Thirty-Five: New Gear
Lilith stepped away from the bookcase, like slipping from a shadow.
She’d skimmed most volumes; aside from that parchment, nothing of worth.
Pages had rustled like dry leaves.
The Little White Dragon now knew the Void Sect did all this to summon their Master, like a hook cast into night.
But Lilith still had no name to hang on that shadow.
She’d heard of deities who bestowed tears, like dew bottled at dawn.
Godly Tears were a whole category, varied as rain across pantheons.
The Hero mark on her right hand, strictly speaking, belonged there, glimmering like a brand of frost.
By the way, the Saint sigil on her brow and the Taint on her left hand were other things, ink and ice in uneasy balance.
But a god who gave tears only to its own faithful? That was new, like a raincloud parked over one village.
Godly Tears aren’t rare.
They’re usually weak, a stopgap when a deity can’t find a vessel.
Power pooled like stale starlight, with little extra worth.
Normally, unless there’s special cause or deeper meaning, gods don’t choose tears as carriers.
Water slips through fingers; the effect is poor.
So the Void Sect’s Master felt strange, a knot in the loom.
Gods have quirks aplenty, but one that loves to weep? She’d never heard of that.
Neither Lord Icarus nor the System had ever named such a figure.
If not some obscure, nameless deity, then that Master might not be a god at all.
It could be a sealed creature, another breed under chains and stone.
That would be trouble.
Lilith felt the knot tighten, like frost closing over a pond.
If it were a god, things would be simpler.
Spuiset is functionally godless now.
Yet, on paper, this land under the Black Sun belongs to the Grim Reaper, the Nameless One.
A foreign deity moving in would rouse others like thorns bristling.
But if that Master is just a living thing sealed away, the mess gets bigger.
No one can leash such creatures; their wills run like wildfire.
Her caution sharpened, like a blade catching moonlight.
She sped up her search through the small room.
This wasn’t a room meant for files.
That little bookcase held private reads, stuffed in by Void Sect believers like sparrows nesting.
That parchment was likely left by a careless hand.
It became Lilith’s windfall, letting the Little White Dragon glimpse their Master and the Void Sect’s aim.
She silently thanked that careless believer.
When Morris pacifies this riot the Void Sect sparked, a slice of credit will be his, like a leaf caught in the stream.
Other spots didn’t look any better for finding secrets.
But Lilith found something more fun than notes, a glint behind dust.
In a corner sat two treasure chests, gilt and locked, value shining like sunlight on coins.
You didn’t need guessing to know they held fine goods.
Still, she kept a wary eye, fearing a trap the Void Sect had buried like a pit under snow.
The Little White Dragon probed them with magic first.
On the surface, nothing serious.
A slick of high-grade mana seeped from within—bait, sweet as honey, tugging her to open.
She hesitated a beat, then chose to open them.
She lifted her right hand to her mouth and let her little fangs nick a finger, a quick silver bite.
She smeared White Dragon blood on the golden lid, then forced it open.
What lay within breathed into sight like dawn fog parting.
In the first chest, a matched pair of wristbands lay like twin moons.
Lilith wasn’t sure what they did.
She slid one onto her left wrist and tucked the other into her satchel.
At the bottom, the Little White Dragon found a sheet.
Not Morris’s usual parchment, but modern A4, city air in paper.
Scattered notes explained the bands’ function.
They let wearers swap abilities.
If one hits trouble, the other syncs to their senses and lends power as a temporary supplement.
Looks like emergency kit.
Lilith closed her satchel, thoughts quiet as snowfall.
The second chest held a cloak, blue and white, pattern near a cross.
Truth be told, Lilith had always wanted a proper cloak, a single wave of cloth.
Her current cape and hood were separate.
Even with matching colors, they looked wrong, like clouds stitched with wire.
This cloak had none of that fuss.
Fine fabric, one harmonious piece, smooth as a river under moon.
It beat her cobbled coat by a thousand miles.
Lilith favored frost magic and starlight spells.
Outside rare needs for high-concentration Star Energy, she fought in blue and white—perfect for this cloak’s hues.
Lilith lifted the cloak and shed her two-piece outfit, petals falling from a branch.
She still disliked what she wore under the cape.
A backless top felt too bold, wind on bare skin like knives.
If not for her wings needing room, she’d never keep that backless sweater.
The Little White Dragon peeked at a note glued to the chest’s bottom.
It held only one line.
May victory favor your blade.
Lilith read it aloud.
Her cloak flared with blinding light, a sunburst spilling over cloth.
A cross sigil rose on her back, stark as ice.
This thing seems able to block one hit.
Lilith poked the cloak.
The cross gave a sharp clack, like ice cracking, but nothing else triggered.
For now, she could only guess by its look.
Eh, not sure.
As long as it works.
After a beat, she tapped her forehead, brushing away clutter like dust.
She wasn’t a scholar, and didn’t need to fuss.
Good gear just needs to work.
