The silent night was never meant to be calm; ink-dark sky hid a world most never see, while a few stepped early into a field where blood met fate.

Moonlight spilled like cold silk, tinting the black ground with silver; rustle-rustle footsteps scratched the dirt, and shell casings clink-clinked across rough cement.

Then gunfire tore the air; the place that rang with shots showed no living silhouettes, as if the whole scene had been staged by an unseen hand.

A pack of bruisers gripped a menagerie of guns; machine guns, shotguns, rifles, all joined into one grim orchestra—yes, the symphony of death.

Fire fell like iron rain, a sky-blown barrage; before the shooters could blink, the scent of blood unfurled like a feral bloom.

A girl slipped through the battlefield like a swift sparrow; she hugged cover and weaved past bullets, and every glance back bloomed into a bleeding firework.

“Whew…” The girl let out a breath like mist dissolving in moonlight.

Her face was fine-cut; tea-brown hair braided on her right, and a heaviness sat on her young features like frost on leaves.

“Xiang, how many targets left?”

She raised a walkie, voice low, eyes flicking up like a wary cat to scan the shadows.

“Miss, your area’s clear. Please support Third Squad.”

A crisp woman’s voice chimed through; Aya nodded once, then asked, “How much force has the Divine Ling Family committed?”

“Unknown, but at least as much as ours. We’re stuck in a stalemate, unless…”

“We break the Crystal Tower, or nothing moves. Right?”

“Right. If this drags on, it’s bad for us. It may be down to you, Miss.”

“I know. Losing this clan war would be shameful. Support’s far, but the Single Leaf Clan doesn’t fold easy.”

Confidence lit her face like a hidden lantern.

“Alright. Careful is king.”

“Mm. Rear work’s yours, Xiang.”

She cut the comm and breathed out a thread of cold air; her expression hovered between grave and a touch of despair, like dusk on water.

This scale of battle wasn’t a brawl; one wrong step, and the night might keep her forever, like a tide closing over a stone.

But she wouldn’t retreat or kneel; pride braced her spine like iron bamboo—she was Yie Caiyin, a woman who’d rather die than bow.

She leveled her pulse; she pressed down the last tremor; Aya drew a pistol from her coat and thumbed the safety, eyes sharpening like a drawn blade.

She swept a wary gaze around, moved only when the wind felt still, and never loosened her grip, as if the gun were her last root.

At a corner, she snapped both hands into aim; one odd twitch, and she’d squeeze without mercy; no one stood there, and her breath eased a notch.

She kept that taut pace for ten minutes; her nerves stayed strung like wire; she headed for the hot zone, where the road always births more foes.

Days ago, the Divine Ling Family struck the Single Leaf Clan; the clan war opened like a storm gate, and Aya couldn’t stand aside.

She’d mastered the clan secret art, but blood was rare in her days; her first kill wrung her dry, and she retched for nights like the sea in gale.

She grew up taught for this; acceptance came like winter breath—cold, brief, and necessary—and wasted time was folded away like old paper.

This war couldn’t be lost; defeat would shatter the Single Leaf Clan like porcelain; Yie Caiyin would never allow it, so she stepped into the blaze.

Sudden gunfire hammered her ears; Aya folded behind cover like a swallow under eaves, and the next volley scraped the concrete where her shadow had been.

She carved back with half a lean; bullets peeled from her barrel like sparks from flint, stamping rose-shaped holes into the men’s chests.

“Burst!”

Her left hand clenched; her voice fell like icy rain; smokes of explosions opened across the ground, grit flew, and slabs shattered like stale bread.

Aya strode out in an arrow step, unafraid of the lead storm; the gunners perked up, fury flaring like dry tinder at the sight of the girl.

She had blown their friends into meat paste moments ago; rage clawed for her head like wolves; they raised barrels, eyes hot and mean.

Aya smiled like a secret and shed their killing aura like loose ash; her lips parted, and winter slid into her gaze.

Boom.

Bodies popped like overripe fruit; blood sprayed in arcs; blasts bloomed at their feet; flesh shredded under the red tide.

Aya exhaled; even iron lungs fray under this grind; she took a heartbeat’s rest, then pushed on like a runner chasing dawn.

Her steps lengthened; the path eased, cleared by prior flames; her heart lightened like a kite in wind, yet her head stayed clear.

She moved with measured senses; one whiff of killing intent, and she’d answer with her own, the way thunder replies to lightning.

A small yard became a garden of blasts; small to large, near to far; blood rained like crimson petals, painting the floor in a treacherous beauty.

She frowned at the fresh wall of foes; Hell, another wave already—could the night not be done with its hunger?

Her palm struck the ground; bones drummed like a smith’s anvil; heat ran to her skin, and every spark of Mystic Power poured like a flood.

That motion primed the secret art; the floor trembled and heaved; slabs flew forward in a stony flock, then burst to powder mid-flight.

Powder and shards rushed into bodies like a dust storm; cells and nerves lit up like lava; chaos scurried within, and death followed like a drumroll.

This was the Single Leaf Clan’s secret art, Airburst—where it walked, explosions answered like hounds.

Aya glanced at the fresh dead and scrunched her brow, then smoothed it like a hand over silk; she had no seconds to waste.

Her slim silhouette flashed and vanished; she ran from site to site like a firefly; lights drew closer like a river of stars.

Her brow eased; her feet flew; she sprinted for the battle-scarred building like an arrow shaking off its bow.

Gunfire never stopped; men fell like cut wheat; blood soaked clothes to a dull red; even so, the Single Leaf Clan refused to bow to the Divine Ling Family.

“Fall!”

A girl rushed in from the edge; she never dove into the knot; her small fists clenched like coals.

Explosions rolled out, bending space like heat shimmer; small to big, far to near; contempt froze to fear inside Divine Ling hearts.

They had no time to dodge; the blasts carried off blood by buckets; silence followed like smoke after flame.

“Lady Aya!”

Hope rose like a lantern in fog; grim lines loosened, and resolve gained a bright edge.

“What’s the enemy’s status?”

Aya didn’t waste words; she stepped up, voice steady as stone.

“Ma’am, we’ve cleared a portion of Divine Ling forces. If I’m right, this should be their last wave tonight.”

He spoke with deference; a rapier in his blood-slick hand stayed leveled, steadier than breath.

“I know. What about their tower?”

When the clan war began, both sides were even; Divine Ling got cocky and sent less than half their force; they got slapped hard by fate.

Chastened, they tightened their rhythm; they even poured a fortune into the secret art Crystal Coalescence and built the Crystal Tower.

It fired crystal like a storm of knives; it cost a king’s ransom; the Divine Ling Family spent heavy silver and colder will.

The tower was murder incarnate; within days, our strength frayed like rope; crystals fell like spring rain, beautiful and terrible, harvesting lives.

Aya burned to break it and turn the tide, like wrecking a dam to free a river.

“Forcing through now is too risky, Miss…”

“Save it. I’ll go myself.”

She ignored him and ran; obstacles turned to ash under her hand, each blast a lotus opening in fire.

Aya was a Clan Head bloodline heir; like the other bearers, she could face a hundred; stronger than any Witch by a clean margin.

Ordinary folk only lace Mystic Power into weapons; Witches surge their element and ride the storm; Aya fused bloodline and power and forged war from both.

In the Underworld, this is the rule of roots and iron: if you have power, you hold the right.

She clenched; explosions bloomed; enemies burst like seeds under a boot; blood spattered the ground into a wet choir.

Aya blinked and felt it, a quiet shock—somehow, she’d grown this strong, like a tree finding itself tall.

Then the air twisted.

Crimson crystals poured from the sky like a swarm, directionless and hungry; Aya hissed, not good, and raised her hand with Mystic Power surging.

Boom.

Explosions braided with crystal; the blooms were cruel and beautiful; shards fell like red crystal confetti, decorating the field in savage grace.

Aya didn’t smile; she held only wariness and the cold edge of killing intent, like a blade wrapped in snow.

“Hello, Miss Yie Caiyin.”

A light-red-haired boy waved like a neighbor, casual as a summer breeze; his face was boyish, but his eyes held scorn and winter.

Aya’s fists tightened; her body wanted to step back; pride pinned her heels like stakes—she refused to bow.

“Shen Ling Zou.”