Silver Luan breathed in ragged threads, then pulled Cerqin tight like gathering a wind-tossed kite. The new draught worked better than planned; with the Love God’s boon, side effects melted like frost.

They drank almost together, two mirrored moons over a dark pond. The hour-long tide rose and fell in sync, echo answering echo.

As sand ran out, the drug’s grip ebbed like a receding wave. A knock tapped the door, a pebble on still water—Aileaf waiting outside.

"How is it?" "Pretty good..." Silver Luan looked steadier than Cerqin. Heat flushed her skin like dawn, yet her mind surfaced first, cool as rain.

"The stamina drain was lighter than expected," she said, voice a held bowstring. "Trim it more, and a Sixth Rank body can tank it head-on."

"There’s still room to refine," she added, like a smith eyeing a blade’s edge.

Push the effect any harder, and the first strike would scar the spirit, like lightning charring a tree—damage you can’t take back.

Cerqin climbed back from scattershot fog, heart soaring and dropping like a hawk riding thermals, dozens of times within the hour.

New and fierce, the taste of it defied words, like biting snow and fire. She nodded, satisfaction glowing like a lantern.

"That hit the spot. Next time, we can try it together..." Her smile curled like a cat at cream.

So seamless a surge is hard even for the Phantom God of Spring Tide. Stacked and amplified, it drove devotees mad like storm-tossed waves.

"Didn’t think I’d lose my grip," Cerqin muttered, rueful as winter wind. She’d meant to use that pink rod during the trial.

But once the draught went down, there was no time, no thread of will to guide a hand—only floodwater and thunder.

"Too much stimulus, so you can’t choose your moves?" Silver Luan asked, curiosity flickering like a moth. Aileaf nodded; that was the knot.

The effect ran so strong it narrowed play, like a river in flood erasing side paths. If everyone drank, the taste would be the same.

"Used as a special auxiliary implement for punishment, it’s near perfect," Aileaf said, voice flat as a blade on ice.

Cerqin fell silent, then nodded, a quiet stone in a stream. Most people couldn’t bear that tide; as an alternate tool, it could work.

"We can hand it to the Law Enforcement Hall to trial, but stamina recovery is a hole," she added, brow furrowed like a plowed field.

"For that, we can brew a new draught," Aileaf said. "Something that feeds stamina over time, like rain soaking roots."

They traded thoughts like shuttle and thread, then set their course like pins on a map.

"Will Spring Tide come later?" "She said she’ll be late." "Then while the moon’s high, do you want to try?"

Cerqin lifted the half bottle to Aileaf, a hard-to-name flavor in her gaze, like spice under honey.

"Without resistance... will it be too much?" Silver Luan asked, curiosity and concern braided like twin vines.

"Mm. You two barely kept your minds steady," Aileaf said, calm as a pond in fog. "I’ll handle it worse. I may not control myself."

"Mm..." Cerqin hesitated, the thought a leaf on the wind. She was about to let it go when Aileaf spoke again.

"But I can preset with my ability..." Her eyes sharpened, like a seal pressed in wet wax.

Far from Northfort, deep in the North Wastes, rocks stood like broken teeth. Wild grass clung to cracks, yellowed like old paper.

Several horned figures, each beast-marked in their own way, flickered through stone and gathered like crows. They were the Demon Race.

Legend says they were born in the primeval dark, bearers of demonic bloodlines, dwelling in the wastes’ far-north marrow.

For thousands of years, they struck at nations like winter storms, hungry to claim the world’s spine.

Among the races, they were a riddle wrapped in fear, a power stalking the map’s edge.

The gathered Demons bled strong, chaotic mana, like smoke and sparks in a gale. Chaos leaks; it’s hard to mask.

That’s why the strong among the Demon Race struggle to hide, their auras ringing like iron on stone.

"Don’t get why they still sent us to this backwater," one Demon grumbled, face sour as unripe fruit. "Didn’t the plan already fail?"

Voices answered like echoes off cliffs. "Yeah. For a prophetic human not yet grown, we burned three high-tier fighters. Bad bargain."

"And the plan still failed." "Is this plan even solid?" "Don’t ask what you shouldn’t."

Their gazes fell on the speaker like arrows. Under the stares, his eyes sharpened like knives; he said nothing more.

"Tch..." A click of the tongue, dry as flint. "Enough. Report."

"More than expected," came the reply, clipped as frost. "High-tier cultivators, maybe over seventy. Total around four hundred."

"Pinning them by force will be hard, like netting sharks in a river."

"They’re showing signs of withdrawal, reeds bending with wind."

"Then we act as planned," the lead voice said, steady as a drumbeat.

The high-tiers from Northfort who’d entered the North Wastes received the recall, flags beckoning them home.

They were shepherding many mid-tiers, so the return moved slow, like a caravan in snow.

Teams deeper in the wastes were first to taste Demon steel, ambushed like deer at a stream.

Other squads felt mana clash like thunderheads colliding, dropped the return, and rolled out to support.

Northfort’s defenses sensed an odd tremor through the wall’s bones. The whole city braced like a drawn bow.

Because of it, mining at certain veins paused, picks falling silent like cicadas at dusk. Prisoners thickened in the streets, chains flashing like fish scales.

"So strange..." The words drifted like smoke.

With the city on alert, the Sanctuary’s routines halted like a bell cut mid-ring. The Knights drilled, iron singing, and Spring Tide sat idle.

An event this big lay beyond the Holy Maiden’s reach; aside from reporting through her channel, there was little water left to carry.

"What’s strange?" Cerqin asked, head pillowed on Spring Tide’s lap like a cat in sun.

Her toes tapped Silver Luan’s thigh like a drum, while her hand stroked Aileaf’s small head on her belly.

"I mean the Demon Race’s move," Spring Tide said. "It’s strange, like a fish swimming upstream in winter."

"Didn’t you say it’d be fine?" Cerqin’s voice was lazy silk.

"Right. From mana surveillance, only three or four elite high-tiers attacked," Spring Tide said. "The truly dangerous auras didn’t move."

"With high-tiers supporting, it should be fine, like roofs under light rain."

"That’s the problem," she finished, a knot under the thread.

Aileaf picked up the thought, puzzlement rippling like wind on reeds. "What’s the aim?"

"The strikes hit when teams in the wastes started back. Do they not want those powerhouses returning?"

"That makes no sense," Cerqin said, brows arched like bridges. "Even if they stall those in the wastes, Northfort still holds many strong high-tiers."

She thought it through, yet the stone wouldn’t skip. The City Lord, bishops of the churches, clan heads—at least half remain in Northfort.

"Surely the Demon Race’s goal isn’t just to force Northfort into lockdown..." Cerqin joked, laughter light as chimes.