After her ability woke, her spirit surged like a spring tide, and every stray gaze pricked like windblown needles against skin.

Unease first, then steps; Cerqin walked back with a furrowed brow, that watched‑from‑behind feeling flickering like shadows on water.

Not a professional tail, she thought; a real one would be a cold blade, and she would’ve felt it sharp and clear.

Spring Tide had her own moves in play like hidden currents, so Cerqin couldn’t rule out someone sent to watch the Holy Maiden’s companion.

If that’s the case, why so blatant, like lantern light in mist? What’s the point of showing the hand?

Back in her room, she peered out the window; the street lay calm as still reeds, nothing obvious stirring.

Tonight, the other two likely wouldn’t return; with that guess settling like dust, Cerqin opened the Hand of Space grimoire, fresh ink still smelling like rain.

Not far from her inn’s corner, two figures in servant livery whispered, faces half‑hidden like moths by a lamp.

“Looks like a traveler, not from Eastwind City,” one said, voice flat as a dull blade.

“Poor thing, His Highness set eyes on her…” the other breathed, pity thin as smoke.

“What if we grab her now and deliver her straight to His Highness?” The question dropped like a stone into a pond.

“Don’t be stupid,” came the hiss, quick as a whip. “His Highness likes to do it himself. We shadow, we report, and we keep our heads. You know the price of displeasing him.”

“Right… I’d rather not end up a pet,” the first muttered, the word crawling like a worm.

That rare, solitary night pressed in like damp silk; the discomfort was sharper, a nameless sorrow tugging at her heart like low tide.

Rest wouldn’t settle; study felt like sand slipping; Cerqin sighed and let the city air call her out.

At first light, she ate a casual breakfast, steam curling like morning mist, then wandered aimlessly, a leaf in a slow current.

Those hidden gazes still brushed her like moth wings, less bold now, more veiled, like rain behind gauze.

Without thinking, her feet carried her back to the beastkin quarter; a rabbit‑eared child tumbled and bumped her leg like a bouncing sprout.

Cerqin steadied, then smiled, soft as sunlight on a sill, at the tiny hands pinching her hem.

Give it a few years, and she’ll be a rabbit‑eared beauty, Cerqin mused, a blossom waiting its season.

Warmth in her chest, runes in her head; her thoughts returned to the Hand of Space, sigils tangled like constellations.

Even the weakest space art was still space—an abyss behind a door—its complexity coiling like engraved vines.

Magic study was runes understood and imprints built, carving paths inside like channels through clay.

Once an imprint formed, you poured mana along its circuit, and the spell bloomed at once, like fire catching dry grass.

Beyond a few simple daily arts, most spells—especially battle ones—demanded imprints, bones of thunder etched within.

Her third‑tier spirit barely met the threshold; third‑tier mana was a thin stream, not enough for complex engravings.

Among the spells she knew, only one required an imprint: Body Reinforcement, a foundational weave bracing flesh like bamboo splints.

As a third‑tier, Cerqin’s mana couldn’t support the Hand of Space imprint; the lines wouldn’t hold, like sand walls in rain.

But her bloodline’s Love God shifted the weight, a secret tide filling the channels.

With that grace, she could study complex imprints ahead of time; slow to lay, yes, but stone by stone.

A small shape hit her next, impact heavy as a sack of grain; she went down hard, the world thumping like a drum.

“Ow!” both voices yelped, pain quick as a spark, then breath catching like a net.

“Sorry—are you okay? I zoned out—really, I’m so sorry,” came a timid voice, fluttering like a sparrow.

The small figure scrambled up, head bowed, hands twitching, wanting to help but afraid, a fawn at the edge of a stream.

Cerqin rolled to her feet, brushed dust off like shaken snow, and waved it off with a crooked smile.

“It’s fine, kiddo. I spaced out too,” she said, words light as dandelion fluff.

One glance, then a double take; the girl stood under a meter, child‑height, yet her figure hinted at curves, outlines whispering through loose clothes like lines under silk.

Even wrapped, details spoke in quiet measures; surprises tucked like seeds under soil.

And—how did a “child” topple a third‑tier physique? Her body was a stone gate; kids shouldn’t move it.

Cultivation didn’t start before fourteen; mana weighed on young bodies like iron on green shoots.

Feeling Cerqin’s gaze, the girl peeked up, eyes dewy as fog, face delicate and unchildlike, a miniature beauty carved fine.

“Uh…” hesitation hovered like a pause in rain.

“I’m Littlefolk,” she murmured, voice small as a bell threaded with string.

“My name’s Aileaf. I’m really sorry about earlier,” she added, bow dipping like a blade of grass.

“Ah? Oh! It’s fine. I spaced out too. Littlefolk, huh—my first time seeing one,” Cerqin said, surprise glinting like a coin.

The Holy Dragon Empire had no Littlefolk settlements; they were rare, most said to live in southern forests, size varying like seeds.

Some adults were palm‑sized; others stood like human children. Aileaf, in her tribe, was probably one of the “giants.”

The Littlefolk were an uncommon people, all female, able to reproduce among themselves, their lore winding like roots.

Rumor said the Radiant Sanctuary devised certain secret arts by studying them, mysteries lit like candles in stone halls.

Cerqin’s thoughts leapt, threads weaving like silk, connections sprouting in quick, green pairs.

“I’m Cerqin. Nice to meet you, little Aileaf,” she said, warmth offered like tea.

She didn’t know Aileaf’s exact age, but her gentleness and size tugged Cerqin into adding that “little,” an endearment soft as cotton.

Aileaf didn’t mind; with Cerqin’s deliberate kindness, the two grew familiar fast, words flowing like a clear stream.

They set a time to stroll tomorrow; then Aileaf seemed to remember something, waved a hasty goodbye, and ran into a shop like a darting swallow.

Cerqin stared at the storefront, scratched her head, then let it go, the question tucked away like a folded note.

Time slid to afternoon; her stomach growled, a drumbeat reminding her of simple needs.

She decided to head to the market bustle for dinner, lights and smells rising like a festival.

A pout tugged her lips, that lonely ache surfacing like a pale moon.

“Who knows when those two will stop being busy,” she muttered, complaint light as steam.

“Miss, hello.” The call came sharp as a tapped glass; Cerqin halted, heart jumpy as a startled bird.

At the corner ahead, a woman in servant livery stared straight at her, gaze like a pinned needle.

“Uh… and you are?” Cerqin asked, one brow lifting, caution curling like a cat’s tail.

She had seen this face at a few intersections, drifting like the same shadow; likely the tail.

“My master invites you. Please come,” the woman said, politeness smooth as lacquer.

Cerqin stepped back, muscles tensing like drawn bowstrings, eyes flicking to the beastkin around them.

Curious eyes gathered like a ring of stones; that crowd steadied her—at least they wouldn’t move here.

“Who is your master?” she asked, voice level, while her fingers slid toward the amulet Spring Tide had given her, a hidden ember under cloth.

She was just about to feed it mana, a spark ready to run the circuit, when a hand tapped her shoulder from behind, silent as a shadow.

Hair rose like bristles; a tiny sting bit her skin, then dizziness flooded in, night dropping like a curtain.

A voice brushed her ear, near and far, arrogant yet musical, like silk drawn over glass.

“What an unexpected delight,” it purred, as darkness swallowed her whole. “Didn’t think I’d find such a little beauty.”