Huh? The word slipped out like a pebble breaking the still water.

The An Sisters stared at Cerqin, eyes round as lanterns in dusk fog, while Cerqin kept talking like a brook that wouldn’t stop.

These blueprints will be my stake, she said, her tone light as spring wind, and we’ll split profits like cutting a mooncake; I’ve got funds like rain in reserve.

W-Wait! The protest burst out like a sparrow startled from a branch.

Mm? What’s wrong? Her gaze was calm as a winter lake.

Miss Cerqin, you’re jumping around like a kite in sudden wind; for cooperation, wouldn’t a big merchant guild be better, like leaning on a tall pine?

Yeah, and that guild name—An-Cer—doesn’t it feel tossed out like a leaf in passing?

Anran wanted to spit it out like bitter tea, while her sister’s curiosity hung like a cat’s paw on a curtain: why pick the two of us?

I think the name’s pretty good, Cerqin smiled, light as a drifting cloud; as for not choosing a big guild…

She almost said she wasn’t hurting for coin, like a well with steady water; prototypes wouldn’t cost much, and the goods were mostly for herself, like tools tucked in a quiet drawer.

Spring Tide’s pocket money would cover it like soft rain, and this whole model was for fun, like flying a kite on a clear day.

But that reason felt flimsy, a paper fan in strong wind.

Uh… I want to taste the joy of being the boss, like standing on a little hill and seeing farther.

That’s your reason? The doubt landed like a stone on bamboo.

Think about it: with a big guild, you sell the blueprints like selling a chess manual, and they’ll pay once, not forever; with data like this, no big guild will honor a long split.

Work with you, and if this newborn guild grows like a sapling into a cedar, wouldn’t that be interesting, like watching a seed crack open?

Big guilds just need the sample, then copy like frost spreading overnight; long-term shares are hard to keep, like grasping mist.

But if we build with a small guild, or a new one, and make and sell ourselves, even if they copy later, it’s a passing cloud, not a storm.

…

So, how about it? Beyond the blueprints, I can bring coin like kindling, to warm the pot.

Cerqin didn’t just want a slice from the toys; she wanted equity by funding, like anchoring a boat with another rope.

She laid out her ideas and a fresh guild structure, splits like measured rice, each point set like stones on a riverbed.

She looked at the An Sisters with bright expectancy, like a child before New Year sweets, and the sisters traded a glance, moonlight quiet between them; Cerqin’s standing in the Sanctuary made her “jokes” feel like iron under silk.

It’s not a loss for us, Anran said, voice steady as a beam; play it right and we’ll make a haul like nets heavy with fish—but why the rename to An-Cer Guild?

Your idea—funds in, no meddling in operations, just taking a cut—caught my eye, Anya added, her interest lifting like a kite in steady wind.

Most guilds here are family trees with tight roots; your alliance-style frame feels new, like a fresh path cut through bamboo, and good for small guilds at spring-start.

The premise is low risk, like crossing a shallow stream; no loss, real profit in reach like fruit bending a branch.

But why the new name, that’s what we wonder, like two birds peering at a painted screen.

Since we’re picking this model, it’s basically a new guild, Cerqin said, shrugging like willow leaves; we each take a character—An and Cer—and get that fresh-scrubbed feel… fine, I just want the boss vibe in my bones.

…Alright. The acceptance came soft as a falling petal.

So you agree? Her smile lifted like dawn mist.

Mm. Anya nodded toward her elder sister, and Anran answered without hesitation, firm as a stake in packed earth.

They hashed details atop the ruins, wind whining through broken stones like a flute, and for seed money, Cerqin’s purse felt ample as a brimming jar.

She handed over the blueprints like passing on fire from one lamp to another; materials and craftsmen would be on the sisters, hands busy like ants in summer.

Cerqin also brought an order, a timely log for the hearth: the Northfort Sanctuary’s Law Enforcement Hall wanted instruments, iron-quiet and cold as moonlight.

If they worked, the order would spread city to city like ripples, a sky-high deal rolling like thunder over plains.

When the sand-grains of detail settled, Cerqin went back to the Sanctuary, satisfied like tea after thirst; prototypes and finished pieces left with her, gifts laid into the An Sisters’ arms like satin bundles.

Seeing the sisters cradle several different “toys,” Cerqin felt they’d have a lovely night, soft as silk; though Anran might be in for a storm.

Maybe I should bring an Aileaf potion next time, she mused, like packing balm before a journey, and pushed the door to find all three inside, faces lit like lamps.

Back so late? The question floated like smoke from a stick of incense.

I was out cutting a deal, she sang back, light as a swallow in spring wind.

She recounted the talk with the An Sisters, words stacking like stones, and Spring Tide tilted her head, fog in her eyes.

How’d you land the Law Enforcement Hall’s order? The curiosity pricked like a pine needle.

Yesterday, while I helped keep order, I ran into someone from the guild plaza, Cerqin said, the memory clear as a mirrored pool; turned out he’s one of Northfort’s Law Enforcement Hall Divine Officers.

We chatted, and somehow I walked away with an order, like catching a fish with an empty hook.

Weren’t you all busy? Why’re you back this early? The sky still held pale gold like thin tea.

I handed the improved potion recipe to the Sanctuary’s physicians, Silver Luan said, voice cool as a shaded stream.

So fast? Cerqin looked at her, surprise flicking like a startled fin.

Of course not; modifying potions isn’t easy, like carving jade in the dark, especially by borrowing from ability traits.

Time would run long like winter nights, so we shelved that; the recipe I gave is for my improved common healing potion, steady as bread and salt.

I see, Cerqin murmured, thought falling like a leaf.

Because of certain reasons, we have to leave Northfort early, Spring Tide said, words dropping like beads on a plate.

Huh? Cerqin had just shifted her gaze like a bird turning its head, and Spring Tide explained; Silver Luan and Aileaf, fresh back, traded puzzled looks like foxes in mist.

The Demon Race matter is beyond our Holy Maiden’s jurisdiction, like a river past its banks; we’ve sent the intel to Eastern Sea City, and our work here is done, leaves swept clean.

Spring Tide paused, then drew a document from her gear, paper crisp as frost.

Look at this. She held out a wanted notice like a knife wrapped in cloth.

What’s that? Cerqin leaned in, curiosity bright as lantern light.

A wanted poster for a Divine Officer who fled the Sanctuary, Spring Tide said, voice flat as iron.

We’re leaving early to catch her, aren’t we? Cerqin’s brows knit like knotted rope; that’s not the Holy Maiden’s Sacred Circuit.

Yeah. She’s… special, Spring Tide said, eyes clouding like stormglass; my senior sister, and I’ve got private grudges tangled like vines.

Got it. When do we leave? And will it cut across the Sacred Circuit, like crossing lines on a map?

It won’t. My intel says she’ll likely appear in our next city in half a month, Spring Tide replied, fate flickering like candlelight; catching her depends on luck.

We leave at dawn, she added, crisp as frost on the sill, and try to reach the royal capital early.

Silver Luan took the poster and studied it, frowning like a mountain ridge. Spring Tide, you said the next city is the imperial capital; why would a criminal go there, like a moth to a flame?

Probably tied to an event in the royal capital, Spring Tide said, and her expression turned strange, like tasting sour plum.

An event? The word hovered like a drifting petal.

A march protesting discrimination against the plain-looking, she said, the phrase awkward as a shoe on the wrong foot.

What even is that… Cerqin’s doubt rolled like a low wave.

I don’t know the details, only this: intel says she’ll show up in the royal capital on the day of the march, like a shadow at noon.

…

Hm, what’s this? Silver Luan flipped the poster, ready to hand it back, when she felt another sheet stuck on the reverse like bark to wood.

Oh, that—this one’s the written report on the Demon Race attack on Northfort, Spring Tide said, tapping the paper like rain on tile; looks like the missing-persons section.

Silver Luan drew it out and glanced over it, then froze like ice catching on a stream. The missing are all Beastkin?

Strictly speaking, Half Dragonkin aren’t Beastkin, Cerqin said, a wry smile thin as a crescent; but we’re often mistaken for them like cranes for herons.

They’re all Beastkin? The question hung like a bell’s last note.

Mm. That’s one of this case’s riddles, Spring Tide said, the words cool as moonlight on stone.

Northfort has few Beastkin, and fewer Beastkin prisoners, like rare birds in winter; all the missing being Beastkin is strange, a red leaf in green forest.