The Special Task Force was born from the Magic Institution’s elites, blades honed to cut their own path through the storm. They were granted independent judgment, anchors meant to steady the tide in chaos. Because they were one of the main trump cards in this operation, higher-ups placed them away from the line of death, like reserves kept behind the dunes to turn the tide later.

Yet the team advanced without orders and struck the Divine Ling Family’s territory, like sparks leaping into dry grass. They clashed with the family’s elite, a fight to the last breath on a blood-stained chessboard. Three died, one lost consciousness, and the rest carried wounds; the outcome was an unforeseen cliff in a fogged valley.

An ace lost—an unheard-of crack in the temple pillars. Their sacrifice brought vital intel, but the Magic Institution lost several stalwart backbones, beams knocked loose in a quake. The plan had aimed to protect them to the greatest extent, yet the cost still flooded in like a burst dam.

The female commander swallowed a bitter ash, her discontent coiling like smoke.

She gave curt orders, her voice a flint in winter air: recover the three bodies, rush the critical to emergency, recall the others to the base. Every word fell like cold rain on scorched ground.

“This is the result you brought me—what does it look like!” Her palm hammered the table, a drumbeat in a silent hall.

Yun Shi, Mizuki, Sham, and Thunder Lady stood at attention, like saplings in a cutting wind. Aya wasn’t present; her emotions were wild-water, and she kept vigil outside the emergency room, ashen and hollow-eyed, a lantern with its flame blown out. Even from her posture, you could see she’d lost the will to fight, half-alive like winter grass under frost.

The four survivors held their tongues; trust from above had turned to the weight of stones on their backs. Their silence was a shore taking wave after wave.

“I expected you to be smarter,” the commander snapped, her anger a red blade. “And you acted on your own, costing so many lives. Tell me—what was the point, huh?”

Anger? Of course—success washed in a bucket of blood is still blood under moonlight. The plan had worked, but the price carved deep, a scar that doesn’t fade.

“Cat got your tongues? How will you answer for the dead?” Her voice was a cold wind sweeping the courtyard stones.

That day, punishment was the taste they earned, a salt of loss on the tongue.

Outside, the sun lifted slow over the eaves, a pale coin ending the night. The sky whispered the curtain call of the tragedy, while the day put combat on hold like a blade sheathed at noon. Night would bring battle again, new thunder, but what they lost would never return, like a broken mirror that can’t be mended.

Yun Shi’s cheek still bore Aya’s earlier mark—a band-aid crossed the skin like a petal on marble. It didn’t mar her beauty; it lent her a stray wild edge, a storm-thread in silk. Inside, she wasn’t calm; she hid it well, a lake iced over while currents churned beneath.

She took the scolding without a word, then dragged herself out of the office, footsteps heavy as wet clay. Sham and the others followed, shadows trailing behind lanterns. Yun Shi felt bone-deep tired; she only wanted a corner and sleep, though the pillow would be stone.

“Stop!”

A sudden voice cut like a blade through cloth, forcing their steps to halt. Yun Shi turned; the three behind wore blank looks, fogged glass. She tracked the voice. A woman stared over, not just angry—filled with hate that burned like pitch. Behind her, several Witches shared the same fire, hatred rising from the gut like smoke from damp leaves.

Yun Shi recognized her; she’d been glared at by this woman before, a thorn remembered by skin. Tyrant had called this woman Photon, a shard of light in a war of shadows.

She and the late Tyrant must have been close; now Tyrant was gone, and the bill was due, like thunder seeking the mountain it struck.

Yun Shi stood where she was, ready to take whatever came, a rock offered to the river. No matter what, she’d say nothing; her silence was deliberate, a closed fan in a storm.

Unexpectedly, Photon ignored Yun Shi. She stormed toward Mizuki, anger bright as hot iron. Under Mizuki’s puzzled gaze, Photon seized her collar, fingers sinking into flesh like knives pressed into dough.

“Rookie, say it. Was it you who got Tyrant killed? Speak!”

Photon’s roar was a hunting horn, sharp and bleak.

Mizuki froze, a deer in torchlight, then understood; suspicion wrapped her like brambles. Photon believed Mizuki dragged them down, a weak link in a chain that snapped.

It wasn’t surprising. Mizuki lacked power but stood in a strong squad, a candle among torches. After a near-annihilation, a newcomer with little to show becomes the easy target, a scarecrow blamed for the storm.

“I…”

“I thought so. Tyrant was that strong—how could she die like that?” Photon’s voice shook like glass. “You. It was you. You caused it! Give Tyrant back!”

“I…”

“It’s all because of your incompetence. If not for you, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Tyrant wouldn’t have died, but—!”

From start to finish, Mizuki didn’t refute a single word; her lips were a shut gate. She could have; she could have said plainly it wasn’t her fault, like a bell rung in daylight.

Now Photon and those Witches stared at Mizuki with flames under their lashes. People unable to let go often seek a reasonable outlet, a dam to blame for the flood. A newcomer who hadn’t shown much became the perfect target, a paper screen poked by spears.

So Mizuki didn’t refute; she felt she had no right. Her silence was a night with no moon.

There was logic twisted into the knot. If Mizuki had truly killed, maybe the enemy wouldn’t have learned of her and leaked their presence, a shadow staying shadow. If Mizuki had been stronger, maybe tragedy wouldn’t have happened; small cracks make avalanches when the slope is steep.

“Right—Artifact Spirit wielder? What a load of nonsense.” The words were thorns thrown into soft skin.

“Just an Outer World girl—how could she help? Besides making a mess, what can she do!” Their scorn was sleet under the cloak.

“Exactly. It must be this rookie who dragged the team into this ruin!” Their voices rose like crows in a burned field.

The others were roused, and their barbs flew at Mizuki, every word a needle with poison under its gleam. The girl’s fragile heart felt each point, a drumskin pricked in many places.

Mizuki’s face dimmed; her eyes lost their light, lanterns shuttered. Faced with targeted words, she had no chance to defend; she could only endure, a stone under rain. She couldn’t do anything else. Miyuki Kiseki could only accept it—this was the price for stepping into the Underworld, the toll at a gate of shadows.

Light and darkness have always opposed each other, like sun and eclipse sharing one sky.

“Mizuki…” Sham’s voice trembled, worry a tremor in her chest. She took a step, a bird slipping from cover, but Thunder Lady caught her arm and shook her head, a warning hand in dusk.

Everyone’s emotions were boiling, a pot left unattended. Rush in, and the next spearpoint would turn toward you—this was the reality, cold and bare.

“Tyrant… she was always like that. So strong, so sure. She never did something meaningless.” Photon’s grip tightened; Mizuki’s collar creaked like old wood. “But you forced Tyrant to pay with her life. Do you have a life to pay back?”

“Enough.” The voice was clean and cold, a blade rinsed in snow.

Photon’s hand froze mid-crush. She turned. What she saw was the face behind the Goggles, pale glass hiding stormed eyes. The Witches, and even Sham and Thunder Lady, threw her strange looks, like owls turning in unison. The one who spoke stayed calm, a lake under ice.

Yun Shi knew why she was doing this, and she knew the consequences, like a traveler measuring the cliff before stepping. But—

Some things need someone to carry them, not just as responsibility, but—as humanity. This was her last shred of a man’s dignity, a copper coin kept in the fist. To shoulder it all was simply natural, like night accepting stars.

“I was the one who proposed we strike the enemy base,” Yun Shi said, her voice a soft bell in a quiet temple. “I was part of the command. If Tyrant and the others died, that’s on me too.”

Her words echoed in the still air, pleasant like a flute yet cold to Mizuki, like winter seeping under doors. The others listened in silence, their breaths small fires that didn’t dare flare.

Was this right? Yun Shi didn’t know. But if it worked, it didn’t matter; the burden was hers anyway, a coat tailored to fit. Thinking that, she no longer feared what came next. She felt no fear, like a cliff that remains a cliff.

“She was only following my orders,” Yun Shi said, the line clean as a blade. “It has nothing to do with her. The one who killed them—was me.”

…

A deathly silence fell, like a well with no bottom. It was terrifying and obvious, a shadow that matched the shape of the tree.

“You’re fools,” Yun Shi said, her tone carrying a curl of mockery, a leaf turned sideways to show its edge. “Did you never think this through? She’s a rookie. How could she kill so many? Only I had the position, the rank, and the power to send them to die. If they hadn’t executed my plan, they wouldn’t have died. So tell me—who killed Tyrant and the others?”

“Night Phantom!” one spat, the name thrown like a stone.

“I knew it. You filthy culprit—you had to be the root!” The cry rose, a dog barking at lightning.

“Right—you’re from the Clan Head line. How could you ever be sincere?” Their suspicion was an old vine around new posts.

“Die! Return the lives!” Their words were arrows fired into fog.

“So many dead, and you have no explanation?” Their voices hissed, snakes in dry grass.

Emotion flared again, hotter than before; their barbs were thornier, their spikes longer. The spearpoints turned, and the target shifted cleanly to another girl standing in the circle—Yun Shi.

“Night Phantom… you bastard!”

Bang.

Photon released Mizuki’s collar and hurled a fist at Yun Shi’s face, anger crashing like a wave onto rock. The blow knocked Yun Shi to the floor; her cheek burned, fire on snow. She’d taken a punch before; now she took it again, a pattern stamped twice.

She didn’t know Photon had once tried to dose her with a banned drug; had she known, she might have struck back, a storm meeting storm. Now she said nothing and did nothing, a reed bending under wind.

Mizuki’s eyes regained their light, stunned blossoms opening under sudden sun. She stared, mouth parted, at the scene.

“Why…” The word was a thin thread.

Why did it become like this?

The one who should be blamed was me. Why…

Mizuki’s throat closed; she wanted to move, but her feet were roots in clay. She could only stand and watch a girl at the center take every stone thrown.

Sham opened her mouth, then sealed it, a shell refusing to crack. Thunder Lady was shocked silent, lightning trapped in cloud.

This girl took all the sins onto her shoulders and said nothing, like a mountain accepting rain. If it’s hatred, she thought, let it rest with me.

It belongs to me anyway. Try to seize it, and it slips back; darkness has only one home, a gate that opens inward.

No grand reason. A person can carry something—what’s wrong with that?

Yun Shi’s lips curved into a self-mocking smile, a crescent with shadow underneath.