“Miss Night Phantom!”

The sudden shift hit Mizuki like a thunderclap; her heart cinched tight like a snapped bowstring, and she shouted.

The girl lunging with a military saber wore a wildfire of rage and hate, wanting to claim the black‑cloak girl’s life on the spot. No one would stop her—not out of trust, not for spectacle, but like snow packed hard around a grudge.

Faces around them mirrored that same winter frost; they wished the black‑cloak girl dead at their feet, not an enemy yet sharper than one, a thorn in the flesh.

Witch Night Specter—her birth was stained like soot on silk; dislike and resentment clung to her like cold rain. That was the normal season.

Of course it was.

Yun Shi dimmed inside like a lantern lowered, then steadied; the saber’s point hung inches away like a thorned twig, and she stayed calm.

“Block!”

Somehow, a dagger had bloomed in Yun Shi’s hand like a hidden leaf; it caught the girl’s stabbing saber. Shock flickered across the attacker’s face like lightning—dagger and saber weren’t the same tier, not the same weight nor force. How did that proud strike get checked so easily?

It wasn’t over. The girl slid back a step like a wave withdrawing, roared, then stabbed again. This time, the rhythm beat steady like drums; Mystic Power slicked the blade, crystal light pricked along the steel.

Yun Shi intercepted without hurry, like reed to wind. The girl’s motions quickened, stab after stab, familiar with the knife like a hunter with snares. Yun Shi kept twisting her body, a ribbon in a storm, each thrust aimed at a vital, intent bent like iron on taking a life.

Frustration sighed inside Yun Shi like a cold wind; her body dipped low, slipping past the strike that whispered over her crown. Then her dagger flew from her fingers like a silver swallow. The girl startled, flicked her saber, and sent the knife spinning; it drew a neat arc like moonlight, clinked on the floor like ice. In that breath, a black‑cloak girl blurred into place before her, a second dagger kissing her throat.

So fast—the shadow never even showed.

Cold steel touched skin like winter water. She swallowed hard, a pebble in the stream, and didn’t dare twitch. One wrong ripple, and death would fall.

“You bastard!”

As shock rippled, another woman’s voice struck like a bell. Mizuki turned, and saw the woman she’d noted earlier with that sour, disgusted face. A greatsword had appeared in her hands like a pillar of frost, as tall as she was, throwing knife‑bright light.

“Stop, Anta!”

The woman who had been with the greatsword wielder lost all composure and cried out, her voice fraying like torn cloth.

“Die, Night Phantom!”

The greatsword woman let out a low snarl like thunder from a canyon, leaped, and chopped down toward Yun Shi like an avalanche. Yun Shi flashed aside; the greatsword carved an ugly wound into the floor, a scar wide as a riverbed.

“Tyrant.”

Yun Shi’s voice was cold as shade. She flicked her wrist; a butterfly knife unfolded like a quick wing, and her Goggles glimmered with specks of light like fireflies.

“Night Phantom.”

The woman sneered, her greatsword pointing at Yun Shi like a frozen spear.

“That one’s a ‘Tyrant’—a high‑tier asset of the Magic Institution?”

“Yeah. That greatsword’s the banner, no mistake.”

“Sure, ‘Night Phantom’ is one of the Magic Institution’s top fighters too, but someone like her should just die.”

“Right. A filthy thing like that—how does she cling to the Magic Institution?”

“Get out!”

“Rip off her mask. I wanna see what that cheap witch looks like.”

“Kill her!”

At first, the watching Witches only marveled at the greatsword like it was a thunderhead. Then their voices coiled into venom, every word a thorn aimed at the girl called Night Phantom. They wanted a cold corpse on the tiles, and every sentence stabbed into her heart like needles of ice.

(“Maybe they don’t mean harm, but… when they can’t touch their real enemy, when revenge is out of reach, they dump everything on anyone born from that enemy’s line. No way to resist, no right to refute, not even to explain—because I’m only a ghost, not a person in their eyes.”)

No one could read Yun Shi’s face beneath the mask, a pond under moonlight. Only she knew those sights loaded with killing and hate, heavier than everyday jealous glances by a mountain’s weight.

“What… happened here…”

Mizuki stared, stunned, as the Witches bayed like winter wolves. What had felt like noisy chatter a moment before turned dream‑thin; now the air was full of hate like smoke, all of it speared at that young black‑cloak girl.

A glint of pain passed through Sham’s eyes like a soft shower. She stayed silent, and stepped back a pace, shadow to wall.

“Bring me your life!”

Tyrant’s face was veined with hate like cracked ice; her greatsword scythed at Yun Shi, straight at the throat. Yun Shi shifted her waist like willow, slipped past, and sent her butterfly knife darting toward Tyrant. Tyrant startled, wanted to move, then chose to block; the greatsword caught the strike with a clang like iron rain. Yun Shi wove through the gaps like a sparrow; Tyrant’s blade kept biting air, while Yun Shi’s knife skimmed the skin more than once like wind over grass.

The greatsword hit hard like a falling tree. Its burst power wasn’t something to meet head‑on; you’d break bones. But a butterfly knife was enough—small meant free, a leaf riding the current of attack. The heavy greatsword pinned movement like mud; Tyrant had brute strength, a bear in a thicket, but in speed, she wasn’t a match.

“Kill Night Phantom!”

“Tyrant, finish her!”

“Blood‑offer her!”

“Cut her to paste!”

Shouts rose like a storm tide. People let the flood run; no one lifted a hand to stop it. Each voice wished the girl dead, to soothe the ember under the rib.

Yet Tyrant had started to fall behind, a boulder losing ground to water. She hadn’t expected the petite girl to be this agile, moves sharp as rain. The fight felt even, and it seemed Night Phantom hadn’t taken the killing step. She was holding back, shade under noon.

Her pride felt belittled, a banner shredded. Tyrant burned with shame and anger. Then a clear girl’s voice rang from behind them like a chime:

“Stop!”

That single word cut the din like a knife through silk; Witches and agents went quiet, and turned to see who dared. Mizuki turned too, and saw a tea‑brown‑haired girl, a braid tied at her right temple like a hanging tassel. She walked in with a sour look, wearing a casual jacket and cropped pants, a lithe figure swaying like bamboo. By the clothes, she couldn’t be a Witch.

Beside her moved an attendant, early twenties by the face. When her eyes swept to the black‑cloak girl, they filled with fierce hate like storm clouds.

“Xiang.”

Watching her own attendant wear hate like a mask in public, Aya—Yie Caiyin—was displeased; her voice dropped, a low drum.

“...Yes.”

Hate still smoldered, but her lady’s word cooled it like rain. She shut her eyes, breathed deep, forced herself calm. The anger drained from her face like ebbing tide.

Mizuki watched, stunned to the core, like frost in spring. Why was the Miss Night Phantom she’d wanted to understand so hated by Witches? Why did everyone want her dead? The questions fluttered like restless sparrows.

Night Phantom had saved Mizuki once, a lantern in storm. Mizuki believed she was good, not some heartless fiend.

So what was this?

While Mizuki’s doubt trembled like pale smoke, Yie Caiyin and her attendant reached the edge of the Tyrant–Night Phantom standoff.

“Could you stand down, Miss Tyrant, Miss Night Phantom? This isn’t a place for fighting. Infighting won’t help our future cooperation, will it?”

Aya spoke cool and level, a ripple with weight. The meaning was clear as polished steel—keep going and she would act.

Tyrant didn’t fear a brawl, sparks against flint. But Yie Caiyin was their ally in this; stiffening ties would sour the well for everyone. Tyrant reluctantly drew back her blade with a hiss like winter wind. “In the end, you’re just one of the three Clan Heads’ people. Don’t think the Single Leaf Clan’s cover means I won’t touch you. Facts don’t change, Night Phantom.”

She turned away coldly, like frost leaving shade, stowed her greatsword, and headed off. The woman who’d been watching from the other side moved to meet her, two shadows crossing.

With the clash over, Yun Shi didn’t feel lighter, a stone still lodged under the heart. She was used to this treatment, rain on old tiles. But today, two people in succession had come to pick trouble, both aiming for the throat. Saying it didn’t hurt would be a lie.

“I’m sorry. Are you alright, Miss Night Phantom?”

Aya waited until Tyrant left, then asked. Unlike those who bristled at Yun Shi, her tone was warmer, a hand offered rather than a pebble thrown. It surprised the one behind the mask, a ripple over dark water.

“Miss.”

Her attendant bristled like a cat, voice sharp.

“Enough, Xiang.”

“But she—”

“Shut up!”

Aya’s displeasure flared, a crack of thunder; for the first time she raised her voice. Her attendant jolted, disbelief staining her eyes, then stepped back a little, a leaf in wind.

“Ah—sorry, Xiang.”

Realizing her lapse, Aya glanced aside with guilt like a blush, and apologized.

“Sorry for the trouble. I’m Yie Caiyin. This is my attendant, and also my friend, Li Xiang. We’ll be fighting alongside you this time. Please take care of us, Miss Night Phantom.”

Aya smiled a touch, like sunlight through leaves, and offered her right hand to show good faith.

Why didn’t Aya hate Yun Shi? Only Aya knew. First, Yun Shi, as the master of an Artifact Spirit, was rare steel—power a family could ride like a wind to victory. Only a fool would sour a useful tie. Second, Yun Shi came from a Clan Head line, different from Aya’s, but that didn’t block friendship. A friend within the Clan Heads was a good omen; such a person would rarely become your enemy, rain for crops, not hail.

In short, those others were hotheads, ash in the eyes, brains burning. Who abandons an ally to spit venom? That’s tossing a hot yam with bare hands. Aya had no interest in that.

Yun Shi roughly caught Aya’s meaning, like hearing a tune from behind a wall. It wasn’t pure goodwill; selfish seams ran through it like grain in wood. But she herself was of the Clan Head line; giving face cost nothing but a breath.

“Mm.”

Yun Shi extended her right hand lightly. Two soft hands met, silk to silk, looking friendly like spring. The truth under it, only they knew.

The Witches and agents watched, and wisely held their tongues, birds scattering from a branch. When the Single Leaf Clan showed face, few dared to be brazen.

“Miss Night Phantom!”

Mizuki couldn’t hold back. As the crowd thinned like mist, she rushed up and called to the one she’d thought of day and night.

“Oh—the second master of an Artifact Spirit. Nice to meet you. I’m Yie Caiyin.”

Seeing Mizuki hurry forward, Aya gently let go of Yun Shi’s hand and stepped up with a friendly smile, a calm ripple spreading.

“Uh... hello. I’m Miyuki Kiseki,” she said, voice soft as falling snow.

Her guard was down, calm as a still lake; out of courtesy, Mizuki answered Aya.

A prickle of annoyance brushed Yun Shi, like sand under silk; she was fine otherwise, just too naive.

“Got it, Miss Mizuki,” Aya said, her voice bright as a bell.

“Alright, I won’t ramble—straight as an arrow, you’re the top combat power this round.

Follow me; I’ll slot you into a squad like pieces on a board.

And you, the ‘magician’ over there—come too.

I see you, clear as moonlight.

You’re top-tier as well—sharp as a drawn blade~”

Aya’s smile tilted, playful as a crescent moon, as she beckoned toward Sham, a crane’s wing cutting the air; he wore a bleary wince like a startled cat.