Spring Tide left Cerqin a pitch-black charm, small as a river pebble, its surface drinking light, breathing a faint scent of magic.

It was for calling aid; once triggered, it fired a locator pulse, though Cerqin felt even idle it tracked him like a hound on a leash.

She told him not to wander, to nest in the room, yet the tracker felt like saying, run wild if you want; I’ll still see your footprints.

Words aside, she left the black charm and a small pouch of gold; if back by night, her intent shone clear as lantern light.

Going out to roam the streets was the only path, as inevitable as a river seeking the sea.

After changing out of the Nun robes, Cerqin tucked the gold and the charm into his pocket like seeds into loam.

Thinking being kept by a Holy Maiden felt sweet as honey, he eased the door open like lifting a paper screen in spring wind.

Eastwind City’s bustle rivaled Eastern Sea City’s, a granary by a broad freshwater river, bearing northern fruits like boughs heavy with winter sunlight.

Cerqin reached the market, chewing a fist-sized yellow fruit; noise hopped like sparrows, and beastkin jostled and scuffled like cubs.

The Holy Dragon Empire was human-led, but its doors stayed open like city gates in fair weather; the current king ruled under a broad sky.

Even so, on the road through other cities, Cerqin had caught alleyway whispers drifting like smoke.

Rumor said the reigning king was mixed-blood, his harem a garden of many races, blossoms of every hue.

Beast-eared beauties were indeed a treat, ripe as peaches in summer shade.

His collection still lacked a trophy from a beast-eared beauty, an empty hook waiting on the wall.

Cerqin muttered, and his eyes lit like a lantern wick catching flame.

Why stroll idle when the old trade could sing again? In Eastwind City, beastkin were plenty, sprouting like reeds along a riverbank.

The odds of meeting a beast-eared maiden seemed high, like fish rising in a well-stocked pond.

With that, he asked a few stallkeepers; they marked beastkin districts like ink on a map, and he chose the nearest to scout.

Their quarter wore different trims, but the air was lively, buzzing like drums at a street festival.

Lively beastkin children roughhoused everywhere, horns like polished wood, ears fluffy as winter mittens, tails flicking short or long like cattails.

The cubs charmed like sparrows, but the sudden glimpses of chic beauty made Cerqin feel he’d come to the right grove.

He marked a few spots and noted soft targets, deciding to wait until the alleys felt familiar as his own courtyard before moving.

Hunting in a normal district was easier, a low fence to vault; no need to befriend targets—just learn the paths, then slip in like night mist.

His Third Rank meant nothing beside the Holy Maiden; in Eastern Sea City’s Sanctuary, even a common Nun outmatched him like a taller shadow.

But for common folk, Third Rank was the ceiling; most stopped at Second or Third, and the latter stood stout as oak.

So here, he didn’t fret about a stronger net catching him; the water in these streets ran shallow.

One worry was scent; many beastkin noses were keen as winter wolves, so a balcony climb would need prep, masking smoke with rain.

He didn’t swagger in their quarter; once he fixed his marks, he flowed back to the first market like a leaf on a stream.

Dusk slid in without fuss; he bought more local fruit, then slipped back before the others, quiet as a cat.

He’d barely touched the bed’s edge when Spring Tide and Silver Luan came in, one after another like geese.

Welcome back... also, why’d we book just one room, cramming under one umbrella?

Cerqin clamped his mouth, a turtle drawing in; by rights they’d no time to toy with him, yet a loose tongue invites chores like rain makes mud.

I bought some Eastwind City specialty fruit; want a bite, sweet as morning sun?

Didn’t I tell you to stay put, not drift like a stray kite?

Uh...

Ah, right—he’d forgotten: that was the Holy Maiden’s planted excuse to torment him, neat as a needle under silk.

Cerqin drew his head in, small as a quail, and kept quiet; the white-haired Half Dragonkin, Silver Luan, shifted the topic and shared the day’s finds.

At the Adventurers’ Guild, the air felt strange, like thunder before rain; mysterious patrons flashed coin, and strong bands took rich jobs and left Eastwind City.

Silver Luan frowned as he spoke; Spring Tide held that cultists were burrowing under Eastwind City, yet the streets lay too calm, a lake without ripples.

No notices posted about cult activity—that’s strange, like a city with no crows at dusk.

The Adventurers’ Guild may be loose as sand, but in sensing tremors and catching whispers it’s top tier, a falcon over open plains.

I’ve gathered about the same, the wind carrying the same leaves.

Spring Tide nodded and sat beside Cerqin, took a fruit from his hand, and bit in, juice bright as a small sunrise.

She kept the whistleblowing Nun under a quiet umbrella and traced the roots; with more than one Divine Officer possibly rotten, she shunned the Law Enforcement Hall and the bishop.

But with cult intel so eerily scarce, Spring Tide felt they should visit the Sanctuary soon, like checking the well before drawing water.

Tomorrow we’ll go straight to the Sanctuary, then meet the whistleblowing Nun; I’ll ask you to guard her in the shadows like a night cloak.

No problem, Silver Luan said, voice like a drawn blade.

He nodded, then, as if a thread tugged a memory, spoke again.

By the way, it’s not headline intel, but it’s odd enough to itch.

Hm?

The Holy Dragon Empire’s overbearing little princess came to Eastwind City a few days ago, under the banner of play.

That brash little brat? She shouldn’t be tied to this, but sightseeing—Eastwind City isn’t exactly a pleasure garden.

Spring Tide found it odd too; Eastwind City had little to lure her, no jade lake or famed theater to cast a hook.

That princess has a poor reputation; even I’ve heard she loves to force any beauty she fancies, like a hawk stooping on a dove.

At that, Silver Luan’s gaze slid to Cerqin, a blade of light across the floor.

Why’re you looking at me like I’m a rabbit?

Cerqin figured that no matter how spoiled or fierce, a princess couldn’t stand higher than Spring Tide, a Holy Maiden of the Sanctuary, mountain to pavilion.

The Holy Dragon Empire might be a titan in the east, but its reach covered only a bit more than half the Eastern Region, a river not yet sea.

Silver Luan looked at him because he remembered Cerqin’s nature; the pink-haired one liked being forced, a moth courting flame.

Spring Tide spoke then, her voice calm as a still pond.

Want to walk the same path tomorrow?

I’ll pass; I’m too weak to help, and I want to rest, like a cat in a sunbeam.

If he stuck to the Holy Maiden’s side, there’d be no chance to hunt; Cerqin balked like a horse at a narrow bridge.

All right; during our stay in Eastwind City, you’ll live here like a bird under safe eaves.

She’d only asked in passing; Third Rank wasn’t fit for this, so better to let Cerqin roam, a kite on a long string, than dull her focus.

By the way, you’re close to the Fourth Rank; you can learn proper heavy magic now. Any path in mind? I suggest spells that braid with your gift.

I don’t want to be pure support, not just a shadow carrying water.

Cerqin still nursed a warrior’s dream; in a year of training, a rookie adventurer, he’d hunted many low-tier monsters, trophies like teeth in a pouch.

His solo days taught him to value straight-up fighting power, a shield to match the dagger.

Anyway, think it over; Fourth Rank options are limited. When you decide, tell me—I’ll fetch manuals straight from the Sanctuary, cutting the queue like bamboo.