What I still can’t fathom is why Senior Sister Ming Duo would turn her back on the Sanctuary—why betray our master; a knot in the chest that won’t loosen.

In the carriage returning to the Sanctuary, Spring Tide drifted into memories, like falling into a quiet lake, ripples widening in the dusk.

These days, after advancing to the Seventh Rank, she tried walking the river of time, hoping to reach the moment Ming Duo defected and net the truth.

But time’s current bucked and swerved; with her fresh advancement, her hands couldn’t grip the exact second she needed.

Worse, at that node she was too young; the body there could house a mind, so only her own younger vessel would accept her—shoes too small, steps awkward.

It was an excruciatingly awkward node, like trying to speak with a mouth full of rain.

“I remember you said Ming Duo was adopted by the Archbishop, right?”

Spring Tide nodded, and Cerqin let the thought roll forward like a pebble down a hillside.

“Could the cause be tied to the Archbishop? People said she later kept ambushing Sanctuary members…”

Cerqin found that guess the most level path across the stream.

“Then what was Ming Duo doing around the time she defected?”

“Divine Officers who were there said she finished an expedition to some ruins, got a summons from Master, and on the way to a new mission, she suddenly struck the Sanctuary knights with her.”

“So the thorn likely sits in that new summons. What’s the Archbishop hiding behind that curtain of incense?”

“Ask, and you get only: fate cannot be spoken.”

Spring Tide spread her hands, a helpless fan flicking at fog; her master would not lay the cards bare.

So she could only seek the key from Ming Duo herself, walking the corridor of shadows back to a face she once trusted.

Once her closest person, now a butcher of Sanctuary knights—Spring Tide’s heart balked like a horse before fire.

She wanted the truth like thirst wants water.

By the time the carriage rolled under the arches, the sky was a bruise of late sunset.

A ten‑minute route stretched near an hour under her quiet orders, like pulling taffy to buy breathing room.

Spring Tide stepped down pleased, the wind cool on her cheeks; she wanted updates, fresh sparks to light the night.

She waved for Cerqin to clean up and wait in her room; in a blink, she vanished like a swallow into eaves.

Cerqin rinsed the traces from skin and clothes with magic, like rain sweeping dust, then eased down with trembling legs.

The Love God was unmatched at restoring strength; energy poured back in like spring water refilling a basin.

Yet after doing this more and more, her body kept a whisper of softness, a honeyed looseness that clung like mist.

She soothed her breathing; only then did that phantom ache recede, like a tide drawing off dark stones.

After staring a few minutes at the Sanctuary’s door, lanterns blinking like eyes, Cerqin chose to check the lab first.

She stepped inside and barely went a few paces before the corridor yielded White Feather ahead and White Thought behind, two shadows walking in tandem.

“Hey—you two, where are you headed?”

When she researched magi‑tech in the lab, Cerqin often called them to help; lately Silver Luan was preparing to advance, and the buying fell to scarred White Feather.

White Thought had been barred from casually peeking at tomorrow; besides her nun duties, she now helped Cerqin with research, a steady flame beside another.

“Ah—Ms. Cerqin, you’re back.”

“I told you, quit with the ‘Ms.’ already…”

“Ms. Aileaf asked us to purchase some herbs, so we’re heading out,” White Thought said, words like beads on a string.

“Buying herbs at this hour?”

Cerqin cut White Thought a look for the title again, then frowned, a cloud shading the sun.

“At this time, the capital bazaar’s already winding down,” she said, picturing shutters falling like eyelids.

She also found it odd; Aileaf usually handled herbs herself, hands in every jar, and staying in the lab while sending others was a first.

“Mm, not the bazaar. It’s a remote quarter in the outer city, an enclave of other races—Littlefolk run the apothecary. Ms. Aileaf said this hour’s fine for them.”

“A Littlefolk shop… that tracks.”

Cerqin’s thoughts settled; she knew hints of Aileaf’s lineage, like moonlight on water.

She hadn’t asked, but guessed the Littlefolk princess had slipped out from home, a sparrow dodging palace nets.

Aileaf had even mentioned wanting Cerqin to escort her home sometime, a road waiting beyond the gate.

She said goodbye to White Feather and White Thought, then let small thoughts rustle while she walked toward the lab, a leaf riding the corridor’s breeze.

Nuns along the way greeted her; their eyes on the Holy Maiden’s pink‑haired favorite held envy and knots of complicated threads.

Cerqin returned it with polite awkwardness, a smile thin as rice paper.

Now and then she saw nuns leading pretty girls in shackles; unlike Eastwind City or Northfort, the faces here weren’t dull or hollow with fear.

The inner‑city Sanctuary handled different duties than the outer—no public worship, only inward affairs, a machine working behind curtains.

They also kept different kinds of prisoners and slaves, a garden with other thorns.

The inner‑city nuns weren’t as famished, at least by appearances; appetite hid under better silk.

The nightly sounds that stirred the imagination were fewer here, less thunder behind closed doors.

Cerqin didn’t naively believe the imprisoned were well treated; she only saw that their faces here held a shade more light.

Any nun could apply for such work… especially those without partners; taking charge of prisoner discipline was easy as signing a name.

Cerqin had considered it, but Spring Tide’s gate would be hard to pass, and Silver Luan and Aileaf would shut it with gentle iron.

With a partner or several, such things turned into a luxury, a fruit out of season.

And for Cerqin, the truest point was this: rather than holding the whip, she wanted to feel it; the punished, not the punisher.

Thinking of that, she already had ideas flickering like candles for later games.

Unnoticed, she reached her lab door; she didn’t disturb Aileaf’s work, but slipped into her own room first and penned down the palace discussions, ink flowing like a river at night.

She logged new sparks of ideas one by one, and checked whether materials for experiments sat ready, jars lined like soldiers.

She wrote a letter to send the An Sisters in the morning, words folded like cranes.

After a bout of busy work, the sky had turned fully black, a velvet drape over roofs; Cerqin stood and stretched, bones clicking like beads.

She planned to see whether the Sanctuary’s canteen still served dinner, a warm bowl in a cool night.

“I’ll grab Aileaf too…”

She murmured and pushed her lab door, then crossed to the opposite room and eased the door open, letting silence breathe.

It wasn’t locked, which meant Aileaf was still inside; Cerqin pushed straight in, the air bearing a faint herby sweetness like dew.

The spacious lab held even more shelves than hers, crowded with herbs and jars, a forest of glass and green.

Its scale already surpassed Aileaf’s home in Eastwind City, roots spreading wide under tile.

Cerqin walked in, past the sight‑blocking rack; neat benches came into view, silver lines under lamp light.

But what waited inside made her halt mid‑step, the floor cold through her soles.

Not only Aileaf was here; Spring Tide and Ninexiao, and Baili and Qianli stood present, five figures circling a central table like hawks around prey.

“What are you doing…”

“Cerqin, we found the leader of that Association of Strength Worshippers who was taken earlier. It’s just… his condition…”

Spring Tide tilted her head toward Cerqin; her face was a storm bank, heavy and sour.

Cerqin finally saw what lay on the table they ringed: body parts cut into dozens of pieces, a puzzle of flesh under sterile light.

The joints were smooth and clean, not like torn wounds, and they quivered faintly, like filaments twitching in a jar.