Mushiyu had actually wronged Loran. Elvenkind, a race attuned to nature’s heartbeat, disdained confining their beauty to a narrow pane of glass. To them, only a clear lake’s surface, a pure mountain spring, or a babbling brook could reflect their true grace—or at worst, a simple water spell conjuring a liquid mirror.

Mirrors were always a human thing.

"Loran Guard Captain." A human woman driving a carriage spotted Loran approaching and smiled in greeting.

This human was Grace, a swordsman whose mentor was the continent’s famed Sword Saint, Griffith.

Decades ago, Loran had met Griffith once. Back then, he’d been an arrogant youth already making a name for himself. He’d come to challenge Melissara. Finding him too brash, Loran barred his entry to the princess. When he insisted on forcing his way in, she taught him a lesson. After that, the hothead never set foot in Elven Forest again, stopped issuing challenges, and faded from public view. Years later, during the demon purge at Beyond Sea, a now white-haired Griffith reappeared. With a single stroke, he severed the demon realm’s gateway to the continent, halting the invasion. From then on, the world hailed him as Sword Saint.

Only now, during the Adonis incident, did Loran learn Griffith had an apprentice—Grace. Though her swordsmanship was far from mastery, its potential was undeniable. Given time, she’d surely become a grandmaster.

Loran nodded to this future Sword Saint. "Hello. I’d like to borrow a mirror from you."

"A mirror?" Grace thought she’d misheard. Didn’t elves despise mirrors?

"Yes. My thanks." Loran offered no explanation.

"Of course! One moment!"

Grace called into the carriage. A mirror soon appeared in her hand.

Loran took it, thanked her, and turned away. Grace drove on without a second thought.

The carriage door opened. Loran stepped inside. Mushiyu merely glanced up before turning her back, lying face-down on the bed.

She was sulking.

Loran bristled. Must she look away the moment she saw her? An impulse surged—to seize the girl’s thin shoulders, force her around, lock eyes, forbid her gaze to stray…

"The mirror. I’ll return it if you won’t use it."

Cold words.

Mushiyu froze, turning over. Only then did she notice the object in Loran’s hand. It *was* a mirror—but so elegantly archaic, utterly unlike those from her old world, she hadn’t recognized it.

She’d misunderstood. Loran had fetched it for *her*. Shame washed over Mushiyu. She’d just yelled cruel things at her… Had Loran heard?

*She’s actually… kind?*

Eyes fixed on the floor, Mushiyu whispered, "Thank you," and reached out her hand.

Loran’s eyes narrowed. She seized Mushiyu’s wrist, yanking upward. Caught off guard, Mushiyu lurched off the bed, scrambling to brace herself with her free hand to avoid crashing to the floor.

The blanket slid away. Her bare upper body lay exposed, utterly vulnerable.

Face flushed crimson, Mushiyu glared at the culprit. "What are you *doing*?!"

Loran’s gaze flickered over her form before hardening. "Look at me. And thank me properly."

*What nonsense!* Mushiyu seethed. *I actually thought she was decent? How naive!*

Staring into Loran’s eyes, teeth clenched, she spat each word: "Thank. You."

Loran’s grip tightened unconsciously. This wasn’t the thanks she wanted. She just wanted the girl to *look* at her. Just wanted to see her smile. Was that too much to ask?

"...Hurts."

The girl’s whimper jolted Loran from her haze.

*What am I doing?* She released Mushiyu’s wrist, staring at the tearful face before her, utterly lost.

Ignoring Mushiyu’s wounded glare, Loran fled the carriage.

"What happened?"

Loran looked up. Melissara stood there. She bowed hastily. "Your Highness. Nothing."

"Nothing?" Melissara’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Yes. Nothing."

Melissara studied her, probing.

Just as Loran couldn’t bear it another second, Melissara murmured, "Go." Loran escaped like a pardoned prisoner.

Melissara watched her retreating back, her gaze deepening.

Inside the carriage—

Whatever madness gripped Loran, Mushiyu had urgent business: confirming if she’d transmigrated as a soul or her whole body. She took a deep breath, raised the mirror, and faced her reflection. Then she froze.

She touched her cheek, pinched it—sharp pain flared. She kneaded the plump flesh, twisting it into silly shapes. Finally, she accepted it: this face matched her old one, save for flawless skin.

But "old" meant two or three years ago…

*Who are you, little girl?!*

The face in the mirror belonged to a fifteen-year-old. She was nearly nineteen—a second-year university student! Stuck with a middle schooler’s face?

The carriage door opened. Melissara found Mushiyu sitting frozen on the bed, clutching a strange object, utterly bewildered. She’d seen such things in human books—a "mirror," used to inspect one’s face.

As an elf, Melissara disdained such vanity. Seeing Mushiyu obsess over it sparked instinctive revulsion. She strode forward and snatched the mirror away.

"Don’t use this." Her voice was icy.

Mushiyu jolted—so lost in her panic, she hadn’t noticed Melissara enter. "*Don’t use this*? Give it back!"

She lunged to grab it. How dare she steal without warning?

She missed the mirror. Melissara caught her wrist instead.