Guilt pricked her like sand under an eyelid as she sprawled across Spring Tide’s lap, bored, on Silver Luan’s tenth day of seclusion.

“No clue how long Silver Luan’s promotion will take; time drips like a slow rain.”

“Conservatively, half a month more. But it’s hard to say—bloodline awakening isn’t raw body tempering; it’s insight, like mist lifting at dawn.”

Spring Tide didn’t fear failure; high-rank breakthroughs are rope bridges in wind, danger swaying and the failure rate tall.

During the charge, injuries stack like hailstones on a roof.

Silver Luan’s talent blazes like a comet.

Truth is, anyone who awakens a divine ability cuts the sky like a bright blade.

With proper prep, the water flows by itself; if insight doesn’t stray, promotion’s as certain as nails set in wood.

The only worry is what the promotion unleashes, thunder after a close heat.

Spring Tide remembered her own breakthrough—slipping through time like a fish between reeds.

Later trials barely worked, and the window was narrow, a paper-thin slit of light.

That came from a shallow grasp of the time domain, a dim lantern in fog.

Once she deepens it and lets mana scour her body like riverine sand, strengthening steadily, moving up won’t be an issue.

“I recall the Dragon Deity is pretty special, like a cresting wave.”

“Yeah, it is.”

The Dragon Deity may be the strangest divine gift; in records, it’s the only one many can awaken, seeds pushing up in one spring.

Yet roads bend to one summit; only a few contract the traits and touch the core—most eras birth just one.

“If I’m not wrong, the last Dragon Deity who broke through was over a thousand years ago—a Ninth Rank Half Dragonkin called the Mad Dragon. His flesh was iron mountains, unmatched then.”

Spring Tide had crammed lore lately; her memory uncoiled like silk.

Unlike the famous Dragon Deity, the Phantom God has never surfaced in history, at least not in the records.

Maybe it flickered once and died young; the Sanctuary holds no high-rank awakenings of it, smoke snuffed before dawn.

“A thousand years…” Her sigh slid like wind over old stones.

Without shattering limits, even Ninth Rank, even dragon-blooded Half Dragonkin, struggle to outlast a millennium; candles gutter before the long night.

“Goal: live past two hundred.”

“Two hundred? Aim higher, will you—shoot for the moon, not the well.”

For human folk, two hundred’s a mid-rank ceiling, a low ridge.

Break into high rank and two hundred’s easy, another season turning.

Most species’ Eighth to Ninth Rank masters see three to five centuries, old monsters past five, like ancient cypresses.

“Speaking of it, Littlefolk start with long lifespans, if I remember right.”

“Sounds right.”

Even low ranks pass two hundred; high ranks easily top five hundred, lifespans like ancient pines holding snow.

“Mm… suddenly I envy Aileaf,” envy rising like green smoke.

“But Littlefolk age bands are similar; with longer lives, autumn lasts longer, and the elder share is higher.”

“Uh, does that mean forever as a granny?” Her voice was winter dusk by a window.

Cerqin had never heard that; she’d rarely met Littlefolk—the Holy Dragon Empire sees few, sparrows in winter sky.

Aileaf was one of the few she’d spoken with, a lone lamp in a quiet street.

Once, as an adventurer, she saw a palm-sized Littlefolk in a city—just a dragonfly glimpse, no words exchanged.

Cerqin had wondered what clothes fit such a tiny frame, but the moment flew like a startled swallow.

“About a third of their life sits in an old-granny form. That’s agony, like heavy snow.”

“Actually, not that bad…”

Cerqin spoke, and Aileaf pushed the door in, a flat look like a cool breeze through a paper screen, staring at the pair on the bed.

“Do you two ever close doors? It’s half open.”

“The door wasn’t closed?! You heard that from outside?!”

Cerqin jolted upright, panic flaring like a struck gong, eyes darting to Spring Tide.

Spring Tide looked away; the air turned awkward, rain before thunder.

She bit back a groan and sighed, a leaf surrendering to the current. “At least warn me ahead of time…”

She’d have caught the tide, not missed the experience.

“Figures.” Aileaf closed the door, muttered, then picked up the thread like a needle finding cloth.

“Our Littlefolk’s millennia-old aging issue got solved decades ago—or rather, we’ve been tackling it since antiquity, carp climbing a waterfall.”

Long ago, Littlefolk tended grooming and care to slow the autumn of age.

Decades back, we perfected a potion that suppresses aging’s look; spring rain smoothed the lines.

Strength still declines in old age, severely, but keeping beauty is jade polished by countless generations.

Littlefolk beautifying potions are famous worldwide, alongside fox-spirits’ Form-Fixing Art and merfolk’s Sea’s Tear—the Three Sages of Beauty, three mirrors in moonlight.

“I want a skin-softening elixir!” Her eyes were bright dew on petals.

Aileaf snorted, annoyance like a snap of bamboo. “Humans have short childhoods and long adulthood; you need early care.”

“But hitting Fifth Rank in your teens? Most maintenance potions barely do anything—drizzle on stone.”

As your body strengthens, skin improves on its own; in the rising phase, sap climbs and you don’t need outside help.

“Fine.” Cerqin sighed, then pivoted like turning a fan. “So, little Aileaf, why are you here?”

Today was Spring Tide’s time with Cerqin; Aileaf was supposed to stay in the lab all night, lamps burning over glass.

She’d timed her visit before anything began; Cerqin ruled out leftover fun as the reason, shadows neat under the eaves.

“I broke through. I want a test subject,” her voice a blade cutting paper.

“Ah?”

“You broke through? You’re Sixth Rank now?”

“Yeah.”

Cerqin stared for seconds, frowning; Aileaf’s mana felt the same as usual, a still pond without ripples.

“Why does your aura feel unchanged? Your projected emotion’s full-bodied, though.”

“It really hasn’t changed…” Spring Tide sounded more shocked, surprise ringing like chimes.

After hitting Seventh Rank, her sensing leapt; Aileaf’s unchanged ripple was terrifying, a hidden blade under silk.

Neither doubted her; the water was clear, no reason to muddy it with lies.

“There’s a slight difference.” Aileaf’s tone carried a quiet pride, a bright thread. “At Fifth Rank, mana leaks outward a touch.”

“Tiny, but it shows your strength, incense drifting from a brazier.”

“But it rarely spills in daily life,” Spring Tide cut in, voice steady as a hand. “Unless something urgent hits.”

“About right.”

The Curse Deity lets her command the shell of living beings, including mana—the smallest grain of that force, sand in the riverbed.

It sounds like pure support, no fangs, a gentle string.

But a simple line doesn’t mean a dull blade; the cut goes deep.

If Ming Duo’s gift refines mental force to needle-point, then Aileaf’s bloodline—Curse Deity—refines mana itself to that same razor edge.

There are limits, but its binding power is fierce, cords tightening around the stag.

It can nudge even stronger foes; in many-on-many battles, that’s deadly, a net thrown across waves.

Besides, that bloodline sharpens mana sense; fine control turns the cauldron steady, boosting alchemy fusion rates.

“My comprehension’s moving fast. With a mana-gathering array, a year of seclusion might let me assault Seventh Rank,” terraces rising one by one.

“Are you a monster?” Cerqin rolled her eyes, a playful tide.

Aileaf spoke lightly, but the climb is steep; for prodigies, Sixth to Seventh takes years to over a decade, mountains stacked in mist.

High rank is a gate most never cross; a lifetime ends at the threshold, lanterns dimming.

“So what’s the experiment? Don’t tell me I’m the lab rat.”

“Correct. I’m collecting data on body control right after breakthrough,” a calligrapher tracing first strokes.

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow the novelty’s gone. We’ll also need data after I fully adapt.”

“Perfect. We can test the effect on higher ranks too,” Spring Tide said, curiosity kindling like charcoal.

“Training room?”

They’d only just climbed onto the bed; clothes still on, the training room close—no hassle, just a short walk down cool stone.

“Mm, then—”

Aileaf’s mana stirred, a breeze rippling a pond. Only because she expected it did Spring Tide catch the anomaly, a faint Sixth Rank glint.

The Curse Deity fired. In an instant, the Fifth Rank Cerqin was puppeted and stood, strings pulled from invisible hands.

“Uh… this…” Her mouth muscles weren’t bound, so words slipped out like fish.

Aileaf made her walk a few steps and strike a few odd poses, then nodded, satisfied, the marionette’s dance neat.

“Mm, not bad. For finer feedback and testing against higher ranks, we’ll need the training room.”