The ruined tribes at the start, and that caller begging for help, were snares laid like pits under fallen leaves, meant to draw me to this brother and sister for the kill—or perhaps they’re only one link in a chain, and if they fail, more from the Hydra Clan wait like coils in the grass.

Madmen, true madmen—my mouth said it like a chill, but my heart felt the heat, because the method was cruel and clean, turning captives into one’s own army like winter turning rain to hard ice.

So, your burst that rivals a Titleholder—where did it come from? My eyes saw no price, like a lake without ripples.

I thought it through, a pebble sinking through quiet water, but I found no flaw; the Flower of the Living had mended every wound, and the foreign shard buried in your sea of consciousness was plucked out like a thorn—so what was the cost?

It’s our people! He treats our clansmen like Mana Crystals, and each time we trigger that power, we burn lives like oil in a lamp.

The boy ground his teeth, anger boiling like red steam; his eyes were shot with blood, his temper flashing faster than his sister’s like lightning under a storm skin.

Through the mark, I felt his rage in his sea of consciousness, raw and hot, like a forge—no trace of false smoke.

Hold on—this “he” you keep saying, who is he? My thought moved like a chess piece across a misted board.

If I’m right, it’s the one sitting across this game, the hand behind the nets—Kadannon, most likely, a name like cold iron.

I recalled the scrap I pried from a grunt, a leaf of rumor in a wind of lies; he wasn’t high rank, so I never took every word as solid stone.

His name is Kadannon, one of the strategists under the Dark Dragon Princess, a war zealot with a string of blood-cold titles, a mind like a knife that loves the cut.

The girl recited his deeds, each tale a thorn on a bramble, and the more I listened, the more it felt thorny to the hand.

In truth, I’m only strong at the personal scale, a blade, not a net—I don’t weave schemes like those who live by it; my goal was simple as a straight path: find the acting chieftain, scout the temple if the weather allowed, then take the head like a hawk snatching a hare.

That plan fits my strength like armor that moves with the body, but things have grown tangled; the other side seemed to sniff me from the first step and laid traps like layered fogs, waiting for my feet to sink.

You beg me to save your people—but how do you know this isn’t “information” Kadannon planted in your mouths like seeds? And more—do you even know the current word on your acting chieftain?

I looked at the two and cut clean, my doubt a cold blade; the longer this runs, the more winds will shift, and the acting chieftain is the compass I must hold.

Silence fell like ashes; if this thread was planted, then who guards the bulk of your clansmen—a sparrow, or a hawk with iron claws?

We don’t know… but if we push deeper into the heartland, there will be clansmen who’ve seen the acting chieftain, like lanterns in a long night.

The girl’s voice wavered, hope shining like a small flame; right now they had one pillar, and that pillar was me, the last reed in a fast river.

Tension, fear—their faces tried to smooth the skin, but their sea of consciousness hummed like taut strings, and I heard it clear as a bell.

Fine… either way, I’m heading into the belly of the plains; while we fought, the nearest bunker likely fell to Dark Dragon Soldiers like ant nests drowned in rain; we check there first.

They lifted their heads, relief washing over them like a warm tide; they rose and thanked me, quick as birds startled into flight.

I haven’t asked your names—what do I call you? My voice was level, my eyes steady as winter stars.

Before we touched the ward, black armor flowed back onto me like night poured over steel; the enemy knows my trail, but not my face, and ignorance is a veil I can cut with.

A Titleholder whose face and voice are unknown slipping into enemy lines is a shadow in tall grass, and the damage a shadow makes is never small.

I’m Elisa, and he’s Helen—honored to have your help, like travelers finding a fire in snow.

How strong are you now—super-tier, or quasi-Titleholder? The question fell like a weight into still water.

Before they answered, I spread my dark dragon wings, midnight blades catching wind; I grabbed them like chicks by the scruff and flew hard toward where the little girl lay, the air whistling like arrows.

That child… pulled from a pit like a frost-bitten sapling; if she woke to emptiness, she might crack like thin ice; no—when she ate her own kind, her mind already shattered like a broken mirror.

The thought pressed my temples like a tight band; I came to kill, a knife in the dark, yet somehow I’m babysitting the Hydra Clan—first the girl, now this pair, like a warrior handed swaddles instead of spears.

Together, we can reach quasi-Titleholder; alone, each of us is a little stronger than super-tier, like rivers that merge into a flood.

Elisa cast an elemental shield, a clear shell like glass over her body; now awake, she wouldn’t spend her clan’s lives like burning paper again.

Super-tier? Then leaving the girl with them is fine; at full speed from that stone chamber’s tribe, they’ll be back in two days like sun to sun.

I was already threading their path like stitches, planning to pass the weave to Nero; with probes set in their sea of consciousness, if trouble sparks, I can be there like thunder that follows light.

Truth is, they’re a piece I’m placing on the board, a baited hook in a slow river; at least, that’s how I hold it.

If the enemy bites, I’ll see where their line is drawn in sand; then I’ll dance along the edge like a blade on a wire, nicking them again and again, lulling them like rain on a tent.

And then I’ll strike from the shadows, the kill a knife through soft reed.

Even if they tug this bait, it won’t be death—the net’s ready, my hands are set, and the rope won’t break like rotten hemp.

If they don’t bite, the news still rides; Nero will judge like a captain reading currents, and he’ll send more strength into the plains like waves rolling inland.

In those short breaths, I’d already returned with them to the girl’s nest; I peeled the ward aside like silk, saw her sleeping sweet as a curled cat, and a sigh spilled out like mist.

My lady, what is this? Elisa’s eyes flickered like moths around a lantern, a guess hovering but not landing.

She’s your kin—I pulled her from the Dark Dragon Clan not long ago, like plucking a pearl from muck.

I raised a ward against scrying, a dome like clear night over the four of us; what comes next must travel like whispers, not bells.

I cradled the child and sat across from the siblings, a quiet triangle; I let blessing spells drift from my fingers like petals, again and again, over her sleep.

Listen carefully and knot these words into your minds—the current intel is a map drawn in smoke and ink.

They sat straight, carving every detail into memory like marks on bamboo, even using assistive spells so nothing slips like water through cupped hands.

I took out water and food, set them in their palms like warm stones; not everyone can draw stamina and Arcane Power from the surrounding void like breath—Jasmine had packed supplies into rings ahead of time, and now those seeds sprouted.

In a little while, the five days of news and the shifts on our map were passed to them, word by word like beads on a string; then I handed each a scroll, seals faint as moonlight.

What are these? Elisa felt the odd pulse inside, curious as a deer at the river.

Scrolls inscribed with the Flower of the Living and Dimensional Teleport; I planted teleport points in the tribes I crushed like stakes in ground—if a Titleholder comes, you still have a road out like a hidden door.

A Titleholder?! So, you’re also— Elisa clapped a hand over her mouth, surprise breaking like dawn and relief settling like rain; to walk away from a Titleholder’s shadow is to feel life rinse back in.

Yeah; but don’t call me “my lady,” it sits wrong like grit in teeth—I’m Aphelia, just call me that, clean as a blade.

I kept checking the edits on Nero’s map, eyes sweeping like falcons, making sure no lines bent wrong.

In a way, in the human world I’m a commoner—no title, no land, just an adventurer like a traveler with boots; so the honorifics scrape like rough bark, and I don’t care for them.

Aphelia—uh, sis, are you going deeper into the plains? Helen’s “my lady” reached his lips, but my glance cut it, and he swallowed it like a bitter seed; to him, I was pretty as a painted fan and heavy as a mountain.

Yes. I’m leaving this child to you; tell Nero, and watch her for me a while like guardians by a gate.

I thought back to the stone chamber, and another sigh rolled like fog; this isn’t my duty, not my burden—if she died here, I could pass like wind; I’ll count it as a good deed, a lamp lit in a cold alley.

We understand—rest easy; we’ll make best speed like arrows, and we won’t drop the charge.

Elisa set their packs, nodded clean as a bell; her body was fully healed, the near-Titleholder spells like fresh sap running through bark.

Then go. I’ll wait here; if pursuers come, I’ll stop them like a wall of iron. I dropped the ward like a curtain, and the siblings shot toward Clive City at full tilt, their auras unfurled like flags—because they knew, behind them stood a Titleholder like a mountain that doesn’t move.