Riding the warm blaze of Cerqin’s drink, Spring Tide asked what he’d never said—or never dared to say. Secrets knotted like damp cords under lantern light.

Why were clothes such an obsession to collect, like fallen petals he couldn’t stop gathering?

Why wouldn’t he accept someone’s affection easily, like a door barred against spring wind?

He dammed his surging gloom with a wall of shame, a sandbag levee against “immorality.” It warped him, like a willow bent by a constant gale.

Spring Tide stroked Cerqin where he leaned on her, heart aching like a bruise under silk.

“Even knowing this… would you still like me?” His breath grazed her collar like a starving moth seeking flame. Spring Tide didn’t answer. She moved.

She claimed his mouth, insistent as tide prying at reef.

Only after a long while did she let him go, satisfaction rolling through her like a warm tide. She spoke as if swearing an oath.

“I’ll make you mine, bit by bit. As for the rest, I’m going to punish you properly.”

She meant Silver Luan and Aileaf.

And that habit that had become a kink—collecting clothes like trophies.

After paying, Spring Tide helped Cerqin back to the Sanctuary. A Holy Maiden bringing home a drunk, dazed “girl” set the halls boiling like a pot at full simmer. Her smile—one seen only in her distant childhood—hung on her face like sunrise on frost.

Older Divine Officers watched, astonished as owls at noon.

Archbishop Mingxi appeared without warning. He eyed his cheerful disciple and sighed like an elder tasting strong tea.

“Little Spring Tide, you’re not taking this young lady straight to your room, are you?”

“Hm? Master, is that not allowed?”

“Aren’t you going to explain? Rumors sprout like weeds, you know.”

“Mm… I want her as my personal Nun.”

“You like this little sister?”

“Mm.”

“Did something happen?”

“…”

Spring Tide shook her head, then nodded, the way a reed wavers on a lake. Her master’s abilities in the Sanctuary were fog on a deep river; even as a disciple, she knew little. Mingxi almost never spoke of it.

But after the Eastwind City affair, Spring Tide had learned a bit. She didn’t buy that “puzzled face” at all.

Mingxi fell quiet, like a clock stopping between ticks.

“The Phantom God holds time. Grips cause and effect. Above all, hoards information.”

He said it, then walked off on his own. The other Divine Officers gave Spring Tide glances and blessings like drifting petals, then went back to their tasks.

Spring Tide stared after Mingxi, puzzled as if reading rain.

He wouldn’t toss out nonsense for no reason, would he?

Holds time. Grips cause and effect. Above all, information…

What was he trying to say?

The thought spun her mind up like a waterwheel, even damping the urge to hurry back and “get to the point.”

“Information…”

She looked at Cerqin. His tipsy honesty had handed her facts she hadn’t known, like hidden letters pulled from a drawer.

Yet the world hadn’t turned its gaze.

That meant no huge changes to history. Secrets like these, even known, wouldn’t swing the future’s door wide.

Maybe that’s too simple a take.

“Big changes trigger rejection” is a foggy rule. What’s clear is this: if thrown out of the current time point, the world stitches minor tears.

Travel through time, and whatever you did in the past won’t change the future.

So the return-to-origin trigger, the bar for “major change,” might be up for debate.

What truly pulls that trigger?

Cerqin’s retreat before had drawn a note from the rules themselves, hinting at a future where they could never be together.

“Holds time. Grips cause and effect… information matters…”

A spark flashed through Spring Tide like flint struck in the dark. If she didn’t try to bend the future’s course—if she formed no definite results—would the world’s gaze stay shut?

That runs right against what “time travel” makes people expect, like a river flowing uphill.

Go back, learn things you never knew, but don’t meddle. Don’t change what already happened. Then the world won’t look your way or kick you out of this time.

Once you’re expelled, the past springs back, every ripple smoothed.

The past can’t be changed.

At least, not by this kind of travel.

“So that’s why Ninexiao called the Needle of Time a real artifact.”

To change what already happened—that’s absurd thunder in a clear sky.

Then what does time-walking actually give me?

If I don’t try to change things, I can harvest unknowns. A field of facts under moonlight.

Cerqin’s confessions had already proved it.

With that clear, Spring Tide thought of a few next steps, like lines on a map.

Cerqin suddenly let out a soft moan, tugging her from thought like a bell tugged by wind.

“Mmm… so hot… so itchy…”

Tipsy, he didn’t realize that all this way—even back at the booth—Spring Tide’s hands had wandered like curious fish.

Desire had risen in him like a spring flood. If he’d been sober, he might’ve broken first.

“All right, all right. I’ll make you feel better soon.”

Spring Tide scooped him up and hurried toward her room, swift as a swallow to its nest.

Door open. Door shut. To the bed. She set him down in one smooth motion, like a dancer’s turn.

She turned, waking the ward on the door, then cast a silencing spell over the room. The ward didn’t mute sound, but it warned others to keep away, like a lantern with a red tassel.

When it was done, Spring Tide loosened her clothes with practiced fingers. At the bedside, she lifted Cerqin’s short skirt in one effortless motion, like flipping a page.

“This habit is… convenient, in a way.”

She muttered, half a joke, half a sigh. Cerqin like this was rare—a game with rules unlike their usual play.

As for taking advantage, heat tugged at her like a tide; she hesitated only a heartbeat.

Even when she’d bluntly said “I’ll make you mine,” he hadn’t refused. He’d only said they still didn’t know each other well enough.

“Then let’s get to know each other.”

Spring Tide leaned in. The night deepened like ink in water.

Rain threaded to downpour; wind rose to gale. Thunder rolled at the eaves.

A clear, sweet birdsong rode the storm, again and again, until the sky itself grew quiet.

About an hour later, Cerqin finally fainted, utterly spent, like a lantern gone out.

Without the Love God awakened in him, with only a third-tier body to rely on, he couldn’t withstand such a fierce tide.

Yet it was only early evening. Outside, the sun had just slipped west; the sky wasn’t even fully dark.

“Not entirely satisfying.”

Partly the time was short. Partly, like a mirror with no echo, Cerqin in that state gave little back. Novel at first, then thin as tea.

She climbed from the bed with a small regret. A cleansing spell washed over her like cool rain. She dressed.

She glanced at Cerqin, a tangle of limbs and sheets like a nest after wind. She decided to fetch a sobering draught, then see to real business.

Time-walking’s true use lies in gathering information. As long as she doesn’t try to change things—doesn’t even form the intent—if she only receives, only learns secrets once hidden from her…

It’s entirely doable.