Oh right, Aileaf brewed a new potion—fresh as dew on bamboo—do you wanna try it?

A jolt ran through Spring Tide like a struck gong, and last night’s memory surfaced like moonlight on water.

Aileaf’s potion stripped stamina like a silk veil torn away, and in exchange, it flooded the senses like a storm tide.

In the right dose, it worked as a gentle rein; pushed harder, it became a lacquered switch for punishment, cool as jade.

If the dose rose a touch, it might spark a strange miracle, like a hidden spring breaking stone.

Aileaf? That Littlefolk girl?

The bishop lowered her gaze like a crane bending to the stream and checked the sheet on the Four Pole Stars.

Miss Aileaf is an apothecary as well?

Mm. A very skilled one, steady as an old pine.

Then I must try it, no matter what, the bishop said, eyes bright like lanterns in dusk.

You’re not even asking what kind of potion it is?

No problem. My resistance is high, like iron under rain. Even if it’s poison, I probably won’t die.

A Seventh Rank body outstripped common life like a tiger outpaces hares; simple fatigue returned as quick as a spring ripple.

But sensation—if amplified and stacked—might spark wonders, like lightning layered in thunderheads.

At that thought, Spring Tide nodded, calm as a lake before dawn.

I’ll ask her for one another day.

Cerqin and Aileaf wrestled with materials in the stacked-supplies room, busy like ants under summer sun, and only came out after a whole day.

After Silver Luan woke, she helped sort ingredients, nimble as swallows; when night fell, the four curled together on one bed like warm silk.

By morning’s pale mist, they parted to their tasks, each stream finding its own riverbed.

After days of experiments and assembly, Cerqin finally completed her first piece of magitech, bright as a new blade.

It was a pink rod, forearm-thick, its material unknown like a coral from deep seas, reworked from a basic discipline tool with many new tricks.

Finally. It’s done!

Aileaf pushed the door with a breeze-like sway and peered at Cerqin’s joy with a kitten’s curiosity.

That fast? Already finished?

Yep. Yesterday’s trials weren’t in vain, like pounding rice till it turns to paste. By the way, where’d you run off to, Aileaf?

Spring Tide took my potion this morning, right? I made another, like boiling a second kettle. A live test on a high-rank is rare, like a comet.

I’ll ask later how it went.

Ah, that bishop...

When Spring Tide compared the bishop of Northfort to her, Cerqin’s mood curdled like sour plums, heat rising like summer noon.

She held back her urge to act cute last night, stubborn as a mule; the back half’s a blur like fog, but she did push back a little.

I’m not that much of a pervert!

I just asked Silver Luan. She said she’ll try the potion with you tonight, like tasting a new tea at moonrise.

Why didn’t she ask me first!

Cerqin pouted, lips like cherry petals.

Aren’t you looking forward to it?

Aileaf cocked her head like a sparrow and swung the door shut with a soft click, like closing a lacquer box.

Cerqin was looking forward to it, a heat rising like spring sap; tenfold effect sounded tempting as ripe peaches.

Conservatively, it’d match Silver Luan’s Dragon Deity rampage, like a river breaking banks.

And it carried a stacking state the Dragon Deity lacked, a lattice only the Phantom God could weave like silk on a loom.

Just imagining it made Cerqin sincerely thrilled, knees weak like reeds in wind.

So, how’s the finished piece?

Aileaf stepped close, eyes catching the pink rod like sunlight on rose quartz; after yesterday’s prototypes, she had some expectations.

It’s basically stable now. The magitech drives are precise as clockwork, but heavy force can break them like thin ice.

Wrap it in something soft, and loss drops sharply, like cushioning a fall with moss.

Cerqin’s excitement grew like a rising kite; she even slipped into Aileaf’s professional cadence, crisp as a chisel.

I also found slime tissue is perfect for the shell, especially large slime—soft as tofu, yet springy as bowstring.

She squeezed the rod; its pink came from the material, like cherry blossom dye, harvested from that large slime she and Qianli hunted.

It held a special toxin, so they ate only a scrap, like tasting a pepper. Most of the stuff became too tough to use, like dried tendon.

But the soft-yet-sturdy material still sold well at the Adventurers’ Guild, like rare leather for plush cushions and luxe furniture.

Large slimes feel better than the small ones, like satin compared to linen.

Cerqin spoke while handing Aileaf the piece; the thick pink rod on Aileaf’s palm looked huge, like a pillar beside a sapling.

Knowing what the implement was for, Aileaf’s cheeks bloomed like peach blossoms; she pinched it, the feel smooth as river stone.

A faint oddity rose like mist from warm tea.

Mm… it kept a trace of the slime’s toxin, like a ghost of spice, but it’s not strong.

Slime toxins differ from others, like rain from wine; they’re in the body fluid, not a special gland.

After death, as the fluid evaporates like dew at noon, the toxin fades with it, light as smoke.

Feels a bit off?

The subtle difference knitted Aileaf’s brows like a stitched seam.

Hee-hee. It’s pink because it soaked up my magic, like silk in dye. Some Love God effects linger, like incense on sleeves.

Just holding it seems to reduce stamina and mana loss, like shade on a long road.

No wonder…

Aileaf understood at once, then paused like a swallow mid-turn.

Wait. If that’s so, isn’t it better for inner armor or other protective wear, like padded silk under mail?

Oh!

Another thing—don’t you think it’s a bit too big?

Compared to the prototype implement, this pink crowned design was larger by more than a ring, long as a forearm and just as thick.

It looked even bigger in Aileaf’s hands, like a gourd held by a child.

It’s thicker than my arm by a lot…

Can’t be helped. I’m still green, like spring bamboo. Fine tolerances on tiny mechanisms are hard to control, like threading a needle in wind.

Cerqin took the rod back, tapped the center, and the whole thing thrummed, a wasp-nest buzz in her hands.

Anyway, there’s no way you can use this one, hee-hee—

Can you even take that?

Honestly? Even half would be tough, like swallowing a peach pit…

So?

Next I’ll try to tame the error margins, like trimming a bonsai. Make it smaller. My goal’s finger-sized at minimum!

Cerqin spoke and swept a glance over Aileaf, playful as a cat; Aileaf’s dress was exquisite, the hem kissing her knees like a brook’s edge.

She was curvy overall, like a ripe pear, but her height was a hard limit; for a Littlefolk, she was giant-sized, yet still petite as a willow.

Hey!

Aileaf puffed up like a sparrow, and the two tumbled into play, laughter like bell chimes, trying the steady rhythm even if they couldn’t use it fully.

When night settled like ink, in a room of the Sanctuary, the bishop and the Holy Maiden finished paperwork, weary as candles guttering.

The bishop reclined on a cushion, feline and languid, then reached impatiently for a small bottle, eyes gleaming like stars through gauze.

It was the new potion Spring Tide had claimed from Aileaf, sealed like a secret in glass.

She popped the stopper and took a tiny crystal cup from her storage, delicate as jade; she poured, then downed it in one motion, a silver swallow.

Tastes pretty good… mm.

The comment barely left her lips before the undiluted brew struck like thunder, stripping stamina like leaves torn by wind.

The sensation was new and strange as first snow, and the bishop’s curiosity bloomed like night jasmine.

For a Seventh Rank body, it was bearable, like holding hot tea; there was no danger to life, only a bright ringing.

But the flood that followed was so strong it erased rank like waves erase footprints on sand.

Within seconds, she melted onto the cushion like warm wax, eyes hazy as misted glass, words spilling in broken threads.

This… this thing hits too hard—ah—

Even the faint rub of her body against the cushion sparked fireworks, flaring like meteors across a summer sky.

After she adapted a little, like a boat finding balance, the bishop upped the intensity, fingers trembling like reed leaves.

She drew a black rod from her storage, a shadowy baton like lacquered night…