While Rize trained alone in the mountains near Avras—breathing thin air until her lungs burned, swinging her blade until her arms shook—another kind of battle was beginning in a Rize’s city.

  The Adventurers’ Guild sat like a squat stone beast in the heart of the district, its carved pillars darkened by years of smoke and rain. The long hall rang with noise—chairs scraping, boots thumping, dice clattering, men and women laughing too loudly to prove they were still alive. At midday the place was at its fullest. A row of notice boards sagged under layered parchment. The receptionist’s quill scratched without pause. Somewhere near the hearth, a man banged a mug against a table and started a chant that drew half the room into it.

  The heavy doors creaked open. The sound shouldn’t have mattered. Doors opened all the time. But this time, the bustle thinned for a single breath, as if the entire guild instinctively held still. Silver hair slid into view, catching the light like a blade catching fire. Claval stepped across the threshold with quiet, measured footsteps. Her presence didn’t shout. It didn’t need to. It pressed down, subtle as a hand on the back of the neck.

  Laughter died in pieces. One table’s conversation stalled mid-sentence. The receptionist’s pen paused, ink pooling at the tip. A group of newcomers shifted in their chairs, the wooden legs squealing too loud in the sudden hush.

  Claval didn’t look left or right. Her gaze traveled straight through the room—past mercenaries with scarred knuckles, past mages who hid their hands in their sleeves, past the notice board that promised glory to anyone reckless enough to seek it—until it landed on three familiar figures. Team Jask.

  Naz sat shallow in his chair, arms thrown over the backrest, posture loose enough to look lazy. The looseness was a lie. His eyes tracked everything. Hanara sat with her arms crossed, her expression sharp, mouth set like she was biting back commentary. Roa sat stiller than both of them, one hand loosely around her cup, her presence quiet and heavy in a way that made nearby adventurers unconsciously give her space.

  Claval stopped right in front of their table. Naz lifted one eyebrow and let a grin spread, as if he could turn the mood into a joke by sheer force of will.

  “…Here comes the little lady again.” Naz said. The lightness in his voice was deliberate, almost theatrical. It was the same kind of tone you used when you didn’t want people to notice your hand had drifted closer to your weapon. “What’s your business this time? If it’s a tea party, we’re already full.”

  Hanara’s eyes flicked sideways—annoyed at his mouth, but grateful for the distraction it gave them. Roa didn’t move, she watched Claval like you watched an unfamiliar beast at the edge of a campfire’s light. Claval gave a small, amused snort and lowered her lashes as if Naz weren’t worth the effort of a full look.

  “I have no business with you, Naz.” Claval said, her words were calm. Flat, even and yet they cut like cold metal.

  A man at the nearest table shifted, then seemed to reconsider and shifted again—pulling his chair back an inch, then another. The movement spread like a ripple. No one wanted to be close to whatever was forming here.

  Claval tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear, then let her gaze slide—slowly, deliberately—past Hanara’s frown and onto Roa.

  “My business is with—” Her voice paused, just long enough for the silence to become painful. “—[The Saint Anger], Roa Sephi-Nort. It’s you.”

  For an instant, sound stopped making sense.

  Roa’s eyes narrowed until they were slits. The air seemed to gain weight, a pressure that tightened around throats and made lungs hesitate. Someone at the bar let out a small gasp before they realized they’d done it.

  The space between the two women—no, between the two presences—felt like a drawn line on the floor.

  “…You speak that name here.” Roa’s voice was low, restrained, but there was killing intent threaded through every syllable, the kind that didn’t need volume.

  “Do you have a death wish?” Her fingers tightened slightly on the chair’s back. The wood creaked. It was a small sound, but in the suffocating quiet it landed like a warning bell.

  Claval’s mouth curved upward, not into a friendly smile but into something that looked like provocation wearing silk.

  “I have no intention of fighting.” Claval lifted one shoulder in a light shrug, as if this were all a misunderstanding. “How about a cup of tea?”

  Confusion rippled through the hall.

  An adventurer halfway through standing froze mid-rise. Two mages exchanged a look that said they didn’t know whether to prepare a spell or pretend they’d never been there. The receptionist blinked like she’d been slapped awake.

  “…What is she planning?” Hanara muttered under her breath, her frown deepening.

  “Beats me. I don’t get it either.” Naz shrugged, grin still in place, though his eyes were sharp now.

  “Tea?” she repeated, the word heavy with distrust. Roa didn’t take her eyes off Claval.

  “It’s much more constructive than speaking with blood, isn’t it?” Claval said, almost cheerfully, flipping her silver hair back like a performer satisfied with the attention.

  The tension in the guild stretched tight enough to snap.

  “…Let’s change location.” Roa exhaled, slow and controlled, like she was forcing herself not to reach for violence out of habit.

  Claval’s expression brightened as if she’d been waiting for precisely that answer. She nodded once—satisfied—and turned on her heel. The hem of her skirt whispered against the floorboards as she walked toward the door, unhurried, fully confident no one would stop her.

  Roa rose a beat later. Her chair legs scraped the floor with a harsh sound. She didn’t flinch at the attention it drew. She followed Claval’s retreating figure with the measured steps of someone approaching either negotiation or execution.

  The doors closed behind them with a soft, final thud. The hall remained frozen for another breath. Then noise began to return—slowly, cautiously—like a room full of people remembering how to breathe again.

  “…Seriously. What is she up to?” Hanara uncrossed her arms with a sharp motion and clicked her tongue.

  “Haven’t got a clue,” Naz said, and let out a brief laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “But Roa can handle herself.” He leaned back again, forcing his body into casualness as if he could make the world obey.

  Hanara’s gaze stayed on the door long after the two figures had vanished. I hope that’s true, she didn’t say aloud.

  ?

  Outside, the city had begun to tilt toward evening. Dusk wind slid along the streets, carrying the smell of baked bread and cooling stone. Citizens hurried home with baskets and bundles, shoulders hunched against the chill. Lanterns were being lit one by one, their flames blooming like small, cautious stars.

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  Their footsteps echoed on cobblestones, steady and in sync despite the tension. People looked at them—quick glances, then hurriedly away. Some recognized Roa and stiffened. No one recognized Claval, yet they still reacted, as if their bodies understood danger before their minds did.

  Roa kept her eyes forward. What does she intend to discuss? The question looped in her mind, sharp as a hook. Claval’s posture was relaxed, almost leisurely, as if she were taking a stroll after a pleasant meal. The contrast made Roa’s skin prickle.

  Eventually, Claval led them away from the crowded heart of the district and toward the outskirts, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned closer together. A small tea shop sat tucked between a tailor and a shuttered apothecary, its sign worn, its windows fogged slightly from warmth inside.

  Claval pushed open the door. It creaked softly, and a bell chimed—gentle, domestic, entirely at odds with the pressure clinging to their encounter.

  Warmth rolled out. The scent of wood and steeping herbs filled Roa’s nose. Steam drifted lazily above cups. The interior was dim and quiet, lit by lanterns and the last traces of sunset seeping through the front window.

  There were only a few customers—an elderly couple speaking in murmurs, a lone man with ink-stained fingers staring into his cup as if reading prophecies in the surface. The shopkeeper glanced up, then quickly looked down again. His hands continued to move, but a faint stiffness entered his shoulders.

  Claval chose a window seat without asking. Roa sat across from her. For a moment, the silence between them was thicker than any wall. Outside, people passed, their shadows sliding across the glass like drifting ghosts.

  Tea arrived, set down with careful hands. The cups were plain ceramic, warm to the touch, the steam carrying a soft medicinal scent that hinted at calming the nerves.

  Claval didn’t drink. She toyed with the rim of her cup with one fingertip, tracing the curve as if measuring it. The last sunlight spilled through the window and turned her silver hair faintly gold at the edges. Her eyes stayed on Roa.

  “Your Trait, [Holy Glory.]” Claval said, the name landed quietly, but Roa felt it like a finger pressed to an old wound. “To use that,” She continued, voice gentle as syrup, “you need detailed knowledge of the human body, don’t you?”

  “Interest. You’re well-informed,” Roa said. Her brow twitched, her tone controlled. “It seems it wasn’t just a rumor.” She didn’t look away. If she looked away, it would feel like losing ground.

  “It’s not a rumor,” Claval said. “It’s a certainty.” Her smile sharpened a fraction, like someone savoring a secret. Then she extended her hand across the table—palm up, fingers relaxed, skin pale in the warm light. “Want to touch and verify it?” She continued.

  Roa didn’t move at first. The offer was bait. The kind of bait that could carry poison, hooks, and a chain. And yet—Claval had spoken Roa’s title in a public guild without hesitation. Claval had approached her with no visible fear. She had done it like she already knew something Roa didn’t want known. From the moment her name had been spoken, Roa had understood: this girl was not mere vanity. Not a tourist. Not a fool.

  Roa exhaled slowly. She reached forward, reluctant, and took Claval’s hand. The moment their fingertips touched, something transmitted—not words, not images, but a sudden clarity of biological information, like a book opened inside Roa’s mind without permission. Roa’s eyes wavered faintly.

  “…Unexpected,” Roa murmured, the words sliding out before she could stop them. Then, colder, sharper: “To think the beautiful Miss Claval was a man.”

  Claval didn’t blink. She accepted the statement as if it were a weather report. There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment in her silver eyes.

  “Gender doesn’t matter,” Claval said, and there was something hard underneath the calm. “I am united with Yu, too.”

  “How can you expose such a secret so calmly?” Roa released her hand as if the contact had burned her, though her skin showed no mark. She drew in a slow breath. Her gaze held a blend of irritation, surprise, and something that resembled weary resignation.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Claval said. “Rather, it’s a source of pride.” She finally lifted her cup, inhaled the aroma with the casual air of someone discussing fabric quality. She set the cup down again, eyes never leaving Roa’s. “I have a goal. For that, I’ll even use the truth of this body.”

  “…What is your goal?” Roa’s jaw tightened.

  “To build a future with Yu,” Claval said softly, her lips curved into a bewitching arc, the kind of smile that promised devotion and disaster in equal measure.

  The steam from the tea drifted between them like a veil.

  “For that,” Claval continued, voice lowering, “I will become a complete woman.”

  “…That’s a delusion,” Roa said, flatly. Something cold dropped into her chest.

  “No,” Claval denied immediately, too fast, too certain. Obsession glinted in her eyes like frost on steel. “I saw it when I crossed over to Yu’s world,” she said. “Technology that can create organs tailored to one’s desire, just for oneself.” Her voice quickened slightly, excitement threading through the words. “ES cells. Artificial organs. A world where flesh can be designed like armor.”

  Roa’s fingers tightened around her cup.

  “And with your Trait—” Claval continued.

  Roa slammed the cup down. The ceramic struck the table with a sharp crack that made the shopkeeper flinch and the ink-stained man glance up.

  “Impossible,” Roa said, voice low but heavy. “[Holy Glory] is large-scale healing that covers a battlefield.” She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “It can’t do detailed work like remodeling an individual.”

  “Not that one,” Claval whispered, as if correcting a child. She shook her head once, slow, almost pitying. “I mean [Glory Holy]—Regeneration.”

  “…How much do you know?” Roa demanded. “Who told you?” Her eyes sharpened instantly.

  Claval’s gaze didn’t waver. She placed one hand lightly on her lower abdomen, the gesture intimate and deliberate—an unspoken picture of what she was asking for.

  “If you cooperate,” she said, voice soft as velvet, “I’ll tell you.” Her fingers pressed slightly, as if feeling the shape of a future inside her own body. “A miraculous Trait that can regenerate an individual even from a piece of flesh,” Claval continued. “With that power of yours—” She leaned forward just enough that the steam brushed her cheek and vanished. “I want you to connect me… and the new organ.”

  ?

  For a moment, the tea shop’s quiet felt like it had been hollowed out.

  Claval’s words hung in the air, heavier than smoke. Even the steam seemed reluctant to rise. Outside, dusk deepened, turning the window into a dark mirror that reflected two figures sitting too still.

  Roa didn’t answer. Her breathing became audible—slow, then sharper, as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh, to curse, or to draw steel.

  “…Are you saying this in your right mind?” Roa finally asked, her voice damp with disbelief.

  Claval tilted her head, unbothered. The corners of her mouth lifted as if the question amused her.

  “I am always sane,” she said, voice calm enough to be horrifying. “When I’m playing the Goddess, when I’m being held by Yu—and even now.”

  “…Your wish is nothing but a fantasy.” A small, hot irritation spread in Roa’s chest at that phrasing. Her hand tightened around the cup again, the ceramic rim giving a faint complaint under the pressure.

  “If it were a fantasy,” Claval replied smoothly, “I wouldn’t need to talk to you like this.” She traced the cup’s rim again, fingertip gliding as if she were stroking a blade. “I have a conviction,” she said. “If we combine the Science I saw in that world with your Magic… it will come true.”

  Steam drifted between them and wavered, as if the air itself couldn’t sit still under the intensity. Through that thin film, Claval’s silver eyes stared, bright and unwavering, declaring without words: This is not a joke. I will not stop.

  “…I cannot give an answer right now.” Roa exhaled, long and slow. Something cold sank deeper into her, settling like a stone.

  “I don’t mind.” Claval laughed lightly, the sound too cheerful for the subject. “Eventually, you’ll have no choice but to choose.” Her smile sharpened. “Because there’s no way the Dragon’s Law you bear won’t touch upon my wish.”

  Roa’s expression tightened.

  “How do you know that…!” Roa’s face distorted, shock flaring into anger.

  “Do you want to know?” Claval’s gaze gleamed with satisfaction, as if Roa had stepped precisely where she wanted.

  Roa’s throat worked. For a heartbeat, she looked older—tired, burdened, like someone carrying a secret that had teeth.

  “…Just don’t tell Naz.” Then she leaned forward, voice dropping, each word dragged out like it hurt to say.

  “You’re willing to touch upon taboos to save Naz,” Claval said, gentle as a knife placed against skin. “But he would absolutely never forgive that, would he?” Her smile softened in a way that was somehow more dangerous than mockery.

  Roa’s eyes flickered—pain, anger, guilt, all tangled.

  Outside, the last of the sunset bled away, and city sank into dusk. Inside the tea shop, the shadows deepened, swallowing their secrets in silence as the steam kept rising—quiet, relentless—like breath that refused to stop.

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