34: The Small Room
Lilith stood before the round door, a full moon set into the wall.
The door, like the array she’d seen earlier, was a gray-white vortex glowing dark violet, a storm in a bowl. It looked like the Void Sect’s signature; everything tied to them wore this dusk-colored face.
She tapped the door. The Little White Dragon’s Star Energy leaked a little, a white glow blinking like a firefly, then slipping back into her body without clinging.
“Figures. Star Energy won’t trigger anything here.” The thought fell like mist against stone.
She sighed; the split between her biology and this place’s magic meant she couldn’t wake the door. She couldn’t read what the vortex and the blue-white cross actually did, like glyphs etched into fog.
But she could still get into the room, like water finding a crack.
No matter how a door dresses itself, a door is still a door—wood, threshold, and a way through.
And if it’s a door, Lilith can open it with blood, a red key in a lock.
Her teeth had been itching down in the sewers, ants under enamel, but the stench kept her from checking.
Here, where a dark-violet liquid perfumed the air with mana like incense, she finally opened her mouth and felt around.
Her cute little fang—once mostly decoration—had grown longer and sharper, a thorn sprouting at the edge of a petal. Maybe the young dragon was finally hitting her growth?
Well, as a human, she was due to develop too, like spring pushing stubborn buds.
She didn’t want to dwell on that sour topic. Growing taller was nice; a second wave of secondary traits made her mood cloud over a clear lake.
Even if she’d made peace with her body, she didn’t want to turn into a mature seductress; a male () soul wasn’t ready for that drumbeat.
Besides, Lilith prefers to be the one touching the big, not to become the big and get touched. If she grew, a certain Black Dragon and a White Dragon would hover like crows over ripe fruit.
“It’s fine. Small is cute too,” she thought, eyes on the flat plain before her, a wind-swept field with only a slight rise. This build suits her fighting; extra flesh would slow her sword like mud on boots.
Development had perks. Now her little fang could bite open her thumb with ease; when she needed blood, no more knife—just a quick bite, a needle pricking a plum.
Cutting with a blade was hassle, and it left tiny scars; one or two vanish, but many grind the skin rough, grains of sand scuffing jade.
Lilith doesn’t care much about looks; as a man, she never fussed over skin, armor over bark.
But since she’d made peace, she should treat the body well; roughing soft, springy skin would be a shame, like bruising a peach.
It’s not because she wants to be cuter. Absolutely not—slam the door on that thought.
After snapping back at whoever that was in her head, Lilith pressed her bleeding finger to the door, a red seal on stone.
The round, dark-violet door flashed at her blood. The blue-white cross shattered with a pop, shards like ice in a basin, then the door split in two and rotated open, a shell parting to show pearl.
Lilith craned her head inside. It was a plain, painfully plain little room, a quiet courtyard with no trees, so she stepped in.
As soon as she entered, the door spun back into place. The broken cross flickered a few times and knit itself together, frost sliding back over a pond.
She studied the strange door for a while. The Little White Dragon knew magic well—half an expert in starlight—but this wasn’t her field; the signs read like wind through reeds, hard to grasp.
She hadn’t expected the door to tell her much anyway. There was a whole room to search, a lake after a dry well.
She went left first. A huge bookcase stood there, heavy with records, a cliff of paper. If she combed through it, maybe she’d fish out what she needed.
Do it, then. Lilith pulled open the glass door and plucked a book at random, like drawing lots from a jar.
“How to Clean the Crap Piled on the Floor? Why is there a book like this?” A fly on scripture.
She figured it was some Void Sect believer’s personal problem, shelved here by chance. The rest had to be more normal, one rotten apple in the crate.
“How to Remove the Smell of Excrement in the Air?” Incense versus latrine.
“On Why Purple Is Holier Than Blue.” Priests arguing over sunset.
“The Bible? Why is this on this land? Is there actually a Jesus—oh, it’s fake.” A mirage dissolving.
Everything she flipped after that was nonsense; she had no idea why the Void Sect stored so many books here, driftwood piled in a shrine.
Just as she was about to give up and switch methods, she spotted a piece of parchment wedged between books, a pale leaf caught in reeds.
“Report on the God-Feeding Plan.” Bait cast into a bottomless sea.
Her gut said it held something vital; she snatched it up and braced herself, a bowstring drawn.
After centuries of toil by the Void Sect, we finally summoned our Great Lord—Lord of Locusts, the Devouring Abyss, □□□—to slaughter those foul monsters who worship the stolen name of the Demon’s son.
Great is God, yet humble; He never flaunts His power before His loyal flock. No matter our offerings, He has not granted us a single locust.
But God is merciful; He knows the toil of brothers and sisters, and for this He sent down His own tears, night rain over bare fields.
Whenever we sacrifice a compatriot, or seize an artifact from those witless Vampires, the falling tears grow stronger, iron tasting sweeter.
After long experiments, we mastered how to convert God’s Tears into our own power. Soon, the Void Sect will overturn the Vampires’ rule; under the Black Sun we will praise the Great Lord’s name.
Lilith rolled up the parchment. Sparse as it was, at least she knew what the Void Sect was plotting, tracks written across fresh snow.
The Little White Dragon tucked it into her satchel; she’d sweep the room for more scraps, gather reeds into a bundle, then deliver everything to Eliza.
