I might be the emptiest soul alive, a hollow gourd in winter wind.

Lilith, sprawled on the bed, dropped the line like a pebble into still water. Beside her, Nidhogg reached out and rubbed the Little White Dragon’s head, worry pooling like mist, afraid the girl had been beaten silly.

Don’t worry. I’m clear as dawn, but I feel scooped clean, like a shell at low tide. As if every color in life drained away; maybe this life won’t know joy or sorrow—just a bare, echoing void.

Lilith stared at the ceiling, blank as a rain-washed sky. No matter how Nidhogg pinched the Little White Dragon’s soft flank, it did nothing; to a stranger at the door, it might've looked like he was up to something with the girl on the bed, a curtain half-drawn in twilight.

Nidhogg knew how to get her moving, steady as a mountain under wind. He pulled out a dragon scale and sent a string of messages like sparks, then spoke.

I talked to the teacher. In half an hour she’ll tell you to use the sword you took from the cavern. She wants us on the road now, drumbeats rolling.

Hell yes!

Lilith bounced off the bed like a sprung sapling. She wriggled into her scattered clothes like a fish diving into reeds. She snatched a milky-white cloak, threw it over her shoulders, and lunged for the door like a swallow out of eaves.

Nidhogg sighed, wind hitting stone. He slung his satchel and followed the Little White Dragon out of the Dragon Empress’s home, shadows stretching like river reeds.

You made it, Little White Dragon!

When Lilith and Nidhogg arrived, Fafnir had already switched into easy-moving sportswear, a black headband tied across her brow like a midnight ribbon. The petite Black Dragon had somehow found a bamboo sword taller than she was; she planted it in the center of the room like a sword saint under the moon.

Teacher Fafnir, what’s all this?

Nothing much, just a bit of prep, like warming hands before a winter bout.

Is that so?

That’s so, bright as noon.

Fafnir’s answer was straight as a spear, breath full as thunder. Lilith had never seen a setup like this. In a world that leaned western and magical, why did this scene feel so very eastern, like lanterns on a shrine path?

Usually that freeloading little blue guy would pop up and explain, a guide-lamp in a fog. Now there was no lore dump, not even the blue guy’s shadow.

Her mood dipped like a boat in chop. Lilith shook her head, shook off the damp leaves of annoyance. To distract herself, she drew the Broken Sword she’d earned in the last delve—she’d named it Shattered Ark, after the letters etched on its body and the way it looked, like an ancient hull under moonlight.

With the Holy Blade gone and the Astrolabe too lean for close quarters, Shattered Ark would be her main weapon for a long stretch, a single oar against night tides.

Meanwhile, the Black Swordsman and the others were fading by the day, lantern flames thinning in wind. To keep them with her longer, Lilith ordered them not to appear unless the storm was critical; the Little White Dragon had to shore up her own strength, stone by stone.

So she needed to figure out what this Broken Sword could do, and how to draw its bite, like coaxing a fire from damp kindling.

Just right. Fafnir had miles more experience, old rings in a tree. With her help, mastering the blade should be easy, like water finding its channel.

Here’s the plan, Little White Dragon—use that sword and come at me. I’ll test its teeth, like tapping iron under a smith’s lamp. Mule or stallion, we’ll know once we take it for a spin.

Got it. Lilith nodded. She gripped the sword in both hands, then shot forward on an arrow step, like a hawk breaking cloud.

A pale blue aura veiled her body, moonlight on river skin. With the Star Canvas in full resonance, her speed surged like starlight sliding across a dark sea. And the White Dragon’s physique outstripped humans by a shade; two steps carried her across half the room. Her blade came down and met Fafnir’s bamboo sword, a crack like reed against ice.

She’d used seven-tenths strength, a tide pushing a gate, yet the bamboo didn’t break; only a faint white scratch scarred its surface, like frost on bark. Either that bamboo was crafted like temple pillars, or this blade was dull as winter light.

Hmm, can’t quite feel it. Then let’s do this.

Fafnir tilted her head, raven-black hair like wing-feathers. She turned the tall bamboo sword sideways, then drove a knee into it; the sturdy rod snapped clean, two halves clacking like snapped branches. She tossed the pieces behind her like spent reeds, raised her hands in guard, and signaled Lilith on, a flag in wind.

This way we can feel the blade’s bite better! Little White Dragon, don’t hold back—cut me with everything you’ve got, like lightning from a clear sky!

On the cue, Lilith lifted the blade and struck again. This time she didn’t restrain the swing. She brought it down from above, a heavy cleave like a waterfall smashing rock. It hit Fafnir’s arm and even dented the floor a notch, clay caving under rain.

Lilith hopped back lightly, distance blooming like space between waves. Fafnir rolled her shoulders; her forearms, sheathed in Black Dragon scales, bore no mark, night armor unscathed. All that noise had come from Lilith’s raw strength, a storm in her limbs, not the sword’s edge.

Hmm. That’s not great. Is this Broken Sword really any good, or just a boat without a keel?

I’m not sure. I keep feeling it’s holding back, like a tide before it turns. Only when it shines like when I first held it—pale pink dawnlight—will it show what it really is.

I’ve got an idea. Little White Dragon, use it to defend—try catching the wave instead of chasing it.

Eh? Why?

Don’t ask—move, like a bird from brush!

Wait—hey!

Fafnir bolted toward her, a black gale through a canyon. Panic nipped Lilith’s heels; running wasn’t right, hiding wasn’t right. She threw the Broken Sword up across her chest, bark against storm, shut her eyes, and braced to be punched into the wall like a leaf on wind.

The impact didn’t come. Silence rippled, a pond under stars.

Lilith blinked wide—and saw a sight she’d never forget, a sunrise sealed in glass.

Shattered Ark flared with pale pink light, a blush spreading like dawn across frost. Its blade shifted from powder-white to blue-white, a gradient like sky into sea, and for a heartbeat it swelled a ring wider, halo bright. The glowing Broken Sword sprang Fafnir’s heavy strike away, a spring pushing back a hammer. The Ark carried Lilith forward on its wake; she cut, fluid as a gull skimming surf. Fafnir, thrown off balance by her own power, couldn’t set her feet before a streak of blade-light flicked past and kissed her cheek.

A thin line of blood slid down Fafnir’s face, a red thread on porcelain. Lilith and Fafnir both stared, stunned, at the sword in the Little White Dragon’s hands. The light on Shattered Ark faded fast, a firefly winking out; it returned to its dim, broken form, hull in shadow.

Fafnir lifted her head and met Lilith’s gaze, night eyes steady. She wiped the blood away with a thumb, then laughed, bright as iron ringing.

Not bad. You picked up a treasure, Little White Dragon!