Mizuki stared, mind blank, like frost caught in moonlight, as the black‑cloaked girl with Goggles and a mask had just saved her.

The cloak hung on the slight girl like a raven wing two sizes too big, swallowing her build and skewing the lines.

Most of her face hid, the lower half sealed behind a black mask, the upper half veiled by Goggles, a mask upon a mask like layered night.

Only her soft black hair streamed like midnight silk, and her cloak rippled like a dark lake in wind.

She looked a year or two younger than Mizuki, yet the pressure from her was a storm front rolling over a field.

That wasn’t why Mizuki couldn’t look away; what gripped her was a warmth under the cold, a familiar scent like home smoke.

Angel.

That was Mizuki’s first thought, a bud‑soft beauty hidden by shadow, face implied by the gentle curve under the mask.

Her heart stalled like a bird mid‑flight, and she wanted to carve this scene into jade and keep it forever.

Why this daze, this sudden fall, this lightning‑strike illusion of love at first sight?

“Lit—” Sham jolted, almost blurting the girl’s real name, then swallowed his words like a pebble into a well.

“You’re… a Witch.” Anlise De Eilte watched the newcomer with a hawk’s stare, wary as dusk.

“I’m late. A troublesome man wasted my time,” the girl said, her voice like a clear stream over stone.

“—What… you didn’t… kill Donghai Shu, did you?” Anlise’s question came brittle, like ice under foot.

“Mm. I killed him. He tried to stop me,” the girl said, frank as noon sun, without a shadow of hesitation.

Anlise’s fists tightened like knots in rope, anger rising like smoke from dry leaves.

Donghai Shu’s strength wasn’t trivial; the way he fell felt wrong, like a tree felled by one swing.

“Fall back.”

“Shut it. She—”

“Be quiet. Do you even know who she is?”

“What?”

“I’m right, aren’t I, Night Phantom?” Yanbu Junichi tossed the words like a blade, toward the black‑cloaked girl.

“Wha—” Anlise inhaled sharp, the realization biting like sleet against bare skin.

“If you mean me, you found the right ghost,” the girl said, calm as winter water.

“Yanbu, you mean this brat’s the First Vessel Soul holder, Night Phantom?” Anlise’s voice trembled like a string plucked too hard.

“First Vessel Soul…?” Mizuki blinked, confusion fluttering like moths in a lantern.

Her Artifact Spirit answered at once, a voice rising like wind through pines.

“That girl is my—no, your kin, holding a Soul Gem like yours, a First Vessel Soul holder.”

“Eh!”

“No need to fuss. No law says there’s only one Artifact Spirit,” it chimed, like bells in mist. “She earned recognition before you. And that agent there—she’s your contractor, right?”

The Artifact Spirit slid its focus to Sham like a cat turning its head.

Sham sighed and nodded, the admission falling like a feather. “Yes. She’s the contractor I told you about. She’s strong. Mizuki, looks like we’re saved.”

This Witch, called Night Phantom, was a nightmare drawn in ink, troublesome as thornbush.

Yanbu’s face darkened like clouds before rain; he readied himself like a bow bent to breaking.

“Miyuki Kiseki…” the girl said, looking at Mizuki, voice as mild as morning.

“Hello, my kin. My name is Elana,” the Artifact Spirit sang, sweet as candied haw on a winter stick.

“So we still stepped into this…” Yun Shi exhaled, a breath like fog. “You’re an Artifact Spirit. First time I’ve seen one talk.”

“How rude. I’m alive,” Elana pouted, sugar turning tart like a lemon in tea.

Yun Shi turned her head toward Sham, the motion neat as a crane’s.

“Sham, she—”

“Sorry. I’ll handle it,” Sham said, apology soft as falling ash.

The girl said nothing more and walked toward the enemy, quiet as snowfall on slate.

“Sham…?” Mizuki’s voice trembled like a reed in wind.

“Relax. My contractor’s strong. Just watch,” Sham said, steady as a lantern held high.

“But I—” The words stuck like rice to the tongue, and nothing came out.

Seeing that black cloak’s back, Mizuki felt a loneliness like a lamp burning alone at dusk.

She wanted to know her more, a pull like tide to the moon.

“Even if you hold the First Vessel Soul, I won’t lose,” Yanbu said, his blade flashing silver like starlight.

“Then I’ll watch closely,” Yun Shi said. She pressed a switch, and a Light Blade bloomed like lightning caught in her palm.

Black boots scraped the floor, drawing chalky scars like claw marks; the cloaked girl rushed forward, one hand, a shadow on flood.

Yanbu smiled thin, his blade cutting air; streams rose like dragon breath and rolled through the hall.

Airborn slashes ripped the space like paper; buildings broke and toppled, rubble flying toward a hungry center.

Yun Shi stepped light, her footwork like sparrows among branches, dodging the spinning stones.

She didn’t charge blind; she watched, cool as frost on glass, reading the storm’s bones.

Her Goggles flicked to infrared; green vision flushed red like embers, and the attack’s center shone like a furnace.

Yun Shi leapt; blue‑violet bars of light fell like rain, cleaving the air‑slashes and breaking their teeth.

Her Light Blade cut toward Yanbu; his sword met it, steel on light, sparks bursting like a shower of stars.

“So strong…” Mizuki breathed, awe rising like dawn over the ridge.

“You’ll reach this one day, my lord,” her Artifact Spirit murmured, like a promise carved in bamboo.

Across the floor, Yun Shi’s steps danced like ink strokes; every cut went for a vital, swift as a falcon.

Yanbu wouldn’t fold; his sword art was hammered since childhood, steady as a mountain path.

He swung; the place where the blade fell emptied like steam; Yun Shi vanished.

She reappeared behind him, hand already drawing a gun like a crow from sleeve; she pulled the trigger.

Shots cracked, gunfire sparking, bullets pinging off his blade with bright clinks like hail on iron.

Yanbu’s face cooled to stone; he gathered airflows and hurled them like waves toward the girl.

Yun Shi ran across open ground, speed sharp as a black arrow; watchers saw only a shadow playing tag with wind.

Blue‑violet bars swept wide, unweaving the attacks like threads; Yun Shi leapt straight in.

Space shuddered; heavy black bindings whipped toward Yanbu like serpents, hungry to coil.

One flash of sword‑light, and the bindings guttered out like candles in rain; it was only the opening act.

Yun Shi slid through the gap and blinked to Yanbu’s face, her Light Blade driving down like a falling star.

Spectators leaned in, eyes hooked like fish; the crushed tide finally turned.

“That black‑cloaked little sister is incredible…” Mizuki said, a truth spilling like warm tea.

“She isn’t this strong in the real world,” the Artifact Spirit chimed, voice playful as bells.

“What do you mean?” Mizuki asked, confusion like mist.

“Literal,” Elana said, light as air. “Witches run on Mystic Power circuits. With proper routing, they burst like a volcano.”

“When you became a Witch, you felt it too,” Sham added, chest puffed like a pigeon.

“If you train your Mystic Power, your burst will be stronger,” Elana said, sugar steady as syrup.

After several exchanges, Yanbu felt off, discomfort crawling like ants; his breath roughened.

Yun Shi had thrown nearly every move; fresh cuts opened like red blossoms, blood sliding down her left shoulder.

She hissed, cold sweat dripping like beads.

Damn it, worthy of the Flamebu Family’s young lord; even all‑out, she’d only cut parts, and he’d already fought others.

“Curse it, the injuries from that fight with the Divine Ling boy…” Yanbu ground his teeth, anger pooling like tar.

Sweat beaded his brow like dew; his grip tightened.

“Can’t keep this up…” Yun Shi’s breath went quick, harsh as winter wind.

She tugged down her lower mask, drawing fresh oxygen like a swimmer breaking the surface.

Finish fast.

They raised their weapons and charged, like shells thrown from twin cannons.

Boom!

They broke apart; Yun Shi stepped back first, then stood calm as a stone in a stream.

Yanbu staggered; new wounds stacked on old like tiles, his footing uneven.

“Keep fighting and you gain nothing. You lost this one, Yanbu Junichi,” Yun Shi said, voice cool as shade.

“You damn—” Anlise started, her anger flaring like dry straw.

“Enough, Anlise De Eilte!” Yanbu cut her off, words sharp as a snap.

“But—” Her protest faded like smoke.

“This time it’s real. Lost the prize and the men,” Yanbu said, self‑mocking like a crooked smile.

The waste chilled him, an emptiness like winter in a bare room.

“There’s no point stirring chaos. The Soul Gem’s already in another’s hand,” he said, resignation like ash.

“Yanbu…”

“And we’ve got two First Vessel Soul holders and a Witch’s agent here,” he said, a wry edge like a blade’s back. “Grand stage.”

He meant he was wounded, and the enemies were many, a balance like scales tipping hard.

He could have won, but the black‑cloaked girl cut in like storm wind, shredding the careful weave.

“Still want to fight?” Yun Shi’s voice carried a thin blade. “Keep going, and I won’t promise no reinforcements. You’ve already rattled the Outer World. Sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

Mizuki and Sham watched, nerves tight as drawn strings, afraid of one wrong note.

“Night Phantom, don’t try to threaten me. I don’t buy it,” Yanbu said, pride like iron.

“I know. I’m not threatening,” Yun Shi said, light as drifting snow. “If you insist, we can continue. You just don’t hold the advantage.”

No wonder you're the holder of the First Vessel Soul—confidence sharp as a drawn blade.

You too—strong, like iron under winter frost.

...

Silence sank over the space like cold water. Every tongue held; no one spoke.

Stop acting high and mighty, you little brat—your pride's a balloon begging for a pin.

Anlise broke the silence, her finger stabbing like a spear toward the black-cloaked girl.

Night Phantom, you're born of the Clan Head's line, yet you betray us to the Magic Institution—do you think Heaven's thunder won't find you?

All of Anlise's resentment poured onto Yun Shi like boiling rain.

Shame surged first, then her hands clenched tight, knuckles pale as frost; those words bit deep.

No matter what, the fact of being Clan Head-born clung like ink sunk in silk.

Mizuki watched, puzzled, as the black cloak trembled like a leaf; for no clear reason, pity stirred like a thin flame.

Sham watched too, worry hanging like wet fog, afraid she'd bolt or break.

Enough—we leave, like shadows pulling back at dusk.

Yanbu, can you swallow this bitter herb?

Enough noise. What's done is done—how long will you throw tantrums like a storm in a teacup?

Yanbu lashed her with words like whips; Anlise jolted, then bowed her head like a candle guttering.

I'll let it slide this once, Night Phantom—call it saving face like a silk mask.

Next time, I'll kill you—the promise cold as a drawn icicle.

No one knew who the vow targeted, but the killing intent bled out like dye in water, impossible to hide.

Their figures blurred, then melted into the thick fog like ink in milk, until they vanished; the eye could catch nothing more.