Days in Black Iron Town were like a rusted gear, turning slowly and sluggishly.
After Robin's birthday, a certain layer of hard ice quietly melted between the two of them.
Seraphilia still left early and returned late, but the supplies she brought back were quietly changing.
Food was no longer hit-or-miss; occasionally, there would be a precious egg or a small strip of dried meat.
Seraphilia knew this was far from enough.
Money was the first shackle.
Preparing the birthday gift for Robin had nearly exhausted all of her savings.
Even heavier was an invisible sense of oppression, like the rust-colored smog hanging over the town that never dispersed, weighing on her heart day and night.
Nico Robin's bounty poster was a sharp sword hanging over their heads.
A place like Black Iron Town was a breeding ground for crime and intelligence; CP agents or hyenas smelling blood could appear at any moment.
She needed power.
Not the kind of little trick that turns into a cloud of mist to blind people, but power that could truly deter, strike back, and crush threats.
This thought became sharp as a thorn one evening.
She pushed open the door and saw Robin leaning against the wall, quietly reading the "Common Character Reference for Ancient Languages" by the last rays of the sunset outside the window.
The young girl's profile was calm and focused, as if this dilapidated room was her entire world.
At that moment, Seraphilia's chest tightened sharply.
She had to protect this peace.
To do that, she needed a sharper blade and a sturdier shield.
Money was the shield; power was the blade.
She had to grasp both in her hands.
Her "work" began to change.
It was no longer odd jobs at the docks or scavenging for scrap.
She began to use her fine control over Cloud Mist to take on "private jobs" that paid better but carried higher risks.
Creating a small, absolutely dust-free "vacuum zone" for precision welding points in an underground workshop.
Helping an apprentice handling dangerous chemicals precisely control the local temperature of a container through the heat absorption of evaporating mist.
Even using a thick fog to obscure a section of a ship's hull for a shipwright who was secretly installing illegal armor.
The payment shifted from scattered copper coins to silver coins that occasionally made a crisp clinking sound.
And the real "training" took place daily before dawn at the edge of the town's most remote junkyard.
In the foul-smelling air, her eyes were focused.
The first goal: Speed.
The moment the mist was generated, it had to cover that row of rust-stained iron barrels ten meters away.
Her mental energy was drained in an instant, and a needle-like sting came from her temples.
She steadied her swaying body and tried again.
The second goal: Form.
Loose mist had no lethality.
She began to forcibly compress and condense the mist, weaving it into a visible "Cloud Rope."
The initial Cloud Rope was weak and limp, dissipating as soon as it was swung.
She practiced without rest until the Cloud Rope could let out a sharp crack, snapping a rotted wooden stick in two.
The third goal: Properties.
This was the most difficult direction, but also the one with the most potential.
She tried to make the mist damp, cold, and heavy, like a water-soaked quilt, enough to slow down an enemy's movements.
She also tried to make the mist scorching and thin, simulating the hot winds of a desert, enough to burn an opponent's eyes and throat.
Training was a lonely gnawing.
There was no guidance, only trial and error, and the taste of rust in her throat after repeated mental exhaustion.
She never stopped.
Whenever she was exhausted, the profile of Robin reading under the lamp would always appear before her eyes.
That was her entire reason.
Seraphilia's changes did not escape Robin's notice.
She noticed that Seraphilia was occasionally listless, with an unmaskable fatigue hidden deep in her eyes.
She also noticed that when Seraphilia left in the early morning, her soles would be stained with the black mud found only in the junkyard.
Even a jagged abrasion, which didn't look like it was caused by carrying goods, appeared on her forearm.
The nature of the questions in Robin's heart was quietly changing.
It went from "What does she want to get?" to "What exactly is she doing?"
One morning, when Seraphilia returned, her face was as pale as paper. Her body swayed as she entered, and she leaned against the doorframe.
Robin stood up from the corner almost instantly, but forced herself to stop.
She didn't know what to do.
Seraphilia quickly steadied herself, put down the food, and said in a slightly raspy voice, "There were cheap potatoes today."
Robin asked nothing, just silently walked over, poured a bowl of warm water, and handed it to her.
Seraphilia took the bowl, her ice-blue eyes meeting Robin's pale blue eyes.
In Robin's gaze, there was concern, inquiry, and a hint of worry she hadn't even noticed herself.
"Thank you," Seraphilia said in a low voice.