before...

So you loved the idea, but you panic at the real dragon?

Lingcai nearly blew a gasket, steam like a kettle under a winter lid. She’d moved heaven and earth so the Great Sage could become a girl. Now the lady wanted to undo the sky—what was all that effort for?

With a helpless sigh like wind through bamboo, Lingcai bent to console the small white-haired loli before her.

Great Sage, when the body shifts, the mind shifts like a tide. It’s a rare season in life—lean in and taste the weather.

Back then, it took Lingcai three days to go from plain clothes to short skirts and tall boots, like spring breaking through frost.

After that first try, anything that hid her shape and legs felt like a burlap sack—she couldn’t breathe in it, like fog over a river.

As the ancients say: crossdressing happens either never or forever, like a gate that’s either closed or blown off its hinges.

The tiny white-haired sage lifted her head, crimson eyes like cut rubies catching dawn. She huddled in the oversized nightgown, bit her lip, and whispered:

Th-then don’t call me Great Sage. Call me Little Moon.

Well now. You commit to the bit fast and deep, like a diver in clear water.

Lingcai ruffled her hair, laughter caught like sunlight on water.

Alright, alright, Little Moon~

Mm.

The Little Moon Sage answered sweetly, then rubbed her head against Lingcai’s palm like a cat chasing a sunbeam.

Lingcai stroked the smooth, silken white hair, a cool stream under the hand, and a thought flickered by like a fish’s silver belly.

Did I forget something important?

Eh. Whatever.

This feel is... lush.

After she’d soaked in that pampering like a flower in rain, the Little Moon Sage straightened, smoothed the drooping cloth, and rose from the floor. She took Lingcai’s hand from her head, then spoke with a solemn, almost sacred tone, like a bell in a temple.

Alchemist Lingcai. Are you certain that is your name?

The sudden shift jolted Lingcai like thunder at noon. Then the ancestral pressure of the Sage rolled over her, heavy as storm clouds. She stepped back and bowed low.

Yes. Years at a cold desk, lamp oil for ink. This student never dared change name or lineage.

The Little Moon Sage opened those crimson eyes a fraction wider, like coals waking.

If so, I shall entrust you with something.

She slipped the seven-colored heptagram from her neck, its facets like a rainbow trapped in ice, and set the pendant on Lingcai’s collar.

Ah... this...

Lingcai’s eyes went wide, a torch caught by wind. That pendant was the world’s only proof of identity—unique, unforgeable, like a seal carved from the first star. Wear it, and even the Emperor must yield three steps, like tide before the moon.

From this day on, you are the heir to the title Great Sage of Seven Colors and Luminaries. I have designated you. My word stands like stone.

Lingcai caught the heptagram, then yelped inwardly as if it were a hot coal. She couldn’t bear to pocket it, hands fluttering like sparrows.

Great Sage! This is too precious! I can’t accept it lightly! My abilities don’t yet match your heir. Please, take it back!

The Little Moon Sage tucked her sleeves, leaned against the bookshelf like a willow by a wall, and closed her eyes.

You have the talent. If you think you don’t match the title, then work until you do. Diligence mends lack, as steady rain fills the cistern.

Lingcai knew she had to accept; to refuse again would be an insult, like turning your back on offered tea. She cradled the seven-colored sign, then knelt and bowed again and again, forehead near the floor like petals to earth.

My thanks, Grandmaster. I’ll never forget today’s knowing glance, this favor etched like a seal in my bones.

Enough. Up you get. I told you—don’t call me Grandmaster or Great Sage. From now on, call me Little Moon.

Her look turned secretive then, a spark of mischief like fireflies behind a fan.

Um, Lingcai, I have one more favor to ask...

Lingcai, still stunned with the heptagram warm as a living heart against her neck, blinked herself back like surf returning.

W-what is it?

The Little Moon Sage pinched the hem of her nightgown, head lowered, shy heat blooming on her cheeks like peach blossoms.

...Could you... take me to buy some clothes?

Figures. As expected of the Sage—quick to awaken where it counts, like spring bamboo shooting up overnight.

Lingcai glanced her up and down, then hesitated, words sticking like rice.

Uh... Little Moon... teacher, are you planning to go out... in that?

The Little Moon Sage looked down and saw that no matter how she tugged, the cloth slid south of her collarbones like receding tide. As for the pants—too wide, they sagged clean off, a landslide without warning.

She hugged her chest at once, blush burning deeper, like sunset in midwinter.

It’s no good! Cough—cough... Do you have any spare clothes... let me borrow them first...

I do, actually.

Lingcai did have a spare set in her backpack. Her gaze, however, stuck on Little Moon’s twin “small mountains,” like a traveler staring at a perilous peak. A sour whisper rose in her heart.

Don’t you dare stretch my clothes out!

She realized, with a start like ice down the back, that her thoughts were getting more and more girlish. That flare just now—was that jealousy?

No need. Really, no need. I’m turning back sooner or later. No point getting jealous over a chest.

She talked herself down like calming a skittish horse, handed over the spare clothes, and watched Little Moon change with a haunted, resentful gaze, a storm cloud that didn’t know it was raining.

Maybe even she didn’t realize how much grievance sat in that look.

The Little Moon Sage wriggled out of the nightgown and pulled on the white lace blouse Lingcai had prepared. Halfway through buttoning, she made a strange sound, a muffled hum like a cork struggling in a bottle.

Hmm... the buttons won’t reach... mm~

A faint vein pulsed on Lingcai’s forehead, like a thread of thunder under skin.

I’m getting mad. I can feel I’m getting mad.

Nothing to be mad about. Calm down.

After a bout of wrangling like wrestling an eel, the Little Moon Sage finally got every button done. But her breath came short, a fish out of water.

Haa... ha. It’s barely buttoned, but it’s so tight... I can’t breathe...

The vein popped again. That was no longer under Lingcai’s control, like a bowstring pulled too taut.

Thanks, I’m already mad. Great Sage, please, say less.

Her fists clenched hard, knuckles like white stones.

Dressed at last, the Little Moon Sage glanced at her own taut front, then at Lingcai’s runway-flat airfield. Enlightenment bloomed across her face like dawn.

I see... your body just hasn’t developed. No wonder your clothes don’t fit me...

Lingcai finally snapped, thunder breaking the ridge.

Enough already!!!