36: Heart
Lilith spun in place, a white ribbon catching the dim lamplight.
Before her, a smooth ice sheet she’d carved with one stroke gleamed like a mirror in the small, shadowed room.
The Little White Dragon appraised her new gear. The blue-and-white cloak hugged her like frost on snow, tucking neatly under her long white hair.
Best part: the lining was white. From the side, it hid any glimpse of soft skin, far less shaming than that black one before.
Warmth rose; Lilith smiled. She was very pleased with the new gear.
It carried a thick sacred aura. Years as a Saint had taught her to love that incense-soft scent, even if she was a real Demon King now.
Not only did it fit the Little White Dragon’s look, its function suited her too. The crate’s note and her little tests had spelled out its use.
In short, once she donned it, a pale holy light draped her body—an impact shield that burst like petals to catch incoming blows.
It felt like good earth underfoot, steadying her; image-wise, it was truly a Holy Cloak.
Handy, through and through. It slashed her odds of getting hurt. The light recharged fast—about a minute per layer—great in drawn-out fights.
A thought pricked; her Broken Sword also blocked strikes. Was she… kind of beefy now?
Disgust knotted first. The Little White Dragon hated pain. As a Hero, collecting Taint had already been needles under skin. After slaying the Demon King, she swore never to hurt like that again.
Still, that stone golem had hit like a quarry hammer.
A grimace flickered; she let the topic go.
She lifted the Astrolabe, gathered the ice mirror away like folding glass leaves, and sank back into the investigation.
Joy at new gear had fogged her mind. Admiring how cute the outfit looked, Lilith had almost forgotten why she’d come to this tiny room.
She was here to investigate, not play dress-up.
Too careless—shame flushed, and she scolded herself. How could a trinket make her forget her composure, twirling before a mirror like a little girl?
She pressed harder on herself. Lilith, Lilith—how could you forget a Saint’s poise? Gawking at a good thing—what sort of bearing is that?
The little dragon refocused and searched. The room was small, already stacked with two pieces of gear; little space remained to scrutinize.
She circled like a cat in a box, then stepped out, empty-handed.
Fair enough—any intel from a room this small was luck. Besides, she’d gained two new items: the pretty, practical cloak and the cord on her left wrist.
The sewer wasn’t done; coils of passage still waited for her to comb.
She watched the round, dark-violet door slide shut like a closing eyelid. Raising the Astrolabe, she followed the pipe deeper in.
Deeper looked as she’d expected. The sewage stench thinned, replaced by a heavy, chemical bouquet of industrial fresheners—many flowers mashed together. Not better; maybe worse.
She’d never hated her keen nose more. Brow knotted, the little dragon walked on, forcing her focus to the sights to ease the pressure of the smell.
Dark-violet pipes and knotted growths crowded her path. Unlike the outer pipes hidden under filth, the deeper ones thrived, lush and pulsing.
At junctions and big outlets, they smothered every wall, becoming an expanse of dark-violet flesh that breathed like a tide.
Lilith’s tolerance for living walls ran high. Working with Taint, she knew the pulse of twitching flesh by heart. Most folks would gag at this sight.
She didn’t. The scenery stole her attention and dulled the stink; a strange gladness rose, soft as coming home.
Stepping on pure gray flooring, she knew she’d reached the Void Sect’s core under Morris. The world here was gray, with dark-violet liquid running like blood through vein-like pipes.
The sewer’s reek finally got smothered. Lilith let out a long breath, steam leaving a kettle.
She still carried a smear of stink on her clothes, but it was miles better than before.
Wrapped in gray masses, she breathed air free of bad fresheners and foul waste. Only the magic-scent of dark-violet liquid slipped into her small nose.
It smelled gentler. Lilith felt her whole self slacken and lift, like ice melting in sun.
While her state was good, she hurried deeper. If her gut was right, what waited ahead powered these dark-violet flows.
As expected, the Little White Dragon turned her head and found the source, the way a hunter spots a glint.
A gray ball of muscle, veined with dark-violet blood, throbbed with the rhythm of the air, tireless as a temple drum.
It drew in tainted air and dark-violet fluid together, churned them inside, then sent them off as thick syrup flowing to far pipes.
Thick black cables, wider than her arm, speared into the sphere from the floor, rising and falling with each beat like kelp in a tide.
It was a heart.
