And just like that, the matter smoothed out, like silk unrolling in quiet light. It was done with the speed of a sudden storm.

Under Lingcai and the Little Moon Sage’s veiled pressure, Viola’s cult handed over every coin they’d swindled so far, to buy supplies for epidemic control in the city.

The money flowed in, but idle hands weren’t allowed. Every member of the underground society, Lotus, was pressed into the ranks of volunteers, helping the people.

They were foggy-headed about becoming do-gooders, but thinking it might grease future preaching, their zeal rose like a banked fire catching wind.

As for Viola, a legend clung to her like burrs: she could crush a copper coin to powder with bare hands. The rumor boiled through the underworld.

Viola denied it at every turn; mention that night and her face iced over, lips sealed. BloodRose must have “taught” her in private. To outsiders, the affair misted into mystery.

The Little Moon Sage proved why she’s the nation’s top apothecary. Following Princess Korol’s method, she cold-extracted a cure from a plant called qinghao.

With wide use and tight control, malaria’s rampage halted, like a river dammed and stilled.

Still, the Sage half-doubted Kelor’s claim of a past life. To pry at reincarnation, she asked questions like a string of odd beads.

Kelor’s heart drifted elsewhere; while the Sage spoke, her gaze stayed on the comatose girl she’d brought, worry and loneliness crossing her face like passing clouds.

In the end, the Sage drew no water from that well and let it be.

The next day, the whole city surged into a grand mosquito purge. With that, the risk of another outbreak dropped like flames doused by rain.

Yet the young girl Kelor kept vigil over stayed asleep, like a winter lake sealed in ice.

“It’s been three, four days. We really have to go…” Xueyu paced outside the quarantine tent, like an ant on a hot wok.

She wore a path into the gravel by the flap, a shallow groove scratched by her restless steps.

From afar she spotted Lingcai and the Little Moon Sage walking over, and waved her arm like a flag in wind.

“Hey—! Cai-cai—! Give me a hand—!”

Right then, Lingcai was discussing a different matter with the Sage: the silver cross dagger Lingcai had received from Kelor.

Its gleam felt different, like moonlight on frost, but its inscriptions were a knot she couldn’t untie. The Sage had once been an Alchemist.

“Grandmaster,” Lingcai asked softly, “do you see any clue?”

The Sage raised a magnifying lens, turning the dagger over and over, studying till the light crawled across steel. After a hesitant silence, she spoke.

“I can read some structural affixes… but together they don’t form any meaning at all.”

Lingcai’s face stilled. “Huh?”

“It’s like an article,” the Sage said, voice careful. “I know every word, but they never make a complete sentence. My guess— it’s encrypted.”

Frustration pooled in Lingcai’s chest; she sighed, heavy as rain on tiles.

The sigh pricked the Sage like a thorn. She almost heard a phantom jab: “So much for a sage.”

Flustered, she added, trying to cover her helplessness, “Not a total loss. I did read the affix ‘time.’ Maybe it unlocks after a period, on its own.”

“Hey—! Cai-cai! Give me a hand—!” Xueyu’s shout carried like a pebble skipping water.

The Sage saw a step to retreat and took it. “Since someone needs you, I’ll excuse myself.”

“No need to force that thing. When the time is ripe, it’ll come together naturally. Later.”

She slipped away like a shadow at dusk. Xueyu stumbled up then, pleading eyes bright with worry.

“Cai-cai, help me check inside the tent,” she begged. “And please hustle Her Highness. We can’t stay. We’ve waited three days.”

Lingcai eyed her. “Why don’t you go yourself?”

Xueyu grimaced, lifting the hair beside her long elven ear to show a broad red mark. “I went. Got yelled out. What else can I say? Please.”

She did look battered; poor thing.

“Fine, fine. I’ll take a look. Whether I can bring her out— that’s not on me.”

Indulging the pitiful Xueyu, Lingcai walked toward the blue quarantine tent, stepping into a hush like rain before dawn.

She lifted the flap. Kelor sat by the bed. The young girl had woken, lips moving, words rippling softly toward Kelor.

Soon, the girl’s smile bloomed sweetly, like a small spring sun.

Lingcai meant to step closer, but a thought tugged at her sleeve. If the girl truly was Kelor’s junior from a past life, barging in felt graceless.

She stayed at a distance, waiting for the waters to still.

She noticed the girl kept smiling, but after a few questions, Kelor fell silent, like a lamp with its oil gone.

Time drifted like smoke. At last, Kelor rose and walked toward the flap, head lowered, her expression unreadable in the dim.

Only when she drew level with Lingcai did Kelor startle, as if waking from a dream, and step back. “You… you’re here?”

Lingcai shrugged, a leaf in wind. “Been here a while. So? She’s someone from your past life, right?”

A pause froze Kelor. After a long breath, she lowered her head, disappointment heavy in her voice.

“Nothing… I mistook her. What are the odds, really? Now that I look again, she doesn’t resemble my junior at all.”

She gave a bitter, brief smile and glanced back at the girl on the bed. Another silence settled, thick as fog.

Then Kelor set her hands on her hips, feigning ease. “It’s fine. If my junior didn’t come to this world, she’s still alive in the one I left.”

“Seventeen years. If nothing went wrong, at her age she’s probably married, with children. At least my life bought her safety, didn’t it?”

“Those days have flowed away.”

Kelor let out a clear laugh, like a bell at dusk. She seemed to have talked herself into letting the past drift.

A thorn caught in Lingcai’s throat. She’d held a question too long; now felt right. “Do you feel regret?”

“Regret what?” Kelor stiffened.

“I mean,” Lingcai said, choosing words like stepping stones across a stream, “if someone reincarnates with their memories, they’d miss old friends.”

“So not seeing them again— wouldn’t that sting? That’s how I feel.”

Silence took Kelor again. She turned her head hard aside, hiding her face like a bird tucking its wing.

Lingcai already knew. With a thin tremor, Kelor spoke the words Lingcai had expected.

“Maybe… a little. Truly… just a little.”