Recruiting a former princess as helper and errand runner felt like catching a steady wind—less hassle, easy to steer, no extra weight.

But in Northfort, even freed from the supervised cells, White Thought was little use; the Demon Race lurked like wolves in snow.

So for now, we had to roll up our sleeves and wade the cold stream ourselves.

Aileaf’s potion trials were nearly wrapped, like fog thinning at dawn, so she could help Cerqin with the materials.

Back at the Sanctuary, they found Spring Tide, dropped prophecy intel like stones into a calm pond, then fled her scolding gaze.

Cerqin led Aileaf into the storage room, where the guild-square haul sat like stacked driftwood.

So many base materials—like a dune of scraps.

The room held all sorts of low-tier supplies, piled to fill over half the space like grain in a barn.

You bought this much, huh... like stocking a winter cellar.

I’ve got a lot I want to test lately, ideas popping like sparks.

Cerqin cleared a corner, set the basic magitech manuals on the table, the stage neat like a freshly raked garden.

Most materials were pre-processed, needing only cuts to size and shape, like trimming tiles.

For two Fifth Rank, it wasn’t hard; they worked barehanded, no complex tools, cutting clean like knives through tofu.

Thus Cerqin and Aileaf followed the basics and ran experiment after experiment, waves beating the shore.

Cold settled in White Thought’s chest like winter ash. In the knight garrison’s underground cells, she stared ahead, mind drifting to a plain afternoon a year ago.

The Baiju Kingdom’s palace had been tranquil, like a still lake; laughter of palace maids floated from afar like windchimes.

Then a single thunderclap shattered that calm. The palace was attacked; armored strangers burst in like storm-borne blades.

They cut down whoever they saw, wrecking everything their gaze fell on like locusts through grain.

If only...

If only a prophecy had been cast beforehand, like hanging a lantern before the night.

That regret bubbled up every moment, like a spring under stone.

Doubt pricked like thorns. Even with mild backlash, could a fragment of prophecy really bend a river of fate?

Human strength runs out, like oil in a lamp.

This outcome had appeared recently, clear as frost on glass, and among countless futures it was the best she could grasp.

When Cerqin’s invitation-command landed, fate’s fog thinned in her heart like mist at sunrise, and the lines of future shifted.

Resolve tightened like a drawn bow. White light flickered in her eyes as she poured everything into a fresh prophecy, trying to glimpse two months ahead.

In her pupils she saw herself in a nun’s habit, resignation pulsing under her gaze like a buried ember, and a blurred figure took her hand...

Another face I can’t see clearly, like smoke over water.

White Thought whispered, the words drifting like smoke.

It was an obvious anomaly, like a stain on snow. She’d used her gift countless times since childhood; only lately did the future show figures wrapped in blur.

Her mind slipped to the pink-haired lady who painted fear across her nights. With a fifth blurred silhouette, she’d thought she was getting used to it.

But this new haze felt bound to her like a knot in red thread.

A small thread of expectation curled in her chest like warm tea steam.

In the Sanctuary’s main office, Spring Tide worked through files like a millwheel. Beside her, the city bishop frowned over a stack of papers.

Is this report solid—iron-solid?

The pages held Aileaf’s summary on future foresight, world collapse within a century, and the Four Pole Stars, laid out like constellations.

Spring Tide lifted her head, gravity hanging like rain.

Baiju’s prophetic outputs carry very low deviation, like arrows finding their mark.

Prophecy-type abilities are rare as phoenix feathers, and hard to grow. And the Littlefolk’s great sage...

In history, such prophetic gifts were famed like mountain drums. Baiju prophesied at awakening, and that Littlefolk sage was hailed once in a century.

This sort of matter should be weighed by His Holiness, like a scale in steady hands.

Fair point—like a pebble hitting true.

Spring Tide nodded, and the Northfort bishop turned the topic like turning a page.

Our team to the Northern Wilds should be back soon, bringing Demon Race intel like frost-bitten maps.

Do you think it’s war, Bishop—like drums on the wind?

The odds are high, like thunder piling behind clouds.

After so many quiet years, moving all at once is strange, like a lake breaking into waves.

Especially striking the far eastern edge, away from their core—costly and thankless, like hauling stones uphill.

Against the Holy Dragon Empire’s border, they usually harass in small bites, like wolves testing a fence. If those past elites moved for White Thought’s gift...

But the Demon shifts in the Northern Wilds hint the tale isn’t simple, like ink spreading under rain.

Those faint northern auras worry me, like shadows flicker at a campfire’s rim.

The bishop’s face darkened, a high-rank cultivator sensing northern pressure like a stormfront.

Could the Demon King be reviving—here?

It’s not impossible, right? Otherwise why would so many Demon elites flock here, like crows to carrion?

It’s possible...

This year’s saintly circuit is anything but peaceful, like a restless sea.

Spring Tide sighed; words dried like leaves. The Holy Maiden’s annual circuit runs every year; after ceremonial starts, this strict form is the third.

The last two passed smooth as slow rivers, nothing to mark in bold.

Over three months, the circuit spans four or five cities, then returns to Eastern Sea City. This time the first stop, Eastwind City, cracked like a struck bell.

The second stop won’t be calm either, likely to witness a hinge of history, like a door swinging in a gale.

Fatigue seeped into Spring Tide, like sand filling her boots.

A splash of pink rose in her mind like a sunset bloom. Since entering the city, she’d wanted intimacy, but busyness tangled her like weeds.

She promised herself a hard-earned reward after the storm, calming her heart like smoothing silk.

Then the Northfort bishop’s voice rang again, like a bell through fog.

Want to take a break—catch breath by a well?

I’d love to—if you hadn’t siphoned those supply batches like a fox in a granary.

Spring Tide’s patience crawled like an ink line across her brow.

I told you, I’ll take my punishment myself—like walking to the chopping block~

You really want Mingxi to chew you out, bite like a cold wind?

As sure as sunrise!

Spring Tide stared, speechless, at the woman who was practically her senior-sister, and for a heartbeat saw a certain pink-haired blur, like cherry smoke.

Our Sanctuary’s full of odd birds, isn’t it...

Heh heh—laughter trickling like water.

Bishop, that wasn’t a compliment—more like a thrown pebble.

When a city bishop errs, the Law Enforcement Hall can’t punish; the rank stands like a wall.

They can’t lash, but can report, like sending a falcon with a message.

If it’s grave, the regional Archbishop judges and punishes, and for close bishops or Divine Officers, may teach in person, like a storm arriving.

On the saintly circuit, the Holy Maiden can judge local bishops directly; once guilt is set, chastisement hits harder like winter hail.

It’s Spring Tide’s first time in Northfort, yet she knows this senior-sister bishop well, like a familiar star.

Every year, she trots to Eastern Sea City at a set time to take the boards, like a penitent under rain.

Divine Officers in Eastern Sea say Archbishop Mingxi breaks several rods on her each year, like dry branches snapping.

Unauthorized use of supplies, harassing nuns and Divine Officers, punishing prisoners beyond endurance... No wonder Mingxi gets mad, like thunder finding a peak.

If possible, give me the maximum penalties, weigh me with stones!

You really want a beating—like drums on your back?

Exactly! Also, many Law Enforcement methods and tools need updating, like replacing rusty blades.

Spring Tide fell silent, staring at a line in the file like a splinter under skin.

Damaging and privately keeping Law Enforcement instruments, disrupting the Hall’s order...

Speaking of which, Cerqin said she’d improve the instruments, like sharpening them to a clean edge...