The wind in the Southern District Town carried the bleakness of late autumn.
Sophia stood before Lyon Hank’s blacksmith shop, her expression cold and detached, but in those deep violet eyes, a suppressed, anxious flame burned.
“Which way did she go?” Her voice was utterly devoid of warmth.
Old Hank, facing this extraordinary yet dangerously imposing woman, dared not hide a thing. “She bought a fast horse, said she was heading for the Imperial Capital, Silverglow City.”
Silverglow City.
Sophia asked no more. She turned and climbed into that jet-black carriage.
She chased after her prey, like a lone wolf tracking a blood trail, never resting, never sleeping. When the grand silhouette of Silverglow City finally rose on the horizon, her heart was thrown into a chaos it had never known.
The closer she drew, the clearer a feeling called “fear” surfaced in her chest.
She was afraid.
Afraid of seeing once more that resolute, hate-filled look in her eyes. Afraid that, once again, she would reach out her hand—only to grasp nothing but cold air.
For more than forty years, she had rehearsed their reunion in countless dreams, yet never found a single opening that would not leave her flustered.
However, searching for one person in the vast imperial capital was like finding a needle in a haystack.
She… seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Just as Sophia’s patience was about to run out, an intelligence agent brought her a magically imprinted image, traced from a clothing shop somewhere in the city—it immediately caught her attention.
In the image, a silver-haired “youth” in stylish attire was, with blatant possessiveness, playfully pinching the chin of a beautiful woman in a blue and white gown, whose face was flushed with shyness.
That beautiful woman was Tulia.
And that “youth”… though sharp and heroic, shared an astonishing resemblance to Tulia.
Sophia’s fingertips tightened uncontrollably.
She arrived at the clothing shop called “Weaver’s Whisper.” The Boss Lady, Ilana, faced the intimidating presence before her with instinctive caution.
“I’m sorry, madam. We are obligated to protect our customers’ privacy.” Ilana smiled politely as she turned down Sophia’s request for the address of the person in the image.
Sophia didn’t become angry. She simply stared at Ilana, then slowly, enunciating every word, said:
“The surname she registered was ‘Von Nolstein.’ And I am Sophia Von Nolstein.”
Ilana’s smile froze instantly.
She glanced at Sophia, then thought of the prestigious surname Tulia had left behind. In her mind, a melodramatic tale of noble family grudges began to unfold at lightning speed.
She immediately made the wisest choice.
“…Morning Dew Corner, No. 3, Rose District.”
When Sophia finally stood before the mansion called “Morning Dew Corner,” her heart was in more turmoil than ever.
Yet what disturbed her was not the house’s opulence, but rather the simple, hand-written wooden sign at the entrance—
“Leah’s Mom’s Secret Roast Chicken.”
Leah… Mama?
Those two words stabbed into Sophia’s heart like poisoned daggers.
—Mama? She… she has a child?
Desperate, she asked the Boss Lady of the neighboring Flower Shop for news, only to receive something even more heartbreaking.
“Oh, you mean Lady Lia? Such a pitiful woman. Widowed so young, raising such a big daughter all on her own—it’s really not easy…”
Widow?
Daughter?
—She… after I left, she got married? And had a child with someone else?!
Jealousy, like a wild, poisonous vine, instantly entwined her heart, making it hard for her to breathe. Then came a still more helpless panic.
She had new ties, a new family.
And what about me? What am I, then?
Do I still have the right… to snatch her back from her life now?
If she runs away again like last time… If she chooses, for her child, to become my enemy for good…
Sophia dared not think any further.
She didn’t know how she left that place—only that, when she came back to her senses, she had already followed the neighbors’ directions to that street of flashing lights and ambiguous scents.
She stared up at the huge, pink-lit sign that read “Fairy’s Boudoir.” In her deep violet eyes, a storm was brewing.
Her husband was dead, and now… she comes to a place like this to drown her sorrows and seek pleasure?
At that moment, the main doors were pushed open from within.
A figure staggered out.
She wore tight black leather, a crooked cowboy hat, her coat flapping open to reveal a white shirt soaked in drink, clinging to her skin.
Her face was flushed with wine, and on her neck was a vivid lipstick mark—one that didn’t belong to her.
It was Tulia.
The instant Sophia saw those glaring, fresh lipstick marks along her neck and collarbone, her pupils shrank to pinpoints.
The world’s sound seemed to vanish in that moment.
In that instant, all the homesickness, all the fear that Tulia might run again, were wiped away by something more primal, more violent.
Her treasure—her most perfect, unique masterpiece—had been… sullied by another.
The night wind brought a chill, blowing away some of the alcohol from Tulia’s body, but it could not dispel the emptiness left after indulgence that drifted in her mind.
She hummed a risqué tune learned at Orange Blossom Platform, staggering along the stone road home. The world swayed slightly before her eyes, distant lanterns blurring into halos of light.
So carefree.
She thought.
With no daughter at her side, no weight of life pressing down, she had finally, for once, lived like a true “roamer.”
She fumbled with her key at the lock for several tries before it clicked into place. She pushed open the familiar wooden door of “Morning Dew Corner” and stumbled inside.
“I’m home…” she muttered indistinctly into the darkness, as if responding to some habit.
Yet, the entryway was not pitch black.
A magic crystal lamp was turned down to its lowest, casting a cold, dim glow. In that pale light, a figure leaned quietly against the doorway to the living room.
With drunken, hazy eyes, Tulia looked up and saw the face.
Waterfall-like red hair, deep violet eyes like pure amethyst, and that unchanged for a century, faintly androgynous, sharply defined face—now wearing a hint of a mocking smile, watching her quietly.
It’s… Sophia?
Tulia’s mind buzzed blankly.
She blinked, then rubbed her eyes hard.
No mistake, that face was exactly the one from her morning dreams.
“Ha… haha…” Tulia couldn’t help but laugh. She leaned against the doorframe, pointing at the figure, and muttered to the air, “See, told you I drank too much tonight. I’m even seeing things now. How could that old witch Sophia possibly… it’s been forty years, by now she ought to be a wrinkled old granny.”
I must be opening the door the wrong way.
So thinking, she took a step back and—bang!—shut the door again.
Standing outside, she took a deep breath of the night’s cold air, trying to clear her mind. Then she pushed the door open again.
That figure was still there.
And even cocked her head slightly, speaking in that soft, hauntingly familiar voice that sent shivers down Tulia’s spine: “Hi.”
Half of Tulia’s drunkenness vanished in an instant.
No, no, one more try. It’s a hallucination! Must be a hallucination!
Once again, she slammed the door, then yanked it open hard.
That face was still there.
Only now, the expression was distinctly grim.
…It really seemed to be Sophia.
So… what should I do? Ha… haha…
There was only one answer.
And that was—run!!!
“Bang!”
With all her strength, Tulia slammed the door shut one last time.
This time, she didn’t reopen it. Instead, she turned around, flung off the cumbersome leather coat, and bolted!
The house? Leave it!
Money? Leave it!
Everything—leave it!
Save my life first!
But she had barely taken two steps when the heavy wooden door behind her let out a tooth-aching “creak.”
A pale, slender hand slipped soundlessly from the gap, pressing against the door to keep it open.
Then, with speed too fast to react, another hand shot out like lightning and grabbed Tulia by the collar of her coat.
A force impossible to resist dragged Tulia back in, like a kitten being lifted, pulled bodily into the darkness beyond the door.
“Bang.”
The door closed.
“Click.”
The sound of the bolt dropping rang out, crisp as a funeral bell.
“Sophia! I—”
Before Tulia could finish, she was slammed hard against the cold door.
Sophia’s knee forced itself between her legs, pinning her firmly in place.
The next moment, an icy, furious shadow fell upon her lips.
“Mm—!”
Tulia’s startled cry was stifled.
That kiss began as a punitive bite, Sophia’s teeth even breaking the skin of her lip, drawing sharp pain.
The metallic tang of blood spread between their mouths.
That familiar, rusty taste was like a switch, instantly igniting the longing Sophia had suppressed for over forty years—longing so fierce it nearly burned her away.
Then anger was quenched, slowly replaced by a deeper, more desperate need.
Her actions were no longer merely harsh, but grew more urgent, more greedy.
She pried open Tulia’s teeth, like a dying traveler in the desert desperately, clumsily trying to drink from the spring she had yearned for half a century.
This kiss was filled with contradictions. Anger at her own helplessness, jealousy that Tulia had sought another, blame for her heartless escape—but more than anything, a thick, inescapable, pathological longing.
But for Tulia, this complex, torrential emotion was unfelt, and she wanted nothing to do with it.
All she felt was humiliation, violation, and a powerlessness as if reliving a nightmare.
“Let… let go!”
She struggled with all her might, hands pushing at Sophia’s shoulders, her nails digging deep into the expensive fabric.
She twisted, trying to turn her head away, to evade that suffocating mouth.
“Let me go! Sophia!” she forced out a hoarse, muffled protest from deep in her throat, every blow and push fueled by all her strength.
But all her resistance was like a stone sinking in the sea. That seemingly slender body was as unyielding as a mountain, unmoved no matter how Tulia beat against her.
The air was sucked from her, the suffocating feeling surging like a tide.
She was forced—despairingly—to endure this deep kiss she could not accept, her mind going black from lack of air.
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