When one loses themselves in something, time always slips away swiftly. Like a swimmer in water—how could they feel a single drop escaping through their fingers?

Lilithia was eleven.

She’d matured more than before, grown taller too. Compared to her past self, she seemed far more grown-up. Yet worry gnawed at her: if she stopped growing by thirteen or fourteen, she’d still be twenty or thirty centimeters shorter than Fiore.

Wasn’t that a problem?

And in certain… crucial areas, the measurements hadn’t changed much either.

Had bleeding herself dry all these years stunted her growth? Stunted development wouldn’t do. True, she avoided the early awkwardness that plagued girls her age during sports—but that was its own kind of frustration.

Lilithia had earned full trust from nearby villages, even townsfolk. Orders flooded in steadily.

All because she’d successfully forged gear with mild blood-siphoning properties—usable on weapons and armor. The effect was subtle, yet undeniably practical.

It helped users sustain stamina. During long treks or hunts, the prey might lose extra blood, but their overall quality remained untouched.

Thanks to this skill, her smithy became the top choice for many. Even equipment shops sourced from her regularly. She’d also learned to brew magic potions—recipes straight from library books. Mass production? Impossible alone.

Magic Arrays couldn’t be carved automatically.

She’d dreamed of fully mechanized designs—but honestly? She wasn’t trained for that. For now, she shelved the idea.

Over two years, her strength, magic, swordsmanship, forging, and potion-making had all soared.

More importantly—she’d landed a critical order.

Word of blood-siphoning gear had reached certain ears. A palace bigwig took interest in her craft, offering terms.

Yet doubts lingered. To Lilithia, the real value wasn’t the forging technique—it was her modified blood-siphoning magic.

Surely the vast Tulip Empire had mages who could replicate it? She didn’t buy it.

She hesitated, fearing a trap. Her savings could fund years at a magic academy—but was she too old?

Noble kids started at five or six. At her age, even with tuition, would they accept her?

And how strong was her magic, really?

Still—her swordsmanship was decent. Against two average mages? She could handle them.

Returning from the village entrance, Lilithia brewed black tea. Seated by the window, sunlight spilling in, she opened a newsletter-like pamphlet she’d picked up.

Then she saw the unexpected headline:

“A SWORD SAINT DESCENDS! TULIP KINGDOM BECOMES TULIP EMPIRE!”

Lilithia froze. Scanning the details, she found exactly what she feared: “Newly Ascended Sword Saint Fiore.”

Damn it!

A stampede of expletives thundered in her chest. She drained her teacup in one gulp, then stared at the blinding sunlight outside.

“So this is the protagonist?”

Only two years.

Twenty-four months.

Seven hundred thirty days.

He’d become a Sword Saint? After Fiore left, Lilithia had scoured the library. Ancient legends, historical records—all chronicled those who reached the world’s peak.

Sages. Saints. Seers. Heroes. Demon Kings.

Mastery of magic made one a Sage. Mastery of skill made one a Saint. Those who knew all were Seers. And then there were the world-shattering Demon Kings and Heroes.

A Sword Saint was one kind of Saint.

Like Sword Saints, Spear Saints, Blade Saints—Fiore now stood at the world’s apex. Only ancient Saints or Sages gazing down from the Tower of Sages might surpass him. As for Seers, Heroes, and Demon Kings? They were cheat-tier existences, born destined.

Rumors said the Demon King waged war beyond borders, while the Hero battled him relentlessly.

But Fiore had truly become a Sword Saint.

Loneliness tightened Lilithia’s throat. She knew someone like him would grow fast—blindingly fast—but not *this* fast.

It was a trope in countless stories: others trained millennia to dominate a world; the protagonist needed three years, ten, a hundred.

No bottlenecks held him back. Short on resources? Within three days, fate would deliver them. Stuck on enlightenment? The next moment would bring a revelation.

But this was too fast.

For the first time, Lilithia felt the tragedy of side characters. It wasn’t that they didn’t try. She’d never slacked off these two years—no stolen moments of laziness. She’d thought carefully, advanced steadily, and finally earned the chance to enter a magic academy. While she hesitated over her age, Fiore had scaled the world’s peak.

Lilithia collapsed onto her bed, staring at the sunlight.

Like that sun—he shone for himself alone. Scorching or warm, his will never bent. He marched to his own rhythm, never pausing for anyone’s wishes.

Those who chase the sun…

Ancient myths spoke of wings melting mid-flight, of thirst killing pursuers halfway. The pain of chasing light was old news.

But he was… so dazzling.

She recalled Fiore’s promise: *Call for me, and I’ll come.* What if now—right now—

Her hand stretched toward empty air. *If I call your name now… would you take my hand?*

*Slap!*

Her other hand swatted the first down.

*Lilithia. What are you doing? Are you this weak? Do you want to be his ornament? That’s his story—not yours.*

*No matter how brilliant he is…*

*Besides, you don’t belong there.*

She stared at a photograph on her desk—captured via image-retention magic—showing Fiore being crowned by the Tulip Queen.

No. She wasn’t queen anymore. She was… Empress.

Holy Maidens. Mages. Archers… In the background, Lilithia spotted many beautiful girls. Their gazes? Unmistakably smitten with Fiore.

Compared to them, she felt frail.

Even if she forced her way in, they’d see her as a rival. Claiming “just friends” with Fiore? Women’s hearts didn’t work that way…

She understood that feeling—because she felt it now.

She wasn’t strong enough.

Lilithia jumped up, flung open her wardrobe—and winced. Only work leathers lined the shelves, tough enough to resist sparks. Not a single cute outfit.

*I’ll make one.*

Silver hair, crimson eyes—black fabric would highlight her fair skin. She had some confidence in her mature aura compared to younger girls, so the cut could be slightly daring. Add a cute hairstyle…

She tied twin tails.

Smiled at the mirror.

Even she was stunned.

“Perfect!” She changed back into her work clothes. That dress would be her “battle gear.”

Renting another mini drake, she rode to a neighboring village.

“Low-profile spell.”

Another minor magic she’d discovered—reducing one’s presence. But it only worked if you didn’t stand out. For flashy people, it was useless.

She slipped into the village where her mother had remarried, tied the drake at the entrance, and entered unnoticed. No one questioned her as she reached her mother’s home.

Peeking through the window, she saw it.

Her mother cradling another child, smiling tenderly.

Ah—this wasn’t her home.

Her father was gone in this world. Her mother had built a new family. Everything had changed. Nothing had changed.

A deep loneliness spread from her core.

Then—a fierce impulse surged.

She must chase what she truly wanted.

With no ties left, she’d pursue her only tie. With no homeland, she’d find where she belonged.

So!

Lilithia finally resolved: she’d enter the magic academy.

Even if not—she’d leave her safe zone. She’d chase the sun, even if scorched, even if she died of thirst along the way.