Interlude. In an alley the city forgets, shadows pool like stagnant rain. That’s the kind of place no one notices. It’s also where the Underworld stirs like roots beneath stone.

The young man watches a sliver of shadow in the alley’s throat, boredom coiled like a cat under eaves. Twenty men cluster around him like crows on a wire. Some older. None of that matters; his mood sits cold.

"Boss... we did what you ordered. We checked every reaction. But—"

"So it’s still nothing, right?"

"Yes... give us time. Finding that broken stone won't be—"

"Shut up. You want the Outer World watching us like streetcats?"

Under their leader’s bark, breath locks like frost on glass. They know his face looks gentle as spring water. His methods cut cruel, colder than iron. No one in the family matches him. Unless another family dares.

"Today, we have a guest."

A cruel smile hooks his mouth, flicking toward the alley’s mouth like a blade.

"Civilians?"

"No. An old friend."

Interest gathers on his face like stormclouds before thunder.

A boy steps in from the passage, dressed to hunt. Dark-brown leather clings like bark. Black jeans coil tight as shadow. Short light-red hair crowns a handsome face. The killing intent on him is real, cold as dawn steel.

"You, of the Clan Head’s line too—here to compete?"

The young man smiles, half-moon and sharp, laying the topic bare.

The boy returns a smile, thin as a blade, thick with mockery.

"I’m curious. As a young family head, why chase women’s toys?"

His lackeys can’t swallow it; their tempers flare like dry straw.

"Arrogant little brat!"

"Don’t think we won’t move just because you rank like the boss!"

"Be smart. Kneel and beg for mercy!"

He ignores the barking dogs; his voice stays cool as river stone. "About the Magical Stone—I won’t let it drop into others’ hands. A Stone with an Artifact Spirit outvalues any common Stone. It was born from tech fused by the Magic Institution and the clans."

"Not your line to say. If I take it, the Institution bleeds. For you, what’s the point? You that eager to sit as head?"

"Not only that. My aim reaches farther. What I want isn’t that simple."

His face twists, a storm-mask of rage; killing intent spills like winter wind.

"I won’t give the second piece to your family or the Magic Institution. So—"

The man opposite answers with a sick grin, gleaming like a broken tooth. The lackeys raise pistols; gunfire bites the alley in ragged bursts.

"He’s alone—don’t fear!"

"Drop him!"

Rat-tat-tat—

The rest is guns, a rain that drowns all noise. Shells clink on cement like falling seeds. Smoke swells and sours the alley like burnt leaves. Lucky it’s our turf. Eyes from the Outer World would be trouble.

"Hm?"

When the smoke peels back, it’s not bodies but a deep-red crystal wall. It has caught every bullet like a winter dam catching ice. Crystal shards and brass mingle on the ground, a harsh, glittering mosaic.

"That’s—!"

The boy stands untouched. Deep-red flakes fall at his feet like dying petals. A crimson glint flickers in his hands.

"Not bad. As expected of the Divine Ling Family." The young man laughs, wild as a jackal. From above, countless air blades descend, sweeping the alley like a storm front.

"Congeal!"

He snaps his hand. Mystic Power erupts like a caged lion finally breaking. Crystals sharpen into spears, and lackeys are pierced like paper lanterns. Blood flowers burst, painting the ground scarlet.

The young man stays calm; a katana blooms in his grip like moonlight.

A twin set of blades—the Snow-etched Twin Blades. The long one called Fallen Leaf. The short, Little Tiao. Both carry a unique golden snow motif that glows like cold fire.

A visible slash carves the air, a bright vein racing skyward. A lattice of crystals rises, blocking the blow like a sudden cliff. The boy sprints forward, feet light as deer. A crystal blade forms in his hand, then drives into a lackey’s chest. Blood sprays, staining earth like spilt wine. He doesn’t look back; his only goal is the enemy ahead.

"Kill!"

The crystals obey, rallying like a flock and sweeping forward like a bullet squall. Screams and tearing echo like torn silk. Blood slicks the concrete; even the walls drink red streaks. He hates delays; he grabs an extra’s arm and rips it off like pulling weeds.

"Ah—!"

The scream drills bone; half his body goes red like a flag. The boy gives no chance; a single stab into the gut ends a life, clean as a cut thread.

He vaults through, leaving a field of spiked crimson crystals. In seconds they harvest lives like hail in a wheat field. Some die before understanding. Some can’t keep their bodies whole. Against sharpness, flesh is clay; one stroke severs hands from feet.

"Flash!"

The young man slashes. Mystic Power spins from blade to air, rising like a tornado and banding the steel with storm. He chops; the cut is clean as winter ice. One strike gouges the wall, a mouth gaping wide. Touch it, and the wall would fall like sand. If the boy hadn’t moved fast, there’d be no body left to bury.

He hardens his heart; deep-red crystals mass, sheathing half of each forearm like armor. The rest rains from above like spring showers. No matter their numbers, they’ll be ground to paste.

The young man grips with both hands. He turns his waist and cuts a circle, lines sketched in air like rings in water. The crystal storm breaks to glittering dust. He smiles; pale-blue vapor coils around his blade like mist.

"Damn..."

No openings. Frustration pricks like needles. His crystals answer, light flickering like foxfire.

"That all?"

The young man’s tone mocks, as if saying, You shouldn’t be this weak.

"Far from it."

He chooses risk. He drives straight in, heart steady as iron. He’s learned the pattern. The man attacks with sword-qi beams, savage and clean. The farther the gap, the deadlier the light. So he closes, like thunder hugging ground.

The young man senses it. His blade scratches the air, leaving scars that become attacks, slicing forward like flying reeds. The boy backflips, barely dodging; lines kiss his skin and leave cuts like red vines.

He feels the luck spark; reaction saved him, thin as a hair. He spreads his hands. Crystals form dart-shapes and dive, aiming for the heart like hawks stooping.

The young man grins; the air scars deepen, and more shards fall like sleet.

Suddenly, a chill climbs from his soles to his crown, cold as river water at night. Instinct tugs; he slips sideways like a shadow.

Sure enough, a crystal sword falls like a shooting star, skewering the spot he’d stood.

"No wonder—Divine Ling Family secret arts. Fierce."

His face holds real praise, solid as stone.

"Too kind. Your attacks are anything but soft."

The boy smiles, polite as tea steam.

"Divine Ling Family secret art, Crystal Convergence, earns its name."

"Flamebu Family Sword Flash shows no mercy either."

"Kid, if you weren’t set on being my enemy, with your skill we could do big things together."

"Pity, senior. I won’t hand anything over."

"Hmph. Big words. You don’t even know where the Magical Stone is."

Silence hangs between them like a drawn bow.

He never loosens his grip; the blade stays, a crescent of threat. The boy’s face stays tight; caution settles like frost along his brow.

"You’re a young head without the capital to fight the Magic Institution. Why rush the Stone?"

"You’re the same, senior. A Witch might not shake the earth now. But the world loves the unexpected."

"Heh. That’s why a Magical Stone with an Artifact Spirit is irresistible."

With that Stone, sweeping the Underworld gains another chip. Breed a Witch for the clan, and birthing a second won’t be hard.

"Yes. The thought alone is thrilling."

His smile brims, madness glinting like a wolf’s eye.

"Anyone who blocks me dies."

"Then come test me."

"Bring your life, Shen Ling Zou."

"Take my blow, Yanbu Junichi."

In the Underworld, the fighting never stops. It runs like a dark river under the city, forever hungry.