When true night fell, the trial was death. The air tightened like a drawn bow, faces set hard, a hush like frost on steel. Crack a joke now, and you’d be the first bird shot to warn the flock. Humor can warm a room, but tonight it would only sour the blood.

Fingers brushed the metal at her waist. The hard chill crept up like winter water. Yun Shi’s eyes lifted to the horizon.

The sky, inked by night, kept rumbling like a distant drumline, and fire washed the dark in bursts. Like fireworks—gorgeous and fatal—their beauty wasn’t for gazing. It was for taking lives.

The battle had been burning for minutes. The forward lines were already thrown into the grinder. No screams carried, yet the radiant bursts alone made Mizuki clench her fists. She’d only met war on screens and paper. Tonight, she was marching into it. The next to die could be her.

She hadn’t grown up in the dark. Unlike Yun Shi and the others, her nerves rang tight as bowstring.

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you, Mizuki.” Sham’s voice was soft as gauze. The knot in Mizuki’s chest loosened a notch.

“Don’t be scared,” Hawk Hunter said with a warm smile, ruffling her hair. The touch was a lantern in a windy night.

“C’mon, worst case, you’ve got me~” Thunder Lady stuck out her tongue, a playful spark against the gloom.

The others stayed quiet, but Mizuki felt it anyway—their concern in how they rechecked gear, in how their stillness sharpened. Her throat went tight with gratitude.

“Thank you, everyone.”

Her fear backed off like a receding tide.

“Time’s up. Special Task Force, operation starts.”

Aya checked her watch. At eight on the dot, her voice dropped like a gavel.

Weapons were shouldered. Boots squared.

Other units had already peeled off on schedule. Even the woman called Photon, the one who’d been with Tyrant before, had taken her squad ahead. Now it was Aya’s turn to move.

This fight against the Divine Ling Family was grand enough to crack the Underworld’s sky. Both sides had thrown in heavy pieces.

In the Underworld, three Clan Head families roared the loudest: the Flamebu Family, the Divine Ling Family, the Four Pupils Clan. Two stood with the Magic Institution: the Single Leaf Clan and the True Palace Family. Two stayed neutral: the Asakura Family and the Kananin Family. Tonight, the Single Leaf Clan with the Magic Institution struck at Divine Ling—perhaps with the Flamebu Family lurking in the smoke. Powers like tectonic plates clashed in a battle the Underworld would etch into bronze, win or lose.

The Special Task Force was the ace in this deck. Command pinned big hopes on them. Recon first, not just for strategy, but to keep fresh blood breathing.

They moved out. Feet drummed on concrete, a rain of noise that swallowed their own footfalls. The backs ahead cut into the night—the doomed stride of those who don’t look back, or the stubborn flame of survival. Mizuki watched the black cloaks sway, caught for a breath, then matched the pace and ran.

Closer. Expressions tightened like tightened cords. Then a wall of bullets came down like a storm of iron.

“Face them head-on. Ready!”

Aya’s hand flicked back, voice low and steady. No one hesitated. Her fist clenched, and explosions bloomed like deadly flowers. Tyrant raised her greatsword, a bloodthirsty smile breaking like a scar, and cleaved. Blood surged like a torn river.

“—!”

Mizuki slapped a hand over her mouth. The old heave didn’t rise anymore, but the reflex still did. No surprise—she wasn’t yet fitted for slaughter.

“Careful!”

Hawk Hunter hauled Mizuki back. A hand-shield met a charging blur with a steel kiss. Her face cooled; she clamped a throat, then rocketed forward like a fired shell. Dust rolled. She stepped out, dusting her hands, spotless. The body on the ground looked like it lost an argument with a hurricane.

Comet wasted no breath. Her XM1014 roared, thunder stitched into buckshot, carving ragged mouths through the screaming press until breath stopped. She leapt, flicked a grenade. Flash flared, and fire’s bloom drank a few more pints of red.

“Come on!”

Tyrant spun her greatsword and reaped. Every arc found meat; every stroke chose the neck or the heart. Those who’d dared to gamble on luck stumbled back, eyes wide as if they’d met a devil at a shrine.

Thunder Lady palmed a blossom woven from lightning. A light toss, and bodies froze, nerves numbed to stone. She flowed in, twin blades of storm humming in her grip, and waded into a one-sided harvest. Lightning-forged weapons bit deeper than steel. That was her gift—command of thunder. Marked by her, you didn’t walk away.

Sham didn’t idle. With a sweep of her hand, wind blades sliced like invisible scythes, and blood-mist rose like dawn fog.

“So this is… real combat.”

Mizuki watched, dazed, as her squad bloomed in battle. This was the world of the strong. With a wave, they chose who lived and who fell. That was the weight behind their titles. Mizuki couldn’t see herself there yet. But she believed she’d reach it.

Aya glanced sideways. Lixiang was snapping off finger-gun shots, then flipping out a combat knife to slash between bursts. Aya let out a breath. Her gaze sharpened, and explosions flared in a chain, blood-woven blossoms misting the air with scarlet.

Fear nipped the enemy’s heels. Orders bit harder. Weapons came up, and they charged.

Aya’s laugh was cool. She pinched her fingers. The floor slabs underfoot sprang up like kicked tiles, sailed toward the enemy, then detonated in the same heartbeat. Stone-laced blasts are the cruelest shrapnel. Before guards could rise, they vanished with the blossoming burst.

“That’s the Single Leaf Clan’s secret art—Air Burst.”

Tyrant’s face stayed flat, but her tone sharpened with respect. Secret arts are locked behind the blood of a Clan Head family. That’s why they’re priceless. Compared to a Witch’s attribute, fueled by raw Mystic Power, secret arts bite harder and longer. Mystics run dry; mastery doesn’t. With even a drop of power, a secret art still fires if your hands know it.

Her gaze slid, catching the black cloak dancing lightly through a tangle of foes. Right—she was Clan Head blood as well. Once she cast her secret art, her lineage would show like a crest on steel.

Tyrant snorted, turned, and lifted her greatsword back into the storm.

Mizuki still hadn’t struck. She didn’t yet have the heart to kill. Elana sighed and did the only thing she could—turned herself into a gun, hovered, and squeezed her own trigger. Enemies stared at the floating weapon like they’d seen a ghost.

“Mizuki!”

Sham’s shout snapped her head up. A blade hung a breath from her throat, cold as moonlight.

Boom!

A blue-violet Light Blade dropped in, catching the strike. It sang a thin, hungry whine. One sweep, and the attacker flew back, split clean down the middle. Blood sprayed like torn silk.

Yun Shi stood cold and still, watching the blood steam off the Light Blade. She flicked, and the last drops spattered the ground.

Before Mizuki could speak, Yun Shi surged forward. The enemy smelled easy prey and swarmed, fighting to steal the kill. They ran face-first into scalding light.

Her swordwork kept perfect time, each step on beat. A slash, a flick, no wasted motion, and they learned why flowers bloom so red. Her other hand snapped her cloak aside. A proud flourish, and a storm of hidden steel flew out. Darts. Knives. Too many to count. Shrieks tore up, then thinned out into an endless sleep.

Yun Shi somersaulted in the air and landed. The Light Blade was gone. Two Berettas kissed her palms. She squeezed, and fire stitched the crowd.

One girl. Two guns. Still as a standing pine. Muzzle-flash stuttered against the dark sea ahead. Step into her lane, and a bullet found something that kept you upright. The suicidally stubborn shoved forward, and only made more bodies for the ground to hold.

She snapped her pistols up. Magazines leapt free. By the time they fell back into her hands, fresh mags were locked and hot. Fire rolled out again.

“Amazing!”

Thunder Lady couldn’t help blurting it out.

The others wore their own versions of the same face—shock, edged with awe.

One person, holding down a squad, and not a scratch on her. Two pistols, and the press turned to mulch. Maybe these enemies weren’t much by their standards, but clearing them still takes time. And the Witch called Night Phantom just cut that time to nothing.

Yes, Night Phantom’s reputation stank, and her origins were stained. But her strength was the kind everyone agreed on. One woman against a mid-size unit—maybe the rumors weren’t all smoke.

Bang!

Her last two shots kissed a row of fuel drums. The fuses lit, and a small sun bloomed, folding the last stragglers into fire.

“Hah…”

Yun Shi let out a breath, holstered, and strolled back toward her line.

What met her was the same old hate, salted with a little unwilling respect. Lie to yourself if you like—you still had to admit it. Night Phantom was strong.

“All right. Catch your breath. We move.”

Aya’s words pulled everyone back to the ground. They remembered—the war had only just begun.