Forty
“Ugh—ah!” Lilith cried out and shot upright like a spring snapping free.
The Little White Dragon panted, a hand to her chest, eyes skittering like a sparrow jolted from a branch.
“I… I think I just saw my uncle.” Memory surged back like cold water. A dark violet void had bloomed over the ceiling and swallowed her, tumbling her like laundry in a drum—glug-glug, spin and churn.
The Little White Dragon reeled, like a kitten swung in midair by clumsy hands, stars popping in her eyes like spilled glitter.
Through the haze, she thought she saw a golden figure, who told her Casimir had no right to decorate him—a king without a seal.
“Got up too fast… why am I seeing that uncle?” Lilith wobbled to her feet, patted dust from her backside, and bobbed her head, wary as a doe on a foggy ridge.
She seemed to be in some pocket realm. Overhead stretched a pale violet sky, endless as a lake at dusk. Since entering Morris, she hadn’t seen any sky in ages, so she stared, dazed and thirsty like a traveler finding water.
Beneath her claws lay a floor like tar-black gravel glued together, the look of cheap asphalt under rainlight.
Lilith wasn’t a builder, and she didn’t care what mix made the floor under her rump; it was an unforgiving seat, hard as winter stone.
“Where’s Eliza and the others?” She saw no Vampires with her, unsure if they dodged the pull or got scattered like leaves.
She hoped it was only her who got dragged in. Better to spare the team; if an extra like her took the hit, Eliza could lead the Vampires to keep digging—and maybe haul Lilith back out like a fisherman landing a carp.
She weighed light, and she’d been closer to the void’s center. Even when she thought to run, the pull snagged her first, quick as a whirlpool grabbing a leaf.
“Careful. The magic here feels wrong.” Mona’s phantom leaned a head out beside the Little White Dragon, offered the warning, then slipped back like a fish under ice.
“Got it.” Lilith answered to the emptiness. No reply echoed, but the Little White Dragon knew Mona heard, the way wind hears a whisper.
She was an Astrologer now—one branch of what humans called mages; still, her feel for mana was nowhere near human Archmage Mona’s, a lake that showed no ripples to her eyes.
Still, if Mona said so, Lilith raised her guard for a sudden spell-strike, like a bell rung before a storm.
She gripped her Astrolabe with both hands and hung the Shattered Ark at her waist, steel and star beside her like moon and blade.
The dark violet sky held no visible stars, yet she teased a thin thread of Star Energy from the air. To save strength, the Little White Dragon would lean on magic against whatever came. Void Sect acolytes sounded like small fry—one burst of Stellar Magic should scatter them like sparrows.
No need to draw steel for small fry. Hopping around wore her out. Since long ago—back when her past life was Fan Yu—she’d envied mages who could stand in one spot and crush foes by weaving a spell, cool as rain from a sleeve.
Sadly, heaven rarely deals the hand you want. In her rebirth—human or dragon princess—she was a straight-up spellblade, fit for casting and for closing in, wind and steel twined.
The reason was simple: that mix carried a strength that felt like beauty, a cliff and ocean in one view.
Life isn’t a game; you don’t get many chances to run a weak build just because you like it. If she could choose, she’d pick the strongest style, like choosing a sharp spear over a reed.
Purists don’t go far. Learn the spell, wield the sword; balance makes a body whole, roots and branches sharing the same sap.
Purity—does it help, or is it a glass blade?
This place had no walls. Only a thin floor floated in air. The Little White Dragon tiptoed to its edge and peered down for a long while—nothing but boundless void, a night with no moon.
Good news: she tossed a shard of ice downward, and soon it fell from above like a boomerang from the sky. Even if she slipped, she’d loop back and hit the floor in one piece; and she could fly anyway, wings like white sails.
The floor was vast. Her eyes couldn’t gauge its span, a black lake without shores. At least the Little White Dragon could run around without fear of falling off.
The real problem: it connected to nothing. It floated like a lone island in an empty sea.
Even with Mona’s warning, Lilith’s guard eased, like a bow unstrung after too long.
Weird space, strong manaflow, eerie air—fine. But to get attacked, you need an attacker, a shadow, a heartbeat.
This was quieter than a sewer. Down there you at least had stench that clung like smoke, pipes that writhed like snakes, and a heart thudding at the end like a drum.
Here, the pocket realm held truly nothing. Not a life, not a pebble—only the floor under Lilith’s feet, a lone raft on a blank sea.
“Did someone cast a banishment spell on me? What is this place—why is it nothing?” After her third lap, Lilith plopped down in the center and stared at the sky, muttering like rain talking to eaves.
“Could someone come keep me company? Doesn’t have to be human. Doesn’t have to talk.” She sat there and dragged her voice out like summoning a ghost at a crossroads.
Before the words died, a purple vortex unfurled beside the Little White Dragon with a whoosh. Lilith shot off the ground, weapon up, sight locked on the swirl like an archer on a hawk.
A hooded figure in black stepped out of the vortex, soundless as fog, and came to a stop before her.
“Hello.” A rasping old voice floated from beneath the hood. The stranger croaked to Lilith, “White Demon I haven’t seen before—did you come to offer me a sacrifice too?”
