Legend holds the Dragon Deity as the god of fertility, the seed inside spring rain.
He embodies the rules of life, evolution, and propagation, a loom weaving blood into lineage.
Ironically, from the dawn, the dragon clans that worshiped him were strong as mountains yet barren as winter fields.
After the Second Godwar, many dragons vanished into seclusion like storms sinking beneath sea mist.
On the continent, only the scarce Half Dragonkin remained, flickering like embers.
As heirs to dragon blood, they honor the Dragon Deity, and their awakened powers echo his laws like tides answer the moon.
Even so, abilities that bear the Dragon Deity’s name in inherited memory are rare, like stars before dawn.
Silver Luan, strongest of the young among the Half Dragonkin, is one of those rare stars, a blade of moonlight.
She resists the bodily desire her own power provokes like a dam holding back floodwater, so she surfaced first from the chaos.
Yet the instant she returned to herself, she saw a scene that shattered her composure like glass under a hammer.
Her thick dragon tail was slapping against Cerqin, each strike sending a strange thrill like ripples across a lake.
Her face burned with shame and anger, a blush lit like fire.
Her emotions spiked like a storm tide, and she blacked out as the magic surged.
The tail slid off Cerqin, the link snapped like a cut tether, and Silver Luan left the field first.
Spring Tide and Cerqin, not yet fully clear-headed, kept moving, like dancers swept by a drumbeat.
With Silver Luan—the kindling—down first, the Dragon Deity’s power ebbed like a receding tide, and Spring Tide came back to herself second.
They had tangled often these days, a braid of heat and breath, so Spring Tide quickly grasped the situation.
Her eyelids twitched like startled sparrows. She glanced at Silver Luan, sprawled and snoring, then at the knights strewn like felled pines.
Everyone was badly hurt, bruises blooming like midnight flowers; later impacts caused secondary harm like echoes returning.
Fortunately, no one died; sleep held them like a dark river.
It felt good, yes, but they were at a roadside camp. Dusk sank like ink, and no other team had arrived—luck like spared lightning.
Give it a little longer, and a caravan or adventurers might come to stay the night like moths to a fire.
With that thought, Spring Tide tightened her motions like drawing a bowstring. After the pink-haired girl cast, she set shaky-legged Cerqin down.
She severed the link gently, like snipping a thread, as Cerqin’s knees trembled like reeds in wind.
Seeing palm-sized tatters of cloth scattered like fallen leaves, Spring Tide frowned, headache thudding like a drum.
She turned to the two carriages that still had some protection, hoping to find clothes like pulling a quilt from winter.
Her hand had just gone around when a familiar touch tugged her back like a fishhook catching silk.
Pulled, Spring Tide turned, ready to pry free Cerqin’s grasp, her breath sharp as a blade.
Cerqin was already sitting up, both hands clasping Spring Tide’s, rubbing her fingertips with her chin like a cat seeking warmth.
That look carried fire like kindled coals, and Spring Tide’s suppressed blaze flared again like a gust hitting embers.
Cerqin was lucid yet feverish, clear water boiling; unlike the other two, she couldn’t rein herself in.
She knew what she did, yet couldn’t stop, thoughts slipping like sand; Third Rank buckling under Sixth Rank interference.
And this was what Cerqin desired deep down, a hunger like hollow drums.
Not enough. She wanted more, like waves asking for moonlight.
Cerqin triggered her ability again without meaning to, and Spring Tide froze for a heartbeat like a deer in light.
She meant to yank free from the energy Cerqin poured into her, but felt the boost cap just beyond its rim.
It wasn’t an endless swell; her mind stayed clear, like sky after rain, though the excess pressed like a full dam.
If she didn’t vent it, the overflow would choke her with discomfort like steam trapped in a sealed pot.
Spring Tide understood and narrowed her eyes, teeth set like a drawn bow.
“You asked for this. I hadn’t planned to use the method I can’t turn on myself.”
Spring Tide’s timecraft behaves differently on three fronts, like wind, water, and stone shaping a canyon.
On the world, she slows the flow of time, like frost settling on a stream.
On herself, she stops time, stepping into a seam in the hours like slipping behind a curtain.
On others, she accelerates states; paired with a time-stop, she can stack and lock them like leaves pressed in a book.
Her strongest strike against Silver Luan had layered pain’s peak, speeding the hurt inside a stopped instant over and over.
Silver Luan endured like a cliff facing surf, but Cerqin wouldn’t.
It meant tasting several cresting body-states in a heartbeat, peaks stacked like mountains touching clouds.
Now, with stamina and mana brimming like wine to the lip, she could stack even more.
Seeing Cerqin’s expectant gaze, bright as a candle, Spring Tide moved like a knife through silk.
This casting was swift; in a blink, she loosed her power and let go of Cerqin’s hands like opening a cage.
Cerqin’s awareness scattered and she fainted, falling like a petal; she’d wake soon as the ability pulled her back.
But the rampage was ebbing, dust settling like snow; the tempest was done.
The final victor was the Holy Maiden, Spring Tide, a banner in the wind.
…
By the fire, Silver Luan sat bound hand and foot, blanket draped, staring at the flames like a lost star.
The still-unwakened knights were laid in a row like logs, tended by those who had already come to.
Cerqin and Spring Tide sat across the fire; silence pooled between them like a dark pond.
“Since none of you will talk, I’ll sort out this farce.”
Spring Tide’s voice held no feeling, iron under frost. After hearing Silver Luan’s reasons, she glanced at shivering Cerqin, her mood darkening like an oncoming storm.
The start was simple. Before Eastern Sea City, Cerqin met Silver Luan, who trained outside while disguised as human to dodge trouble.
With her cute looks, Cerqin drew close over time like ivy on stone; Silver Luan grew fond and prepared to reveal herself.
Yet in the inn’s tavern on the first floor, Cerqin somehow got her drunk like pouring night into a cup.
When Silver Luan opened her eyes the next day, no liberties had been taken, a mercy like cool shade.
But the little garment was gone like a swiped jewel. It was her most comfortable underlayer, a gift from her mother, the clan leader.
The innkeeper said the pink-haired girl helped the drunk upstairs, then soon left, face alight like a festival lantern.
Silver Luan realized the pink-haired girl had approached her just to take that piece, desire coiled like a thief’s hand.
Later, by coincidence, she passed nearby and, as a Half Dragonkin, caught Cerqin’s scent like rain on stone.
She meant to demand it back and, after catching Cerqin, ask why she took only that and did nothing else.
That led to the first strike, thunder before rain.
She hadn’t expected to fail to reclaim it—worse, to lose her purity in such a way, like silk torn by storm.
“So this mess, Cerqin, you’re mainly at fault, aren’t you?”
Spring Tide concluded, slicing her a look like a whip, then turned to Silver Luan, her voice carrying a breath of helplessness like wind over tall grass.
