“A familiar scent?”

“Yeah. Fear. It feels a lot like Eastwind City.”

Spring Tide’s mood tightened first; her brows drew taut like a drumskin.

“Something’s off.”

Cerqin’s brow furrowed too; a thin mist of fear clung to the air, echoing the scene in Eastwind like a shadowed reflection in water.

Since Eastwind, Cerqin’s sense for emotion had sharpened; Emotional Energy ran like underground currents, unlike mana, and ordinary folk couldn’t touch it.

She read those currents through the Love God’s gift, like fingertips testing harp strings in the dark.

“Strange?”

“Yeah… its density’s much lower than in Eastwind, and the way it moves is weird, like a crooked stream.”

…

Spring Tide stayed silent; her small face set like porcelain. A blatant anomaly like this rang wrong.

Negative Energy born of emotion rarely pools inside a city—rarely pools, rarely lingers. It scatters like smoke in wind.

It’s hard to use as power, not like mana, so defenses leave it in shadow, a blind corner under the eaves.

But this is the capital—the Holy Dragon Empire’s most guarded citadel, scales overlapping like a dragon’s hide.

Even schemers would struggle to slip past the royal family’s eyes, needles caught under silk.

After Eastwind, the Emperor’s beloved little princess vanished; at a time like this, who imagines cults daring a move in the capital’s lantern-lit streets?

“Negative Energy shouldn’t be able to gather in a city…”

“Mm… at least Northfort doesn’t have anything like this.” Her tone fell like frost on stone.

Cerqin could sense the Negative Energy, but hadn’t dug deep; beyond the feel, she knew little more than Spring Tide, a map sketched in charcoal.

“Looks like we need to see the Holy Dragon Emperor soon…” The thought thumped like a knock before thunder.

If it’s a false alarm, fine; if Eastwind’s cults again, you raise shields before the tide breaks.

Good thing the capital’s defenses are fierce; high-rank cultivators are stars thick as frost compared to Eastwind.

Even so, they didn’t feel like dawdling in the carriage, restlessness pawing under their skin like impatient horses.

At the Sanctuary’s inner-city branch, Spring Tide hustled Baili and Qianli out, swallows breaking from the eaves.

Silver Luan and Aileaf wore grim looks; the air settled into a hush, dust after a jar falls.

Cerqin cracked the mood first with a warm laugh, sunlight slipping through cloud.

“Worry won’t help. Let the heavy hitters upstairs handle it. This is the imperial capital; we should be fine.” Her words leaned against walls high as mountains.

“Feels like we said the same thing before Northfort…” Silver Luan muttered, an echo in a well, then shook her head.

“I’m going for a walk…”

“Where?”

“Our Half Dragonkin have a foothold here. I’ll check it out. You coming?” The offer rose like smoke from her own hearth.

Cerqin thought, glanced at Aileaf; Aileaf shook her head, a leaf refusing the wind.

“No. We’ll probably stay a few days. I’m finding an empty room and putting together a temporary lab.” A nest of tools forming in her mind.

“A lab, huh. I should set one up too.” The idea clicked like gears.

Cerqin chose to stay at the Sanctuary. Silver Luan said nothing more, then drew two small, familiar tags from her storage gear, cold as fish scales.

Magitech communication stones.

“These work great inside a city. If anything happens, use these.” Her voice rose like doves sent from a hand.

She passed one to Cerqin, promised she’d be back soon, then slipped into the crowd, a black fish vanishing into the river.

“Forgot these. I should’ve given Spring Tide one.” A missed stitch tugged at Cerqin’s thoughts.

She’d bought several pairs in Northfort, meant for Spring Tide, Silver Luan, and Aileaf.

She’d been mulling upgrades: sold in pairs, they let real-time talk over short range, twin shells humming in tune.

But four people need multiple pairs. Cerqin wanted a four-way weave, threads knotted into a net, so one stone each could solve city comms.

Deciding to claim two empty rooms for labs, Cerqin led White Thought and White Feather to the Sanctuary’s administrator, the Divine Officer—following a lantern through quiet corridors.

The capital’s Sanctuary differed; it had two branches, like twin peaks facing one another.

One in the inner city, one outside. Important matters went to the inner branch, which is why the Holy Caravan stopped there.

The outer branch mainly served worshippers, a river of candles flowing day and night.

With permission secured, they set up at once, fans unfolding and tables sprouting like mushrooms after rain.

But the materials from Northfort had been burned down by experiments; her storage bracelet felt tight as a packed granary, so she needed to restock basics.

For errands like that, Cerqin no longer had to run herself; a clear list handed to White Feather was ink-brought rain.

Still, with the bulk this time, Cerqin, White Thought, and White Feather split into three, like leaves riding different currents, sweeping the markets for a big haul.

She swung by the beast-mail office, hawks at the perch, and sent fresh schematics and a letter to the An Sisters in Northfort.

The imperial city’s bustle dwarfed Eastwind and Northfort; cultivators with thick mana auras burned everywhere like torches at noon.

It was a marked difference, a ridge splitting two valleys.

Northfort housed many powerhouses, but tied to factions; mid-tier strength was rare among everyday adventurers and mercs, tall pines clustered behind walls.

Some prisoners, though, were wolves wrapped in iron chains.

The imperial city was different, a sea bristling with masts.

Among the passersby, many were strong, hard stones under the stream.

Cerqin stowed her materials and paid the gold, a sting peeling like a bandage.

Spring Tide’s coin stash was nearly gone, snow melted into water, mostly turned into supplies.

This time, Cerqin would run tests and sell finished pieces for funds, jade crafted into bread.

“Hm?”

Suddenly the air’s erratic emotional currents thickened; every strand slid a short way along a strange path, leaves pulled by an unseen eddy.

As if a ritual array gave them a tug, threads caught on a loom.

In that instant, faint whispering brushed her ear, moths tapping paper.

Since Eastwind, after swallowing that vast Emotional Energy, those voices sometimes rose when she called the Love God, tide-murmurs cupped in a shell.

Countless whispers by her ear, vanishing when she tried to focus, smoke slipping through her fingers.

Each time, negative feelings swelled like a black wave, then the Love God turned them to bright foam.

So Cerqin hadn’t paid it much mind, dust tucked under a rug.

She’d asked Spring Tide and the others; bafflement like morning mist, and a simple warning—report any trouble, don’t hide discomfort.

“This feel…” thorn and silk tangled together.

She looked into the distance; those tugged Negative Emotions were converging, flowing toward one direction like fish schooling.

Cerqin drew out the communication stone Silver Luan had given her, hesitated, didn’t feed it mana, and turned back toward the Sanctuary at a quick pace, a leaf pulled home by wind.

If cult forces were stirring again, a Fifth or Sixth Rank mid-tier was a sparrow thrown at a hawk.

Eastwind had been a braid of coincidences; Cerqin won the biggest windfall, but she knew river mud hides deep, and it’s best not to wade in.

She’d barely gone a few steps when fear’s Negative Emotions surged again, a flock exploding into flight.

This time it wasn’t just within; in the thick fear hanging like tar, she seemed to hear savage screams, knives skittering on ice.

She felt the surrounding Negative Emotions snag on her like hooks, dragged in and swallowed, smoke drawn into a bellows.

A bad premonition struck; she steadied her mind as if bracing a door in wind. At the edge of her gaze, at the street’s far corner, a familiar black robe flickered and slipped away, a shadow’s fish-tail vanishing into the turn.