Saint Bernadette had steeled herself to meet the girl, yet found neither her nor Verutan anywhere.

The two who should have been here were absent. Her senses swept through the crowd—commoners, nobles, well-wishers—but no trace of those two girls.

Fiore had insisted they’d be here. And judging by his faintly proud expression, they’d clearly accomplished something remarkable.

Bernadette felt lost. She still couldn’t understand why Fiore had been so furious. He’d always been so gentle… Was the hero who’d saved her that day now gone, as if dead?

She loved Fiore. She’d known the place she’d gone to was dangerous, yet trusted in his strength.

But Fiore had been angry.

Stranger still—why resent her for destroying that demonfolk pendant when he’d spent these two years fighting demons himself?

Contradiction radiated from him now. Her instincts as the Holy Maiden whispered that his change centered on that girl named Lilithia. Perhaps a demon spy…

Yet she couldn’t find them. Hiding? Or had something happened?

—

They were hiding.

Lilithia avoided Fiore’s harem like the plague. Especially when she sensed the Holy Maiden’s arrival—she’d bolted first.

*Seriously. What self-respecting Holy Maiden these days isn’t a yandere?* The purer the saint, the darker the hunger. Like Lisanna. The more dignified the facade, the more twisted the core.

Lisanna had beaten her senseless. This Holy Maiden might start with torture. Until she grew stronger, Lilithia would steer clear of Fiore’s women.

“What are you doing? This counts as military merit! Report it, and you might get a minor noble title.”

Lilithia shot Verutan a deadpan look. “My little Empress, do you truly not grasp the terror of women? If the Holy Maiden catches us—have you forgotten the mark on your stomach?”

“Huh?”

“That’s Sword Saint’s blood. Does anyone still doubt she loves Fiore? So you and I, marked by his blood? We’re her enemies.”

Verutan forced a smile. “R-Really?”

She clearly wanted to punch the culprit—but couldn’t. She’d bide her time. Once she inherited the throne, this woman would learn her fate.

Lilithia pulled out a vial of pitch-black blood. “Anyway, we can’t fully absorb this yet. Hit a bottleneck. Ugh…”

“Bottleneck?”

“Aren’t you at your limit too? I’m *this close* to Intermediate Mage—but stuck at the threshold.”

Verutan froze.

She looked down, voice low. “You mean… you’re one step from Intermediate Mage?”

“Yeah.”

“I see…”

“I SEE!!!” Verutan’s face twisted into a snarl. Maniacal laughter ripped from her throat as she charged, utterly devoid of imperial grace, a crackling ball of lightning swelling in her palm.

“!”

Lilithia dropped and rolled, barely dodging. “You broke through?!”

“I thought you had too. Stand still and take one hit. We’ll call it even.”

“Is this petty grudge how a future Empress acts?!”

Lilithia faced her greatest crisis—not the Holy Maiden, but the tiny tyrant beside her. If beaten now, her adult dignity would shatter.

*She’ll never let me live it down. That brat will torment me forever.*

*No. I must win. Here. Now.*

“How dare you?! Without me, you’d never have broken through! Ungrateful wretch! Have you no heart?!”

“Hearts don’t forge empresses!”

Verutan unleashed spells like cheap fireworks—wild, relentless, terrifyingly powerful.

Lilithia tried her old earth-magic tricks—but the ground beneath Verutan’s feet stood rigid as iron. Her magic slid off uselessly.

“A mana barrier?!”

The true gap between Intermediate and Novice Mages wasn’t just raw power.

Intermediate Mages radiated an aura.

Like Fiore’s “Sword Domain.” Like a fledgling Archmage’s “Elemental Realm.” The closer to the mage, the tighter their control. Small spells couldn’t disrupt them.

But Lilithia finally drew her sword.

She wasn’t a swordmaster. She’d dreamed of Fiore’s “Sword Eye,” “Sword Realm”—but talent couldn’t be forced.

She knew the theory. Her body refused to obey. That was her weakness.

*Still…*

*Enough to handle a brat.*

“Blood Transmutation!”

Unlike before, her crimson blood swirled with threads of black and gold. She felt its power—stronger, deeper.

It seeped through a tiny hole into the iron-cased blade at her hip.

A shell. A sheath of impossibly soft metal.

Waiting to be filled with blood.

She channeled mana through her veins, swinging the sword. The strike exploded with force far beyond her own.

“Ice!”

An ice shield materialized above Verutan’s head—shattered instantly by Lilithia’s blade. The impact jolted her arms, freezing her mid-air.

Before she landed, an ice spear formed in Verutan’s hand.

But—

Lilithia dodged.

In that instant, she grasped blood magic’s true purpose: puppeteering her own body with her blood.

She felt fragile veins snap. But in six months, she’d forced her path to bend.

Then—the blade bent.

It grazed Verutan’s throat.

A thin cut bloomed.

Warmth trickled down Verutan’s neck. Her fingers touched it. Her limbs turned icy.

*If Lilithia wanted me dead… would I already be gone?*

*I’m an Intermediate Mage now… yet…?*

Lilithia landed gracelessly, dusted off her skirt, and turned her back. “Child, your journey’s long. Return when you reach Advanced Mage. Did you think I lingered at Novice from lack of talent? I merely wished to savor every step of the path.”

“!”

*Triumph.*

She’d pulled off the protagonist’s signature move—defeating a higher-level foe. An imperial scion, no less.

Verutan, a natural genius, had broken through without hitting a wall. Lilithia felt hers clearly—the barrier of talent.

A flicker of disappointment. But it wouldn’t break her. Barriers could be shattered. Unlike her sword training… which felt like pointless calisthenics. (Though blacksmithing might build more muscle.)

*Still. That show-off moment? Worth it.*

Then—dread.

Pure white light erupted in the distant sky. Holy rain began to fall around her.

*Caught.*

The moment the rain touched her skin, she knew: she’d been found.

“Verutan, leave. Might be nothing… but go. Return in half an hour.”

She prayed the Holy Maiden rained only to soothe soldiers and citizens. She watched Verutan’s neck wound knit itself closed under the droplets.

*Does this rain reach ten kilometers out?*

Death was unlikely. But punishment… inevitable.

She sighed. *Death might be spared, but suffering was inevitable.*

She could only hope the Holy Maiden had the decency to knock Verutan out first—spare her the shame of being seen broken. Lilithia held no illusions about her fate.

But she’d chosen this path. To stand beside Fiore. To be the moon that dims the stars.

Let them come.

Her will would yield to no one.