Just then, a pale hand took the older man’s pocket watch. Arcane Power slipped in like moonlight soaking cold brass. The ghastly cracks began to knit, like frost receding at dawn.

“What astounding Arcane Power. Worthy of a Titleholder.”

Nero cut off the flow and slumped to the side, a puppet with its strings snapped. His face went paper-pale; he’d pushed past his own limit.

The older man saw his watch ticking smooth in Aphelia’s palm and sighed, steam leaving a kettle.

“You’ve done all the hard work. Without you, I would’ve failed.”

Aphelia rebuilt her missing right arm with a tide of Arcane Power, silk-light weaving bone and sinew. She came to Nero, fed him Arcane Power and let healing spells bloom, while a treatment formation rose beneath him like a lotus of runes. After the flurry, color seeped back into his cheeks.

“Rare to witness a Titleholder’s birth,” Nero said, voice like smoke curling. “This is nothing by comparison. But… this isn’t a place to talk. Aphelia, pull your power in and drop the barrier. My people should be outside.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone sees you this weak and seizes your throne?”

Aphelia laughed, hauled him up, and let him lean against her hastily drawn formation, lines glowing like a net of fireflies. Emergency work, yes, but a Titleholder’s hand makes it rival a near-transcendent array.

“What’s there to fear? You’re here, aren’t you… kh—”

He coughed fine threads of red into his palm, yet he smiled, the look of a man who held the board.

Aphelia’s smile softened. She drew in the aura that leaked from her like a river under ice. The Arcane Power feeding the watch thinned to a taper. The barrier around them faded, mist lifting to show the shop’s true face.

Outside, black-robed Easterners already waited, shadows standing at attention. When the barrier fell, they moved in like a flowing formation, trained for chaos.

Healers healed. Warders mended the barrier. Scribes sketched arrays and opened a shimmering portal. Each took their post, the rhythm crisp as a drilled regiment.

A young man who looked like their leader stepped out of the black robes. He came to Aphelia, bowed like a blade sheathed, and spoke low.

“My lady, if you don’t mind, please come with Jasmine later.”

As he spoke, several robes shifted without a whisper, chess pieces gliding to block Nero and the older man’s sightlines. No one felt jarred. When the bodies slid away again, the youth and Aphelia were already talking like old friends.

A sudden wail split the air. The older man on the cot dragged every gaze.

“I hurt everywhere—every inch—”

He sounded like a patient, but his hands told another story, kneading the healer’s delicate fingers as if they were dough.

The youth glanced at Aphelia, murmured an apology, then drifted to the man’s side like a shadow.

“Uncle, where was it hurting again?”

He drew a pitch-black dagger. He looked at those restless hands with a kind of pity, funeral-lantern soft, and the older man froze, a chill crawling up his spine. The youth sighed now and then, as if lamenting lost craftsmanship.

“Fine hands. Shame they’ll need to come off…”

“Ah—my hands hurt—no, my waist—no, wrong, I hurt all over!”

The whisper knifed home; the older man flung the healer’s hands away and patted himself down like a grave invalid. He collapsed onto the stretcher and began to tremble.

The youth sighed and signaled. The nearby robes lifted the older man first and carried him out of the clock shop.

“Seeing you get along eases my mind,” Nero said, smiling at the youth. “I’ll leave the rest to you, Zhe…”

He handed him a sheaf of notes, then sprawled on the stretcher without hesitation.

“I’ve got it. When have I let you down?”

Zhe smiled, shook his head, eyes narrowing like a cat’s, helpless and used to Nero’s ways.

“Oh—right!”

Just as they reached the door, Nero seemed to recall something. He had the bearers halt, fished a silver-white ring from his storage ring, and flicked it to Aphelia.

“What’s this…?”

She caught the ring, the metal cool as moonlit water, and looked to Nero for an answer.

“A badge of office. Hm… how do you say it in your terms, Zhe…”

Nero scrunched his brow. The word danced at the tip of his tongue and refused to leap.

“We’re in the same boat from now on… honestly, if you can’t remember, don’t force it. Leaders shouldn’t lose face in front of their own people!”

Zhe waved, impatient, and told the bearers, “Take him. Take him.” He looked properly embarrassed, like bamboo bending in a stiff wind, and didn’t want to see Nero for another second.

Nero shrugged, long-suffering, and said to Aphelia, “Wear this ring. Within my territory, no one will stop you.”

He lay back, gave the nod, and let the black robes carry him away.

His condition wasn’t good. Aphelia’s emergency work had patched the damage from overspent Arcane Power and refilled him, lantern relit in a storm. But it wasn’t a full cure; the hidden cracks and fatigue still lurked like hairline fractures in porcelain. He handed off the details, then chose the sensible path—treatment before pride.

The pocket watch, now humming with Arcane Power like a hive of bees, was lifted too and went through the prepared portal with Nero.

Aphelia and Zhe watched them vanish from the clock shop. Zhe exhaled, tea-calm, and said,

“Since you’re newly minted, mind telling me your title?”

Aphelia smiled at him, eyes a subtle tide. She didn’t answer; she let her gaze ask questions.

“No need to test me,” Zhe said, his voice a quiet blade. “Nero already set the terms. And after staying in there so long, then coming out like this, anyone would suspect. More than that… your Arcane Power’s circulation is of our lineage. How could I miss it?”

His lashes dipped; a brief light flashed through his eyes, quick as lightning behind clouds. Without the ascent to Titleholder, Aphelia might have missed it entirely.

“This isn’t a good place to talk…”

She’d barely said it when Zhe snapped his fingers. A cerulean portal unfurled before them, ripples like a lake opening.

“Come with me.”

He went first, stepping into blue, as if to prove there was no trap.

“The Undying? That’s a surprising title.”

They now sat in an Eastern courtyard, all carved lattice and painted eaves. Rockery rose like frozen waves. A flower pond held the sky, petals drifting like tiny boats. The place itself spoke of its master.

They sat by a stone table near the water, sipping tea that breathed green fragrance. Both minds weighed scales behind calm faces.

Why did Aphelia reveal her title? Trust wasn’t the first reason. When a new Titleholder appears, the world itself remembers. It doesn’t take long for that honorific to press into every mind; see the person, and their title rises unbidden.

Titles aren’t secrets that can be kept for long.

Second, the youth seemed linked to Jasmine, and by his bearing, he held weight in Nero’s camp. Tossing out a title as bait cost her little.

Most of all, as he said, their circulation shared one root. Aphelia had learned her Arcane Power’s flow from a certain great figure in the East, a river taught by a mountain.

All that set the table for this moment.

“So you’ve studied titles,” Aphelia said with a smile that cut both ways. “What did you think mine would be?”

“Don’t test me,” Zhe said gently. “You learned our special way of moving power—what we call the flow of qi. Our family doesn’t teach it outside. The only way you got it was by earning a great one’s favor…”

He drained his cup, rose, and let his Arcane Power circulate, currents turning like dragon and snake—exactly the way Aphelia knew.

“Wait… which great one? You and Jasmine keep hinting, but you’ve never said who.”

Zhe glanced at Aphelia, puzzled. She only lifted her shoulders, helpless as a leaf in wind.

“Was your teacher a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Plain white clothes. A silver hairpin. Lush black hair. A red gem set at the pin’s heart. Am I wrong?”

His description painted the air. Aphelia nodded, a quick, weary confirmation. The detail deepened her doubt and nudged her trust upward like a balance tip.

“Then it fits. She’s the Valkyrie of our legends—the lady who breaks ten thousand troops alone.”

Zhe waved, then produced a prepared portrait from a lacquered rack and passed it to Aphelia.

“Even we only have painted records of her. Any magical image fails—no copy lasts an hour.”