After checking for the third time, the girl let out a long breath like air slipping from a bellows, her knees turning to water as if the earth tugged her down. The young knight sprang forward like a startled colt to catch her, but the nun behind the priest moved first, a swift wing through still air.

“Get yourselves ready,” the nun said, eyes like a cold spring cutting through summer heat. “I’ll keep your lady safe.”

She shot the young knight a glare sharp as a whetted blade, then guided the girl inside as gently as a breeze pushing a door.

The young knight bristled, then froze under the girl’s “kind” look, a soft smile with the bite of frost beneath it, and he stood there like a post in a winter field.

The old knight gave a small bow like a reed bending to wind, then tugged the youth toward the stables, hauling him along like a stubborn colt led to a stall.

“Thank you, Sanctum Church, for staying out of it as always, and for saving our lady’s life,” the old knight said, voice steady as a drumbeat in fog. “If we can be of use, say the word.”

“Praise our Lord,” the priest replied, calm as candlelight in dusk. “I only followed the canon.”

Just inside the chapel, the girl coughed a spray of blood like crimson mist against snow. Threads of Thunder-laced Arcane Power flickered within it like stormfire in rain, a sight that chilled like night wind.

“So it was backlash after all,” the nun murmured, worry clouding her eyes like a gathering squall. “Lean here. I’ll fetch holy water.”

She settled the girl onto a chair with hands like willow branches cradling a bird, her face tight with concern as she turned for the side room.

“Cough—no need,” the girl said, waving it off with a tired smile like sunlight breaking thin fog. “I just slipped up. Holy water can’t fix this. Better save it.”

The nun took it for pride and kept walking, steady as a clock’s pendulum, her robe whispering like reeds by a pond.

“A transmigrator ending up like this. What a joke,” the girl thought, the bitter laugh catching like a fishbone in her throat.

The Thunder inside her no longer gnawed at her flesh like acid rain, but the backlash set her Arcane Power to a boil, a kettle rattling on a stormy stove. Her nerves, tuned taut as harp strings in winter air, drank in pain like dry earth swallowing hail.

“Praise our Lord. You endured well,” the priest said as he returned, his smile warm as dawn on frost. He cast holy light over her like a soft rain, and the pain ebbed like tide leaving shore.

She chuckled, scratching her head with an awkward grin, all rough edges and no courtly polish, like a sparrow perched on a palace rail.

The nun came back with a bowl of holy water, worry pooled in her gaze like moonlight on a well. The girl couldn’t refuse that look; she took the bowl and drank, the taste clean as spring melt.

“The portal is open,” the priest said, pointing toward the door like a guide star through cloud. “If you’re ready, Sister Flora will send you back.”

The girl stood and bowed, her smile bright as a lantern in mist. “I owe you for stepping in this time.”

“Praise our Lord. Think nothing of it, young lady of the Frontier Marshal’s house,” he said, shaking his head like a tree shedding rain.

Frontier Marshal’s Domain — Leighton City

Home to a Frontier Marshal, the city wore a martial air like leather worn smooth by years of grip. The people weren’t fierce, but they were honest as fresh bread, a plain wind over tilled fields.

The old city, a relic from the previous dynasty, kept its face like a painting that resisted the brush, its stones remembering footsteps like rings remember rain. It sat where East and West leaned into each other, a crossroads where cultures braided like rivers joining.

“What a fine little town,” the nun said, sitting by the central fountain like a heron by clear water, eyes tracing the passing crowd like drifting leaves.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sister Flora,” the girl said, hurrying over with two drinks, the cups sweating like dew-beaded fruit. She handed one over, palm cool and steady.

Flora wore her simple lake-blue habit, yet on her it flowed like silk over water, outshining finery the way the moon outshines a torch. The girl beside her wore a green robe in an Eastern style, fresh as bamboo after rain, a slash of spring in the street.

“I told you, no honorifics,” Flora said, rising to stroll, her steps light as petals on a breeze. “Miss Lingyi—or rather… Miss Natalie.”

“Just call me Natalie,” the girl said, her smile neat as a folded fan, a little tight at the corners like thread drawn too hard. “Everyone does.”

Flora watched the street instead of her face, professional calm like a veil over a flame. A cleric’s code, steady as a lodestone, kept her from prying where names tangle like roots.

They walked at ease because of a conversation from a few days back, a seed dropped then now sprouting like spring shoots.

A few days earlier — The Marshal’s Castle

“Next time, have your priest come himself,” said the well-dressed middle-aged man, voice smooth as oiled steel. “He and I go back.”

Sister Flora blinked and nodded, surprise rising like a bird startled from a branch. “So you and Father Chris are old friends. My apologies for the presumption.”

He waved it off with a hand like a fan stirring warm air, then gestured for Natalie and Flora to sit, his gaze clear as winter sky.

“The Sanctum Church shows remarkable sincerity,” he said, words measured like a mason’s stones. “Guidance with no strings. No conversion. No stamp on our name…”

He let the thought hang like a bell after the stroke, watching Flora for the echo.

“You can rest easy on that,” Flora answered, calm as a lake holding a mountain’s reflection. “A certain great person took a liking to her talent. There’s no malice.”

“Natalie’s Thunder-heavy Arcane Power could push her to Saint-tier one day,” she continued, her tone even as falling snow. “If that was all, you’d have sent her to the Mage Tower already, wouldn’t you?”

The Marshal nodded, a slow tilt like a pine in wind. On this continent, Saint-tier mages crowned the art like peaks above clouds, a step beyond Legend. With Natalie’s gift, even the warrior’s path could climb that high, stone by stone.

She’d walked the martial road for years, roots sunk deep like an old tree. Tearing her over to pure magic now would be like uprooting oak to plant reed.

“The Sanctum Church will find her a path that fits like skin,” Flora said, oath clean as new snow. “We swear it in the Church’s name, so neither gift goes to waste.”

At that, there was no more veil to hide behind. Cards lay face up like sun on steel. The Marshal then asked Natalie to step out, his voice firm as a gate closing, and left the choice to him.

I’m doomed, Natalie thought, heart dropping like a stone into a well. I don’t want the Adjudication Corps. Being dumped out here was trouble enough.

She wasn’t born of this world. Once, she’d been a he, a shadow in another sky. For reasons lost like shells in surf, a pact with a supreme being had hurled her here like a comet across dark.

She’d forgotten much, not from weakness but from too much clarity, like writing washed blank by heavy rain. Since arriving, her memory had sharpened like ice, yet the past stayed hidden like fish under black water. Worse, the pact itself smelled of danger, a wolf’s musk on the wind.

So anything tied to religion set her on edge, quills up like a hedgehog. The Sanctum Church offering so much, all honey and no thorn—how could that not be a scheme?

Still, she knew it might be paranoia, a fog she’d blown thick herself. Across the land, the Church’s deeds stood like pillars in sunlight; even the shrewdest merchants treated them straight.

Sighing like wind through chimes, she went to her room and began to pack, stuffing a small life into a smaller bundle. With her father’s iron will, he was surely already haggling terms with thunder and stone.

By most accounts, the Adjudication Corps was a storm that walked. Where the world cracked, they stood like lightning rods—Demon King incursions, the Plague of Beasts, even dives into shattered space where reality frayed like old rope.

I’d have to be tired of living to join them, she thought, fingers moving fast as sparrows. Thunder or not, I could head East and find Mother’s clan. That beats the Corps by a country mile.

She hurried, but she owned little—just a few changes of clothes, light as dry leaves into a sack. It felt like this escape would fly, a bird already in air.

The door swung open with a soft click, a ripple across still water. The lake-blue habit filled her doorway, and Natalie knew the sky had fallen.

“Natalie,” Sister Flora said, smile playful as sunlight on waves. “All packed for the Adjudication Corps? You look eager.”

“Ahaha—no rush. Right, no rush,” Natalie said, dropping the bag like a hot coal and flashing a grin thin as paper. “Let me host you for a few days, Sister Flora.”

“I’m here to tell you this,” Flora said, unmovable as a milestone. “The Marshal says the choice is yours.”

“Ha?” Natalie stared, suspicion prickling like nettles. Her hands stilled, and she stood in the doorway like a statue holding its breath. Since when did her stubborn, iron-spined father turn so soft, handing her the reins?

“Then… please let me host you a few days,” she said, voice careful as stepping stones in rain. “I’ll think. I won’t keep you long.”

“Then I’ll gladly accept,” Flora replied, offering a small bow like a leaf dipping to a stream, and left Natalie gaping like a fish at shore.

So, days later, Natalie led Flora through the town’s painted alleys like a guide through a garden, all the while plotting a path to slip the noose, thoughts fluttering like sparrows in rafters.

“Natalie,” Flora said at last, her voice low as thunder beyond hills. “I’m glad you’ve shown me your town. But I’m a cleric. My code won’t let me keep enjoying a lord’s hospitality. Sweetness becomes a chain for me.”

She sighed, the sound heavy as rain on eaves, a weight that turned comfort into quiet ache.