Cerqin was still reeling when a massive tree came hurtling in, a lightning lash across the air. As a Third Rank, she had no time to even feel fear.

Spring Tide sat beside her, unmoving, brow creasing like ripples on a still pond, eyes fixed on the direction the tree was launched.

When the trunk was barely two meters away, a figure flashed in like a hawk stooping—a Knight-Captain of the escort.

Mana gathered before him, a translucent wall of light like moonlit glass. The tree slammed into it with a thunderclap; the wall rippled and held.

Every guard knight took formation, eyes locked downrange. The tree caught by the ward suddenly burst apart, a storm of splinters like icy hail.

A tail plated in silver-white scales whipped the light wall. The ward shattered like thin ice; the Knight-Captain was swatted away like a leaf.

Spring Tide reached back to shield Cerqin, brow tight as a drawn bow, staring at the girl before them—sleek body, a silver-scaled tail, silver-white hair, two small horns, and a pure black demon mask.

Those striking features waved like banners in the wind and gave her away in a heartbeat.

Half Dragonkin—bloodline high and proud, cold as moonsteel.

Her reason for striking the Holy Maiden’s convoy lay in fog and shadow.

That childish disguise was smoke on a stage; it didn’t really hide a thing.

Who are you?

Spring Tide frowned, puzzled, as she asked. The Knight-Captain’s best guarding spell had shattered; he lay far off, breath ragged like torn cloth, but likely fine.

To fell a Sixth Rank Knight-Captain in one strike—sneak or not—meant she was at least Sixth Rank herself.

The silver-haired Dragonkin didn’t answer. A shrill sonic pop split the air, and their fists—plain to the eye, heavy as mountains—collided.

Huh?

She seemed surprised her blow was taken head-on. She slid back a few steps with the impact, feet skidding like skates on frost.

Her voice flared from behind the mask, edged with ember-bright ire. You found a bodyguard this strong?

Spring Tide met the punch with her own. A sting bit her knuckles; the girl’s physique was tougher than iron bamboo. It’d been long since a peer fought her style.

The knights closed in, blades in hand. A Fifth Rank escort was elite anywhere under heaven.

Even with their strongest captain felled, the formation’s aura didn’t dip, steady as a stone wall. On a normal day, a dozen synced Fifth Ranks could trouble a Sixth.

Even against talent, they could stall and grind, slow millstones against a rushing stream.

But as Spring Tide tangled with her again, mere minutes saw half the supporting knights swatted away, sparrows in a storm.

Whenever a gap opened, the girl tried to slip past Spring Tide and strike Cerqin by the carriage. Spring Tide fought to keep pace, doubt spreading like frost.

She wasn’t here for the Holy Maiden’s convoy. Her aim sat squarely on the weakest—Cerqin, a candle in a gale.

Why target a mere Third Rank? This wasn’t some petty Half Dragonkin feud.

Spring Tide had checked Cerqin the day they met. Nothing stood out; her origins were ordinary, plain as clay in rain.

What do you really want?

She kept Cerqin shielded at her back, straining like a bow at full draw. The escort knights were nearly wiped, yet the girl never killed. Spring Tide exhaled, tension loosening like slack string.

There was still room to turn the tide, a chance before dusk.

Not far behind, Cerqin watched, heart thumping like drumbeats. The Holy Maiden was clearly on the weaker side, a lone pine under winter wind.

In her own brawling field, she was almost fully pressed by the masked Half Dragonkin, a tide hammering a solitary rock.

Spring Tide looked serene on the surface, yet fought up close, bare-knuckle and breath. She used magic that hardened the body, iron under silk, which surprised Cerqin.

What Cerqin didn’t know: among the four Holy Maidens of the Radiant Sanctuary, the Eastern Maiden, Spring Tide, bore another title within—the Maiden of War.

Hearing Spring Tide’s question, the masked Half Dragonkin didn’t ignore her. Spring Tide looked worse, but the girl wasn’t much better, both winded like runners at dusk.

By feinting for distant Cerqin, she’d forced Spring Tide to guard and picked off the supporting knights one by one, peeling bark from a tree.

But the cost was steep; she had to end it fast, a blade drawn at midnight.

Her aim was never the knights, nor the green-haired girl who matched her strength; her spear point kept sliding past them.

It was that pink-haired one who made her grit her teeth, nettles under the tongue.

You’re strong…

Spring Tide’s heart tightened; danger pricked like cold rain on stone. She raised her arm by reflex to meet it, but the Half Dragonkin blurred faster and slid to her flank.

Now, her body couldn’t defend in time, and there wasn’t breath left to weave a spell, no thread on the loom.

In a blink, she knew—the uncanny speed was a bloodline art held back until now, a hidden sluice thrown open.

An instant later, the girl’s fist grew with silver scales and drove straight through Spring Tide’s shoulder like a spear through mist.

Cerqin gasped from afar, then blinked—no blood spilled where it should, night without stars.

Spring Tide’s body blurred like a phantom. It hung for a heartbeat, then reformed half a meter away, a ripple shifting in a pool.

This time Spring Tide was at the Half Dragonkin’s flank, shadow to her sun.

With a great crack, the Half Dragonkin was sent flying, then snapped back, charging again. Her mana flared, savage as wildfire in dry grass.

Both bared their bloodline gifts and went all in, moonbright blades unsheathed.

The fight slipped into another plane, unreal as a noon mirage over hot sand.

Interlaced mana streamed and mingled, their traits braided, spilling across the rest area like mist and sparks.

A warm thrill rose in Cerqin’s chest; a pink gleam began to flicker in her eyes, dawn on cherry petals.

Strange scraps of something blinked through her mind, fireflies in reeds. She couldn’t catch them. Her mood kept rising, bright and breathless.

She pulled herself back, brow folding prettily in doubt, a willow leaf pinched. She probed within and found no other anomaly.

Unease pricked. That giddy buzz couldn’t be her loving a catfight. If the Holy Maiden lost, she’d likely be targeted by this Half Dragonkin who clearly came for her. She didn’t even know why.

Cerqin searched her memories. She hadn’t provoked anyone like this. She had met a white-haired girl before, but that one had no dragon tail, snow without scales.

A chill whisper said that, if caught, her end would be ugly. Holding that feeling, Cerqin pressed down the rising thrill, shook her head, and looked back at the torn-up field—green and white trading with uncanny footwork, now evenly matched.

Their fight no longer swung wide. Both were blindingly fast, yet after each exchange came a strange one-to-two-second pause, drumbeats between lightning.

Watching, Cerqin realized the Half Dragonkin had better technique. Her gift clearly reinforced her body, iron in her bones.

Mana churned chaotically; you could see silver breath seeping into the air, frost-threaded vapor.

Spring Tide’s ability was stranger. Cerqin dimly remembered the Holy Maiden teaching her about gifts and arts, a lamp in fog.

She’d mentioned her own ability, too, a secret folded like paper within paper.