The world possesses spiritual energy, also known as magic. Who wouldn't want to turn off their night light with just a snap of their fingers? Who wouldn't want to blow away dense, threatening clouds and draw celestial bodies to themselves? But unfortunately, God is not so merciful. Only the chosen ones have received this gift, and not all use it wisely. Among them lives Maila, a young woman who has lost hope in life and is ashamed of her own existence. Her name, Maila, rolls off the tongue easily, but she was christened only as Mai. Her mother, with a tender heart for music, added a "La." However, as she stood at the baptismal font shrouded in uncertainty, it was too late.

It is said that when one was in need or hummed an interesting melody, "Lady La" would appear and grant three wishes, though only one would be fulfilled. But this came at a price: a mere book.

It is also said that if there was something inexplicable in our already inexplicable world, one could seek out a shaman in her Healer Shop. But this, too, came at a price: a mere book.

Maila stared out at Redwick’s Cemetery, a graveyard without gravestones, where an invisible blanket of loneliness and abandonment hung so heavily it could be felt in the heart, even by Maila, who had no relatives there. The charming sun smiled down, but in its sharp dancing rays lay a hidden melancholy, one that only nature could understand. Maila quickly sniffed around, but it was devoid of the unique scent of a specific energy: an Evil Spirit. A sense of relief embraced her as she, for the second time, detected nothing special about the place, and a small smile sneaked onto her lips.

"So there are no spirits here," she said, though her words were woven with uncertainty.

She turned to Kenta, who sat gazing out over Redwick Cemetery as if he hadn't had enough yet.

"Let’s pay Blacksmith Kjeld a spontaneous visit," she said and trudged towards Blacksmith Kjeld. Kenta followed, lightly padding on his paws, his fox figure and almond eyes exuding a glow of pride, stubbornness, loyalty, and a sly smile hidden within.

They made their way to the Little Blacksmith, owned by Blacksmith Kjeld, a Rune Master in disguise, who currently possessed something that belonged to Maila. On the way, she paid a visit to the local cheese vendor, who sold cheese that could crawl all by itself. The kiosk next door offered licorice that could make one's taste buds sing in chorus, something Blacksmith Kjeld had a sweet tooth for.

The Little Blacksmith was so small it could hide from the gaze of a passerby, something Blacksmith Kjeld and his diligent workers didn't mind. Maila was greeted by smoke and smiths who carefully but vigorously did their work so meticulously that Blacksmith Kjeld had allowed himself to sit down with his beer mug and a large pipe, something close to his heart. She trudged through the gravel surrounded by blades clanging loudly in symphony with hammers, proudly participating in a union of swords quivering with excitement, waiting to embrace them. She placed the bag on the wooden table, which offered various tools, so shiny they almost blinded her, a testament to dedication. She rattled the bag, causing Blacksmith Kjeld to stop polishing a dagger. He looked at her with a puzzled gaze. His face bore scars from the time of war, yet he managed to maintain his youthful appearance, a tight smile as if the end of the world could happen any minute, but with a modest aura of kindness.

"Miss Maila. It has been a long time. Is it perhaps..."

"22 months," Maila interrupted, rattling the bag again with a sound that hid wondrous goodies.

Blacksmith Kjeld scratched his cheek, and with embarrassment painted all over his face, he answered in a hoarse voice, "I know we agreed on 18 months. But it so happens that Monk John has gotten into trouble. Or so a little bird has sung. But since he is a monk, we assume the spirits will guide him here very soon."

He rubbed his large fingers together, glowing with many years of experience.

Maila slowly raised her right eyebrow, something she hadn't done in a long time. The last time was when her katana needed a loving touch.

"If he is a monk, then the spirits would have already guided him here long ago. What are you hiding from me, Mr. Kjeld? Even though I look like a new bud on a branch, I wasn't born yesterday," she replied with a raised, trembling voice that could be felt throughout the smithy.

At those words, Blacksmith Kjeld coughed violently, grunted, but coughed again. Only now did Maila notice the seriousness and helped him with a hard slap to the back. He suddenly spat out a Core, its grotesque form disguised in a ruby, making Maila's mind work at full speed.

"By the Spirits' Hand, what on earth are you doing? Do you no longer value your life?" she roared so loudly that her lungs couldn't keep up. She took the snow-white cloth from her pocket, wrapped it around the Core, but as she was about to put it in her pocket, Blacksmith Kjeld, who had just managed to catch his breath, protested sharply. Maila knew the danger of swallowing a Core, one that even Blacksmith Kjeld, despite his background, couldn't overcome. But he was a stubborn mule, now evident in his tight smile.

"I'll try again later. Give it back to me," he said in a gentle but firm tone.

Maila bit her lower lip and refused to give it back. He still owes me my sword, she thought.

"My sword for it," she said, placing the Core deep in her pocket, its warmth a sign that it already knew its fate.

Blacksmith Kjeld responded with sharp comments, but this time it sounded as if they were directed at himself, wrapped in embarrassment and shame, which the entire smithy could sense.

"Now that it's been said, do you intend to send a young maiden out into the big world without any form of protection?" Maila extended her right hand towards him.

Blacksmith Kjeld's ears turned brighter than the morning sun, and with a newfound dedication, he quickly arranged a new sword, a katana for Maila, which she accepted with a smile that even the sourest fruit could not compete with. "I came for my own sword forged by you, but instead you drop into my hand someone else's work, an unknown object to me," she said in a rising voice that made the nearest hammer tremble. It struck awry and nicked the edge of a sword that fell to the floor with a loud clang, causing all the smiths to halt their work and look over at Maila. For the first time in many years, Blacksmith Kjeld couldn't muster a word. His mind had all the right sentences, but his tongue betrayed him, producing only an indistinct murmur, so distant a sound that now it was the smiths looking at him. I can't keep this up any longer. She's seen through me, he thought.

He quickly admitted, now with a glowing face that surpassed the setting sun on a beautiful cloudless day, "We've already sent our best people, even a Magician, after Monk John, but it seems he has mastered the art of disappearance. We have concluded that it might be the spirits playing a prank on us, but a prank we dare not handle on our own anymore."

He silently clapped his hands, looked up at the open sky, where one could see out into space with perfect clarity, and took a deep breath, so deep it could be felt and heard by all the smiths. "I am a scapegoat for only now realizing my mistakes. Forgive me."

Maila felt something stir within her and hurriedly said, "Shouldn't you be forgiving me and not the spirits?" She rubbed her forehead slowly and offered something she had never done before. "It sounds like a case for me, Mr. Kjeld..."

At those words, Blacksmith Kjeld immediately interrupted her, promising her everything under the sun if she could just bring Monk John back safely to them. But even his words, which could make wilting flowers bloom again, did not captivate Maila. She knew it was just a polite push out the door. So with the new sword, a katana-shaped one, she turned her gaze toward the exit. But Blacksmith Kjeld suddenly stopped her.

"These are the details of Monk John, which I hope from the bottom of my heart can give you a big hand..." He raised his hand, clenched his fist, and directed it toward Maila. "As big as this..."

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"That's enough. My ears are becoming more delicate than they already are," Maila interrupted. She was about to bid farewell to Blacksmith Kjeld, but when her small eyes fell on the katana's scabbard, its topaz delicate details of tiny flames, she sensed a hidden message, something Blacksmith Kjeld had completely forgotten. "What's its name?" she asked.

Blacksmith Kjeld smiled so much that his ears danced and almost touched each other. "Dance With Me."

Maila felt a wave of disappointment spread through her, not wanting to imagine how their naming ceremony went, something all Rune Masters had to go through when they created their masterpiece. "Lovely name. I hope it lives up to its creator."

She left Blacksmith Kjeld with a wink, but it left him and the smiths in a confused state.

Maila, with Kenta, headed towards her shop, where a close person was waiting, who had already been up before the first dew kissed the first grass.

The shop was nestled in a place that could easily escape people's gaze, something Maila had deliberately chosen. Amidst the other buildings brimming with the finest offerings that Redwick had to offer, only those who felt adventurous, those who wanted a sneak peek, or those who were truly honest ventured into her shop. But alas, her shop was not a dragon's den.

The nameplate dangling unwelcomingly over the door had survived nature's punishment—stubborn wood, but it hadn't come out unscathed.

"He Healer Shop," Maila read, feeling her ears try to crawl away in shame. "Who in the Spirits' Name removed the 'T'?"

The shop was modest with its small wooden shelves, aged gracefully, offering various handmade items by Maila herself, a work she was proud of. She had managed to finish her perfumes before dawn greeted the countryside, but doubt still hung as a constant reminder.

A young woman, Vivian, was in the midst of placing various things on the impatient shelves that caught her attention, despite their similar shapes. Vivian was proud of her height, something that scared some men, and with her new hairstyle, she just needed a dab of rouge on her small apple cheeks and the men would look at her again.

"Good morning. Have you been to the hairdresser recently, Vivi?" Maila asked with a smile as she moved towards the counter where a dust cover was waiting, as only she could sit in it. She brushed the dust away, threw her adorable buttocks into the waiting dust cover, and yawned so much her jaws screamed in tenderness.

"You might as well worship the spirits, Viv," she said in a gruff voice.

"The spirits can wait. You have customers every day, so why let them gather dust?" Vivian asked, now leaning over the cardboard box waiting to show its worth of goods. When it thought it was its chance, Maila suddenly said, "My dear Vivi, could you please wait with those?"

Vivian grunted but didn't stop her hands, which already had a firm grip on the cardboard box. "Stop talking like an old lady. It makes you seem much older. It's the perfume you carefully crafted last week. Of course, they'll sell."

Maila felt the reminder stamp into her mind. Last week. She had forgotten what she was doing then. So it wasn't yesterday I made the first batch, she thought. Am I really getting that old?

When she suddenly heard the merciless tape being ripped off quickly, she felt something stir inside her again, but this time in her heart. A low grunt forced its way out, but Maila made no comment. She exhaled slowly and looked at her hands, weathered from experiences more than any human should endure. If Vivi knew what the perfume consisted of, she would change her words now, Maila thought, a small smile creeping onto her face.

Customers always arrived after their first big meal, so Maila used the time to order a new sign for the shop, done on the tablet, the only screen in the store. With Vivian's assistance, they settled on a new name without much discussion. While Vivian danced around handling logistics, Maila remained seated at the covered counter, her eyes scanning the store tirelessly. The white sanitary napkins had been embraced better than a baby by the mature women who normally held significant sway in society.

"I have dedicated my weekdays solely to worshipping the spirits," Vivian suddenly said, her fingers still elegantly dancing over the tablet while her eyes rested on the shelf of creams.

"You should still get out a little," Maila said, gently reminding her what true dedication entailed.

But Vivian's response was so sharp that Maila felt it in her heart. "I said dedicated, Maila. Didn't you hear me?"

Maila's tongue moved against her palate, but suddenly, the delicate glass door swung open. There stood a man with a face that could make women forget for a second, finely dressed in a long coat. Vivian's eyes stole a glance at this distinguished gentleman but quickly returned to their work, though her ears pricked forward with curiosity.

The gentleman approached the counter, his steps exuding proud elegance and confidence that matched the smile he wore. Maila quickly rose to her feet like a graceful swan, her fingers brushing off dust from her clothes as she made eye contact with the gentleman now standing before her, his dark eyes holding secrets she was not eager to uncover.

The gentleman's gaze, fixed on her, did not need to work, for it had already achieved its purpose: "Your attire suits the theme of the shop well, Miss Maila," he remarked.

Maila, dressed in a hanfu from a time when the world had different names and a future awaited in a place now her new home, Space, furrowed her brow. "Is that a compliment or criticism? Your tone is hard to decipher, young man."

Now it was the gentleman's turn to furrow his brow. "Young one? I suppose we were born under the same Spirit Gate."

"Spirit Gate?" Every time Maila heard "spirit" or "gate" intertwined, she felt something trying to break through deep within her.

"Perhaps we were born under the same Spirit Gate, but that doesn't limit my choice of words. We must honor the spirits, or else we all know the answer."

"There are many ways to honor the spirits, and one of them is to be true to oneself. They don't care how you speak. Who sets the rules here? Them, God, or the Holy Church?" The gentleman’s voice echoed, carrying no unsettling message.

Maila wasn't up for that discussion. Not today, at least. The Holy Church, The Magician… Give me a break.

With determination, her fingers pointed towards the door, ready to bid the gentleman farewell. "If you've come like the other men with tainted thoughts, the door's over there, my fine sir."

A loud grunt escaped Vivian's mouth as she prowled around the shop, pretending nothing was happening, her fingers now dancing slowly on the tablet.

Though the gentleman felt the invisible pull of the door discreetly trying to draw him in, his mind was focused on Maila. He introduced himself as Liam, a detective, and offered Maila a job with the local police. But before he could continue, she promptly declined, giving him a friendly shove towards the door, now glowing with hunger. Vivian interjected with a comment that Maila ignored. Everyone knew the law was corrupt, and behind it stood something even more disturbing—the Holy Church, with which she had a history she did not speak of.

After Detective Liam's visit, customers flooded in, much to Maila and Vivian's surprise. Vivian playfully hoped that Detective Liam would grace them with another visit, preferably before daybreak.

As the sun smiled warmly over Redwick, the shop emptied once again. Just as Maila and Vivian were about to rest, the door slammed open, and three people entered: an elderly woman with a face weathered like the oldest oak, a graceful lady who made others pale in comparison, and a dear little girl who seemed to be kissed by the moon in her sleep.

They marched straight to the counter where Maila sat, her hand lightly brushing against the sharp edges of a box in her pocket. She greeted the women.

"A spirit has sung that you have magic hands. Is that true?" asked the elderly woman, her appearance belying her years.

"Spirits? Magic hands? I can't bring people back from the dead," Maila replied, her mind elsewhere.

The graceful woman, Laila Smith, suddenly slapped her hand on the counter, her ring glowing with striking attention. She removed her hand, revealing a golden check with edges gleaming proudly with many zeros, eliciting a smile. Maila, however, had her interest elsewhere. Her gaze danced over to Laila Smith’s exquisite pearl necklace, so elegant that even Lady Lucifilia Evalia might envy it from afar.

"My father is very ill, and the doctors are useless. Our money is disappearing fast. Consider it a blessing from the spirits that we have chosen you instead of some ordinary shaman," Laila Smith said firmly.

"Ladies, if you had done your homework properly, you would know I have specific preferences," Maila replied, her hand gripping a black ballpoint pen, its form fuller than a wood snail, as she gently pushed the check back towards Laila Smith, who furrowed her brow.

"Perhaps you need a good ear cleaning. I said you were fortunate that we..."

"Miss, my employer has had a taxing day and needs rest. If you could visit us another time at dawn, perhaps our intentions will align," Vivian interjected suddenly, her steps edging closer.

She handed the check back to Laila Smith, who this time cast a glance at Vivian and remarked, "Ah, so you're the rightful owner here. Why all the theatrics? My father is gravely ill."

Maila felt a headache creeping in. With her hand on her forehead, she muttered, "Who's the one not listening here?"

Laila Smith gave her a probing look, remarking, "Perhaps you should rest. You don't seem well."

That was the last straw! Maila clenched her fist, repeating her calming mantra in her mind. Deep breath in. Stay calm.

Vivian tactfully tried to usher the ladies out, but it was like sweeping a wall; it didn't budge. After several attempts, Maila, knowing her responsibilities, had to intervene. However, when the girl delicately conjured a necklace of glowing stars on the counter and spoke with earnest words, Maila reconsidered Laila Smith's plea for help.

"Um. My mother is struggling. My father recently left her. My grandfather is sick, and the doctors are incompetent. They smile and greedily take our money. I heard a rumor that you were a fairy with magical powers. Could you help us?"

The girl wore an enchanting dress matching her locks, the color of the finest buttercups on a field on the most beautiful summer day, with a face that could melt anyone's heart.

Maila tapped her scalp a few times, her gaze shifting towards Laila Smith, who now wore an open smile. "You are fortunate to have a daughter blessed with a good heart. I have my own methods, and if you question them, I reserve the right not to proceed with the treatment."

The family solemnly swore by the spirits and God not to demand anything of her. With Vivian and Kenta guarding the shop, Maila departed with the three ladies to a home three streets away, to the home of the ailing gentleman, Finn Smith.