88 Target: The Industrial District!

Setting aside the excited Little White Dragon, wagging like a puppy, Nidhogg and Mio traded a glance like flints striking and chose to linger in the North Market, a humming hive.

The reason was simple as rain on stone. The Little White Dragon was browsing like a carefree butterfly, but their main goal—the Archbishop—didn’t know the goods here well, a fog over a river.

They had to walk her through the usual bestsellers, shop by shop, like guides under lantern light, steady as roots in soil.

“Which one catches your eye? We can start one store at a time,” Mio whispered, her voice like wind through reeds.

“Me? I’m fine with anything,” the Archbishop said, calm as a mountain shadow. “To be honest, these wondrous plants aren’t new to me, a familiar grove.”

“With magic, we can achieve similar effects, water feeding vine. The second lesson in plant magic is crafting functional plants, less potent but still useful, like herbs in a pouch.”

As a believer of the God of Mountains, the Archbishop stood by the street like a cedar. Earth magic was her bedrock, and by race, she had touched plant and nature magic too, leaf and loam.

As a senior in the deep woods of magic, she could produce near-duplicates by spellwork, mist echoing a stream. But…

“These plants don’t seem to be fed external mana,” she said, eyes narrowing like a hawk at dusk.

She stepped to a shop with tiny greeter plants, little companions that responded to voices like sparrows to a whistle.

She asked for permission with a smile like warm sun. Then she reached out and brushed a blue blossom on the counter, soft as dew on petal.

Touched, the blue flower shook its big blue head and waved its thin twigs, lively as a dancing ribbon, happy to meet her hand.

The Archbishop gave a soft snap, a crisp pebble against ice. A vivid green vine slipped from her sleeve like a silent snake and fell onto the counter, a fresh shoot.

It lifted a green stem to regard the blue flower, curious as a fawn. Then it shivered, and turned into a perfectly identical pair of blue blossoms, twin moons on one stem.

The original flower startled like a bird in grass, seeing a twin appear. Its eyes went wide like morning dew, startled by its new companion.

It bobbed and nodded, friendly as a brook, and the conjured one bobbed back, a mirror on water. Two blue blooms swayed their slender stems like old soulmates meeting at last.

“You see? Magic can do this easily, like flicking a candle,” the Archbishop said, voice steady as stone. “But magic constructs suffer heavy limits, chains on roots.”

“They almost can’t live without external mana input—cut the river, dry the field.” She pointed at the dancing pair, her fingertip like a wand.

She snapped again, a crisp spark. The conjured bloom froze mid-sway, twitched like a leaf in frost, and fell still, turning into a tuft of dry straw on the counter, brittle as husk.

Seeing its dancing partner turn to straw in a blink, the little blue flower blanched, its petals a shade paler, like cloud thinned by wind.

It hugged itself with tiny branches, folding into a tight bud, shivering before the Archbishop like a chick in rain.

“Stop the mana, and it dies instantly, candle snuffed,” she said, voice low as caves. “Even with ample mana, these blooms lack the spirit you see on sale, ember without flame.”

“They danced together because I ordered it to mimic the other, echo chasing echo. In a magic plant’s mind, ‘dance’ isn’t a concept—if it even has a mind,” she finished, gathering the straw like picking fallen leaves.

“So Lamter’s industrial goods are modified magic plants,” the Little White Dragon guessed, thoughts like sparks, “only we don’t know how they’re altered, seed to stem—”

Nidhogg covered her mouth, his hand firm as iron. His voice rumbled by Lilith’s ear like distant thunder. “Hush. Listen.”

He gave her small backside a tap, quick as a flicking tail, reminding her to speak less, hear more, a bell in mist.

“Lamter’s industry was seeded in plant magic,” Mio added, clear as water. “They mostly improve existing magic flora, tilling old fields with new tools.”

“And I want to know why these plants show such marvels,” the Archbishop said, curiosity glowing like embers. “What have they gone through, root and core?”

“Don’t ask us,” Mio replied, shrugging like a leaf. “Ask Lamter’s big scientists, or the folks running factories, hammers and kilns. They’ll know.”

“If you’re truly interested in industrial plants,” Nidhogg said, voice steady as a road, “we can pick up the pace and head straight for the Selnoser Great Plain, wide as sky.”

“It holds Lamter’s most famous Industrial District, smoke and steel. I’ll take you there, and we’ll see how Lamter’s industry breathes now, pulse and forge.”

“You’re thoughtful,” the Archbishop nodded, gratitude warm as tea. She thanked Nidhogg and Mio, paid a few coins that clinked like rain on stone, and bought the blue flower that had nearly turned white with fright.

The bewildered blue flower, scared but well-trained, bowed to Nidhogg like a tiny courtier, polite to a fault, a ribbon at parade.

The Archbishop chuckled, amusement like sunlight through leaves. She tossed the faint pale-blue bloom onto her shoulder, light as a feathered brooch.

She flicked a finger and called a fresh vine to trail at her side, green as spring. It popped out now and then to play with the whitish bloom, two sprites in a dance, joy on her face.

“Why did you buy it?” Mio asked, astonished like a stag at a lantern.

“It’s adorable. I like it,” the Archbishop answered, simple as rain, and Mio nodded in quiet acceptance, a reed at rest.

“So we’re heading to the Industrial District next?” Lilith summarized, eyes bright as stars.

“That’s right. We’re going to the Industrial District,” Nidhogg said. He checked his map in his mind, lines like rivers, and murmured, “It’s not far. Let’s move.”

“Oh-oh, set off!” Lilith shouted, the cry like a skylark.

“Oh…” the others replied, weak as a fading breeze.