The reinforced sacred tour escort of the Holy Maiden reached Eastwind City at last, like banners coming to rest in a cooling breeze after a long storm.

They were all Fifth Rank elite knights, with two Sixth Rank captains at the fore—a steel river strong enough to breach a small city, thunder held in bridles.

Spring Tide didn’t care much about their strength. Her gaze drifted to the carriages, to cushions like clouds and curtains like quiet rain.

Few dare strike at a Sanctuary convoy. Silver Luan had been a stray squall—fierce blows, but no intent to maim. The target had only ever been Cerqin.

Anywhere you go, a Sixth Rank is a prowling tiger beneath lantern light. Unless a high-tier event pulls in monsters and saints, such folk walk sideways through cities like waves that ignore harbor walls.

You can’t expect a high-ranked cultist to pop up at every gate.

“You three had yourselves some fun these past two days, didn’t you?”

At the gate of the Radiant Sanctuary in Eastwind City, Cerqin and the others stood by the carriage about to depart. Spring Tide smiled as she tugged Cerqin’s cheeks, a fox-light glint in her eyes.

Aileaf wore an artful pout, willow-shadowed and thin as mist.

Silver Luan stayed quiet, tail-still and pleased, while the air turned delicate as porcelain.

The knights, captains included, mounted in perfect cadence and ignored the little storm between the girls.

Cerqin let Spring Tide knead her face, eyes shining like wet ink. Her emotion felt truer than Aileaf’s painted sigh.

Then a thought flickered like a sparrow; Cerqin’s look changed.

She pressed Spring Tide’s hand down, a sly curl at her lips, and stared up at the Holy Maiden’s puzzled gaze with a little laugh.

“I’m Fifth Rank now—same as little Aileaf. So, Holy Maiden, it won’t be so easy to bully me anymore, right?”

Aileaf, dragged into the boast, blinked. Her pout fell like a dropped fan, and a strange light rippled in her eyes.

Silver Luan narrowed her eyes, mouth tilting; she looked ready to pounce, like a cat at the eaves.

Spring Tide’s confusion warmed into playfulness, a tide that wanted to rise.

She slipped her hand free and turned to the knights, crisp as the crack of a banner. Orders were given; hooves answered.

Then she scooped Cerqin, tossed her over a shoulder like a bundle of peach blossoms, and carried her straight into the prepared carriage—Holy Maiden composure set aside like a veil.

Silver Luan and Aileaf traded a look, then followed, quick as swallows.

The fine Trigon Steeds, bred from magical beasts, snorted and leaned into their traces—fast enough for roads, steady enough for weight—pulling the carriages with steady drumming hooves.

The new carriage was larger than their first tour car, and richer—lacquered wood like dark water, gilt trim like sunlight on rice stalks.

Most striking was the bed that took a third of the space, a moonwide expanse meant for more than one sleeper.

Spring Tide had requested it. She didn’t mind sharing or owning; she liked the game of it—the way tides run when others watch, or when she watched others, lanterns dimming and brightening in turn.

Together wasn’t bad either. Even with three waves against one shore, Love God’s recovery was calm, a steady undertow. More strikes at once meant Cerqin lost her footing more often, drifting into the white noise of sea-spray.

“Bold, aren’t we?”

Spring Tide tossed Cerqin onto the bed. Then she glanced at Silver Luan and Aileaf.

“Who goes first?”

“Together?” Silver Luan offered, tail swaying like a metronome. Aileaf’s fingers slipped to her buttons, leaves parting to dusk.

“Hey—wait! Three on one from the start isn’t fair!”

“Mmh. So you trust your new Fifth Rank strength.”

“Uh… not that much.”

“No. You trust it a lot.”

“Gah…”

Spring Tide flipped, pinning Cerqin, rain-to-wind, and spoke to the other two who were already half on the bed, ready to help.

“One at a time to start. Let our little pink fluff see the gap.”

Usually, between Fifth and Sixth Rank, the body’s steel differs, but you can still resist—on a normal day.

Spring Tide lifted Cerqin’s leg, moonlight cutting a line, and the last latch gave way like a clasped door in summer heat.

Mana hummed around Spring Tide like bees in plum blossoms.

Azure God surged, a sky-deep current.

She sped her own motions and sped the state of the body before her, twin rivers drinking the same reservoir—wasteful in battle, like burning oil at noon.

But Cerqin was Fifth Rank now. In excitement, Love God’s passive flowed, a quiet spring that barely kept pace with Spring Tide’s serious output.

After a few heartbeats of edge-rush, Cerqin couldn’t hold; she shot into the clouds, mind blank as fresh snow, then dropped back into herself ten breaths later, gasping like a fish pulled from river-shade.

“Wait—! That’s cheating! Ah—”

Before her protest could gather rain, Silver Luan and Aileaf each caught a hand, left and right warmth pressing close like twin braziers.

At some point, buttons had popped—little stars skittering across the floor—and she lay bared, generous, full, inviting as ripe fruit.

Hunger and drowsiness rose and fell, but Love God’s recovery smoothed those waves, turning sharp edges to foam.

By the time everyone was satisfied and drifted into sleep, the convoy had been on the road for several days, Eastwind City already a memory like lanterns seen through mist.

“Not coming out for meals today either…”

At a camp, knights were unloading food from two supply carriages. One of the two female captains sat in the other’s lap, casting an envious glance at the silent carriage, like a cat watching a closed kitchen door.

They hadn’t heard a sound inside for days. Still, everyone knew what the four girls were doing, and the duration drew a kind of respect—more awe than gossip, like seeing a waterfall keep falling.

Qianli didn’t leave Baili’s arms. Armor off, she wriggled deeper, soft as cotton under autumn sun.

“Shouldn’t be any problems, right?”

“Stop distracting me while I make the fire. What problems could there be? That’s the Holy Maiden. We were told not to disturb. If we ruin her mood by accident…”

“Mmm… I wonder just how endearing Miss Cerqin is… I’m so jealous.”

“Huh?”

Baili squeezed, and Qianli’s breath hitched, a startled bird.

“Hey—easy!”

“Hmph.”

“Wait—someone will see. Ah—”

“Aren’t you jealous? Want to be shared?”

“What?! That’s not what I meant, you vinegar jar!”

Qianli pouted, sweet-and-sour, knowing Baili wasn’t serious, yet answering from instinct, like rain arguing with roof tiles.

“Should’ve brought one more carriage…”

Baili, harried by Qianli’s squirming, regretted not adding another wagon to the column, a moment too late.

On the big bed, Cerqin woke first. Thanks to the cleaning spell, the soaked sheets gleamed like fresh morning—save for the torn coverlet, kicked useless.

Her eyes slid over the white, sleeping shapes—moon-pale limbs strewn like fallen petals. She sat up, gently moving a tail and a small hand from her lap, and felt tears like dew gathering.

Three against one—fine, a lost match.

One-on-one afterward, and she’d still lost, utterly, like a skiff overturned by a single rogue wave.

I got stronger… yet somehow I’m worse off.

For a breath, she wondered if Love God was a gift meant to make her easier to bully, a joke carved into starlight.

No… that’s too much.

Huh?

The thought flashed like a fish beneath the surface. She let it go.

Her excitement had ebbed; Love God no longer flowed on its own. Hunger came back, soft but insistent, a drum in the belly.

Her stomach growled, a kettle calling her from the bed to the fire.

“So hungry. I wonder what time it is…”