“Miss Aphelia… you’re not fully healed yet. Lie down, quick, lie down!”

Aphelia stood before the window, half the curtain drawn like a half-lifted veil, watching the world outside in silence.

Christine pushed the door open and saw her at once. She hurried over, seriousness softening into an almost cute resolve on her face.

“It’s fine—”

She didn’t finish. She turned, and caught the fox‑eared maid missing a step and pitching straight toward her.

Jasmine heard the yelp and rushed in. What she saw was Aphelia being used as a cushion by the fox‑eared maid. The two had fallen into a very indecorous tangle, the kind that invited whispers—if you ignored the bandages on Aphelia.

“Miss Christine… please… get off me first?!”

Pain flashed first, heat blooming across her cheeks. Aphelia tried to push Christine away, yet worry pricked her—one hand left, not much strength to spare.

“Ah! I’m so sorry!”

Christine scrambled up, apologizing in a flustered rush.

“Stop saying sorry while your hands are where they shouldn’t be!”

The commotion bled the tension out of the air. Aphelia, against her own habit, eased a notch toward the fox‑eared maid. Jasmine seized the moment and guided Aphelia to the living room, clearly ready to talk.

“So. With your physique, you’ve mostly recovered, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

Aphelia flexed, and her bandages snapped like brittle frost. She had lost an arm and two esoteric arts, but pure Arcane Power still obeyed her like an old friend.

“We agreed: once you fully recovered, we’d discuss terms. For now, you won’t mind coming with me, right?”

Jasmine rose and gestured please, already turning to lead the way. Her face stayed cold as winter glass—more a command than a negotiation.

Aphelia didn’t mind. It simply wasn’t something she gave weight to. She nodded. Jasmine stepped ahead and opened the door.

“This is… the Demon World?”

She’d watched for days and found nothing amiss. But the moment she crossed that threshold, the first thing that hit her was the air—Arcane Power thick enough to paint, a mist you could almost see.

Compared to the Human Realm’s patchwork torrent of elements and power, this felt like a paradise for anyone walking the road of strength. The thought lifted, and Aphelia glanced at Jasmine ahead. Jasmine’s face didn’t flicker; she moved as if the saturation meant nothing.

Aphelia drew a deep breath, like drinking spring water. The pure Arcane Power she’d burned to heal wounds refilled, cool and steady.

“So this is why there are more powerhouses here…”

She muttered to herself and let her eyes roam. The streets wore buildings raised by techniques beyond the Human Realm, and the materials had a sheen her world didn’t possess.

As for the people, they looked human at a glance, demons threaded among them like darker threads in a cloth. No obvious hierarchy showed here. Or perhaps this district hid the lines.

On the surface, the Demon World seemed more open to so‑called other races. On this short walk she’d counted at least ten different peoples. In the Human Realm, the Church’s shadow shrank tolerance to a miser’s pinch.

Maybe that’s why the Northern Empire’s northern front never stops fighting the nonhumans.

Thinking that, she and Jasmine arrived before a tasteful shop. The sign bore no words, only a finely carved clock. There were no other decorations. Without the clocks in the window, Aphelia might not have called it a shop.

“We’re here. Come in.”

Jasmine didn’t look back. She pushed the door and strode in, unconcerned about escape or tricks.

Aphelia sighed and followed.

She kept one eye open, though. Pure Arcane Power sheathed her like a second skin. At the first ripple of danger, it would erupt like water splashed into smoking oil.

But the instant her foot crossed the threshold, wrongness rolled over her. A jarring dissonance swept her body—like her mind and flesh were being pried apart. Her brain ordered a step; her body answered several beats late.

Her power didn’t flare. It lay quiet as a sealed well, wrapped around her in silence. That stillness scared her more. The dissonance sharpened, as if she were about to slip free of her flesh entirely.

She looked ahead, and ink‑black swallowed her sight. Jasmine and the clock shop might never have existed.

“Has it started?”

“It has…”

Two simple lines of dialogue reached her like drops on stone.

After Aphelia’s awareness went out, the clock shop stayed itself. Inside wasn’t the darkness she saw, but a fragrant wooden counter and walls hung with ornate pocket watches. To outsiders, it was merely a clock shop.

Jasmine stood at the counter with a middle‑aged man, both of them looking at Aphelia collapsed on the threshold. Jasmine stayed winter‑cold. The man sighed.

“Go on, help her up.”

Jasmine only cut him a glance. The chill in it pricked his patience.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. Honestly, is that how you ask someone for help?”

He sighed again, set the fine clock under the counter, opened the side gate, and walked toward Aphelia to lift her.

He stopped a breath before touching her and spoke, half exasperated. “You could’ve said so earlier.”

He meant the veil of Arcane Power around her. He’d felt it the moment his hand neared and pulled back at once.

“What difference would it make. You’re not blind.”

Jasmine climbed the stairs beside the counter, leaving the man and Aphelia below.

“Kids these days… a headache,” he muttered, scratching his head with another sigh. Every time he dealt with their sort, his lifetime tally of sighs set a new record.

As his words faded, he seemed to ignore the Arcane Power haloing Aphelia. He scooped her up and carried her toward the counter.

As he turned, a trace swirled in his pupils—like clock hands spinning on a dial.

“Aphelia, wake up. It’s your turn to go to the Elven Lake~”

A gentle, familiar voice stirred her ear. Aphelia jolted awake. Emerald hair filled her vision, and a face that had always smiled at her.

“Lena… sis?”

Doubt and tremor colored her tone. She looked around. No clock shop. Nothing like the Demon World.

“Hm? Little sleepyhead, if you don’t go now, you’ll miss your awakening~”

Lena opened the window. Warm sunlight poured in like silk and pooled on her shoulders. That picture lived in Aphelia’s heart—a frame from childhood.

“The Elven Lake… wait, Lena, how old am I this year?”

To Lena, a little girl had just asked the silliest, sweetest question. It made you laugh and sigh.

“You’re eight, little one. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Lena bent close. Soft green light flowed from her palm, circled Aphelia once, and came back.

Her faint fragrance reached Aphelia’s petite nose. Heat ticked up in Aphelia’s cheeks.

“You’re not sick. So what’s going on, Aphelia? Too nervous? Don’t be. It’s okay~”

She hugged Aphelia lightly, then smiled and took her small hand, ready to lead her out.

Aphelia didn’t resist. She let this “Lena” lace their fingers. She’d already found the flaw in this scene. Now she would watch how this “Lena” performed.