Cerqin stared at Silver Luan, blank as frost on glass, her mind stalled like a cart sunk in mud.

Aileaf spoke, voice light as wind through bamboo. “No. We’ll likely stay in the Imperial Capital a few days. I’ll find an empty room and rig a temporary lab…”

“…”

“What’s wrong? Your face just drained,” Aileaf asked, worry rising like mist. Silver Luan halted mid-turn, stepped in to check, calm as a river stone.

“What happened?”

“I…” The confusion hit first, a churn like storm surf. Words lagged behind, heavy as wet robes.

One heartbeat ago, she’d been on the avenue, eager to rush back to the Sanctuary and report the black-robed man.

She’d felt herself teeter, then—one blur, one slip into haze.

“I… right. I saw that black-robed man. The one from Eastwind City…”

“The Ultimate Evil. Where did you see him?”

“Outside the city, while buying supplies…”

“Uh?” Both wore the same are-you-okay look, brows knotted like tangled vines. Cerqin’s head spun harder, memory surfacing clear as moonlit water.

Negative cries clawed at her ears, a chorus of wails, sharp as broken glass.

A premonition…

The Love God doesn’t hold the future, just hearts. That much was carved in stone.

So these memories…

Or is this moment the false dream, mist over a ravine?

“I’ve got… things in my head. Like memories from the future.”

She poured out the whole rush at once, like tipping a basin. The two listened, baffled, faces clouded like overcast skies.

Silver Luan stepped close, fed magic into Cerqin, checking with a healer’s steady lantern.

“No surge in mental energy. No trace of intrusion,” she said, cool as winter air.

“Anyway, it looks routine. If it’s foresight, then the Ultimate Evil shows up in the Imperial City…”

Cerqin knew the Love God’s power by heart; it never touched tomorrow’s thread.

Yet she couldn’t explain why the reel had appeared. Real or mirage—question marks hung like crows.

“Right. Isn’t there someone who can read ahead?”

“Oh—yeah!” Silver Luan’s words struck like a bell. White Thought could cast short personal prophecies now.

Hours ahead, frames sharp as etched jade. If they matched the memory, pieces would lock, true as dovetailed wood.

Even if the source stayed foggy, they could test what was real.

Meanwhile, outside the palace gates, Baili and Qianli stared at Spring Tide, frozen mid-step like a statue in snow. They called out, puzzled.

“Holy Maiden, is something wrong?”

Spring Tide’s face looked washed pale, like rain on parchment. She glanced up at the towering palace, then back at Baili and Qianli, eyes full of doubt like drifting smoke.

“Baili… when we came to the palace, did we notify the Sanctuary’s bishop of the Imperial City?”

“Eh?” Baili’s color changed, quick as a startled bird. Qianli blinked, lost as a traveler in fog.

“Your Highness didn’t notify them?”

“No… why did Her Highness rush to meet the Emperor?” he asked, confusion stacking like stones.

They didn’t know her aim. At the inner-city Sanctuary branch, just as the convoy rolled in, Spring Tide had hauled them right back out.

Baili finally caught up. If it was urgent, Spring Tide would usually confer with the bishop first, steady as setting anchors.

And that takes time.

They hadn’t even settled at the branch. Heading straight to the palace to see the Emperor of the Empire—this cut across the usual path, like stepping off the paving.

“…”

Spring Tide shut her eyes, feeling first: a calm lake. She sensed next: her spiritual power steady, mana flowing smooth as river currents.

“Something’s off…” The thought sank like a stone. She replayed the memory; it clung together too tightly, a long braided cord, not a fleeting omen.

And the blade through her chest had felt real, hot iron in cold flesh.

Just recalling the slide of consciousness, the slow drop and fade, chilled her to the marrow—like falling into an ice cellar.

If that future already happened…

If she had died once already.

“Phantom God…” she murmured, the name a soft chime. Her earlier mindstate was wrong—an urgent fire she never carried on ordinary days.

“Holy Maiden, should we return to the Sanctuary first?” Qianli scratched his head, unsure, like a dog hearing thunder.

The moment she thought of going back, Spring Tide felt resistance rise, a thorn patch under the skin.

“So we were hit the moment we entered the capital…” She let out a long breath, smoothed her pulse like stroking silk.

She released the Phantom God. Time stopped—clean as clear dawn—and clarity flooded in, cool as dew.

In the seam of time, she stood ungraspable, a shadow between raindrops. Her mana began recovering, quick as new shoots after rain.

The time stop stretched, lengthening like a drawn bow.

“What’s going on…” The feel was familiar, the one she knew in bed—when the Love God’s endless recovery bathed her, warm as starlight.

But Cerqin wasn’t here…

She listened deeper. In the time crevice, energy flowed toward her, threads she could drink, sweet as springwater.

Stopped time should be untouched, windless and still. Yet joy and bliss streamed in, bright as sunrise, filling her chest.

That emotional tide fed the Phantom God’s cost, mending it like silk over a tear.

A bold thought flashed, quick as lightning behind clouds.

Time stop couldn’t touch the world. It halted only herself, sliding her into the seam so blades and eyes passed through, blind as night.

No one could observe her when it held. She could observe them, yes—but not leave a mark, like looking through glass.

Perfect for slipping in, perfect for living ghosts. Shame the Phantom God burned fuel like a furnace; she couldn’t keep it lit, not in a drawn-out fight, much less forever.

Spring Tide released the power. Baili and Qianli watched her vanish and reappear, then both exhaled, relief like a door opening.

“You two head back. I need to investigate something,” she said, voice steady as a plumb line.

“Your Highness?” Qianli started, but Baili tugged his sleeve.

“Please be careful, Holy Maiden.”

“Mm. Go tell Cerqin and the others not to wander. And… don’t alert the bishop.” Her first thought had been to seek help, but the attendants and the Emperor in that memory felt wrong, like smiles painted on masks.

“Also… take these. If I don’t return by nightfall, crush them.”

She drew two small beads from her gear, pressed one into each palm, cool as moonstones.

“Yes!” Baili didn’t ask. She’d sensed the strangeness, and cut clean, dragging Qianli away like a swift current.

Spring Tide triggered the Phantom God again, slipped into the seam. The emotional tide kept flowing, bright and unbroken.

This time she caught finer threads. The power didn’t wait in the crevice; it touched her the instant she started the Phantom God.

A faint line of negative emotion seeped in, bitter as smoke. When she crossed into the seam, it flipped—turned into excitement and joy, sunny as a festival.

She recalled Cerqin’s account from the Eastwind City incident, a mirror held up to her own bones.

But why the Love God’s effect bloomed through her now—she had no clue, only questions drifting like leaves on dark water.