We have to save as many as we can, like hauling souls out of a rising flood.

That was Spring Tide and Silver Luan’s shared thought, after they vetted the letter like sifting grit from river gold.

“Once we get through this, dinner’s on me,” Spring Tide said, breath like steam after two days of running in circles.

He finally sat down to rest, tossing a small joke like a pebble. Silver Luan’s mouth twitched, a cool blade glinting under cloudlight.

“We may not get an after,” he said, voice flat as winter ice. “Eastwind City’s main mana nodes were guided on purpose, like channels cut into a field.”

“From their placement, it’s nine in ten for an explosive spell, set along the city’s primary mana trunk, like fuses buried under stone.”

“The blast could flatten the main city and the outskirts, a stormwall sweeping everything clean.”

Worse, the mana flow at the nodes was steady, like a river that’s already dammed. The spell was set. It was too late to break it.

So the letter was right. At this moment, there was nothing anyone could do, like reaching for rain after it’s fallen.

Unless a ninth‑tier specialist in this exact art appeared by chance, Eastwind City getting blown sky‑high was set, like thunder crouched above a dry plain.

“But isn’t it strange?” Spring Tide murmured, a thorn snagging silk. “It’s already set…”

The other side seemed to be guiding on purpose, not even hiding the tracks, and even wrote a letter—declaring the guiding like banners in wind.

They had only been here a few days—short on intel, short on hands, short on power—two candles in a gale, with no idea of the enemy’s aim.

Either way, the enemy now held a way to blast Eastwind City whenever they wished, a drawn bow aimed at every throat in town.

No matter what they wanted next, everyone in Eastwind City stood beneath a falling blade, a Damocles sword gleaming like frost over hair.

And since they left a letter, they didn’t care who knew, didn’t care who stayed or fled, like a hunter whistling in open brush.

But they warned that if these two did anything, they’d trigger early, like striking flint while oil still spills.

At first glance, they’d penned two roads in ash: tuck your tail and leave, or stay and get blown to the sky.

How to survive—and how to drag more people out of the tide—became the question that gnawed like mice in the walls.

Unlike the headache in Spring Tide and Silver Luan’s rented room, unlike Cerqin snoring sweetly while hugging Aileaf like a soft pillow, the city’s heart seethed.

In a luxury room near the center, the little princess—knocked out and shamed last night—was venting her broken pride on her own servants, a storm trapped in silk.

While she raged, a royal shadow guard in black stepped from the dark like a knife from a sheath, ignoring the mess, voice shaking like a drumskin.

“Master… it’s bad,” he said, breath slicing as if remembering something with fangs.

“What happened?” She caught the wrongness, fury banking like embers. Her voice fell low, a bell before storm.

“The City Lord’s people… they’re all controlled,” he said, eyes wide as night pools. “Empty stares, stiff movements—like corpses waking to march.”

These couriers were shadow wolves of the Holy Dragon Empire, tempered by blood and fire, veterans who had tasted iron and smoke.

Which made his panic grotesque, like a statue cracking in the heat. The sight stamped wrongness into the room like soot.

The princess thought of mental attacks at once, a chill current under her breath, because her own power ran the same river.

She sensed the twist in him. His will wasn’t bound, but his mind had been scraped by claws. Terror poured off him like cold sweat.

That fear was a tide trying to drown his spirit, an undertow dragging ankles. It smelled like iron and brine.

“Damn it. What is this…” she hissed, the words sharp as broken porcelain.

By dawn, Cerqin tugged Aileaf out to shop, bright as a kite in morning wind. Aileaf planned to deliver yesterday’s batch of medicines, like bundles of herbs tied with sun.

They tidied up and stepped out hand in hand, fingers hooked like vines on a trellis.

“Feels like a young single mother dragging her under‑ten kid,” Cerqin laughed, a pink‑haired breeze under the eaves.

Aileaf was too short—or rather, too mini in build—like a sparrow among cranes. Among Littlefolk she was a giant; among Humans, barely child‑height.

“Counting years, I’m older than you,” Aileaf murmured, voice soft as moss, cheeks lit by the shy glow of their joined hands.

They had barely taken two steps when Cerqin felt the small hand twitch, a startled fish in her palm. She glanced down and saw doubt rippling across Aileaf’s face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, heartbeat a quick drum.

“The air feels off,” Aileaf said, like catching a sour note in clear water.

“The air?” Cerqin blinked, mind wandering to romance. She opened her arms for a hug like a quilt.

“Not that kind of air!” Aileaf squeaked, blush flickering like peach petals.

“Mm… even if you don’t like it, we do have a height gap,” Cerqin teased, smile a fox’s curl.

“That’s not it,” Aileaf said, eyes narrowing like a cat at dusk. “The mana flow in the air felt… subtly sick.”

She couldn’t find the words, like trying to sketch wind. The feeling rose fast and left faster, a ripple vanishing on glass.

“It’s back to normal now,” she said, listening like a healer to a pulse. “Strange.”

“Mm…” Cerqin scratched her head, a puppy before a mirror, not sure what to say. As a plain third‑tier, this river ran outside her banks.

Even if Eastwind City blew, she’d run if she could, or accept it if she couldn’t, like a leaf riding runoff.

“Let’s shop first,” she chirped, heart light as a skylark. Aileaf nodded, filing worry away like needles in a case.

At least it didn’t feel like a mana storm brewing, no thunder in the bones. Eastwind was a big city; its stabilizing arrays hummed like lattices against wild wind.

They walked hand in hand, drifting toward the Beastfolk quarter, browsing as they went, like two boats nosing along a market wharf.

The streets pulsed as usual. From the bazaar came the chorus of hawkers, morning bells in human throats, faint but clear on the cool air.

Even off the main crowd, workshops and storefronts along the road opened with the sunrise, shutters lifting like eyelids.

Cerqin eyed a shop with a hungry spark, admiring neat rows of pretty clothes, colors like candies in jars.

The display case held small garments in a garden of hues. Something in her chest fluttered, a magpie’s itch for bright things.

“Little Aileaf, c’mon. I’m buying you new clothes,” she sang, voice a ribbon.

“Eh?” Aileaf tried to say that anything she could wear needed custom work. In Eastwind City, ready‑made meant children’s sizes.

Even if some fit, she didn’t want to wear them that way, pride a small fire under her ribs.

But Cerqin’s expectant face shone like dawn through paper windows. Aileaf hesitated, then followed her into the shop like a lamb.

“Welcome!” the owner chimed, tail sweeping like a banner. Not Human—near the Beastfolk quarter, lots of Beastfolk kept shops.

Judging by the features, a foxkin: big fluffy tail swaying, orange fur soft as ripe persimmons.

“Kinda like Silver Luan’s tail,” Cerqin muttered, leaning on the counter, mischief like dew.

She studied the rack with extra design—bright reds and greens, fabrics with tail holes and curved cuts, patterns meant for bodies with wild grace.

“Human sizes are over here, dear customer,” the foxkin said, smile crisp as folded paper.

“Cerqin, you’re not getting me that kind, right?” Aileaf blurted, face blushing like crabapple blossoms.

“Yeah. Besides kids’ sizes, you can’t wear the others,” Cerqin said, practical as a string. “The smallest should barely fit.”

Aileaf looked at the excited pinkhead, speechless, words fluttering away like moths. If Cerqin insisted on gifting, she had no shield.

Cerqin’s goal was simple: buy styles she liked for Aileaf, then sneak a few to keep as collectibles, a cycle like spring rain.

After picking for a while, she decided cute worked, bold worked—why choose? She’d take them all, a sweep of the net.

She squatted and held the smallest size up to Aileaf, head tilted like a sparrow. Then she snapped to the owner, voice quick as arrows.

“Pack one of every style in this size. I’ll take them all, thanks.”

“Of course!” the foxkin beamed, tail flaring like a fan. Some pieces were pricey; the smile opened like a flower.

Aileaf watched Cerqin measuring clothes against her, blank as a pond at dawn, a strange tide swelling in her chest.

Tonight, she’d have to teach her a proper lesson, like tapping a naughty forehead with a fan.

This pinkhead was too wicked.