What does killing mean? In the street it’s a crime; in war it’s routine, like rain that falls without asking.

The question before Miyuki Kiseki was simple and cruel: would she raise her hand to kill?

To walk the road of strength, you must cross that gate, like a traveler stepping over a river’s black stone.

Mizuki panted, knuckles white on the Reaper Scythe. She leaned into cold brick, listening to footsteps outside like drums in fog. Fear swelled first; her body followed.

From start to finish, she hadn’t dealt a fatal blow. At most, she knocked people out, like snuffing candles. But they woke, called their comrades, and the circle she could hide in tightened like a noose.

If she wanted to silence voices and halt boots, only blood would bar the door, like a red seal.

“Elana, can you do it yourself?”

Still without resolve, Mizuki cast her hope to her Artifact Spirit, praying it could kill in her stead.

“I can,” Elana said, her voice like steel under silk. “But Mizuki, like this you’ll never fit this world.”

“I…”

“And I’m not omnipotent. Compared to acting alone, I’m better when my master’s hands guide me.”

Mizuki understood Elana’s words, like ink sinking clear into paper. But resolve wasn’t something she had; it was a locked gate, and her fingers shook at the latch.

She pressed her back to the wall and drifted into fog. She wasn’t weak in strength; among ordinary Witches she stood ahead like a bright blade. Yet in battle her body kept dodging vital points, a kindness that shackled her power like silk cords.

Soft-hearted mercy—this was her deepest flaw, a spring in winter.

If she really did it, then after today she’d be someone new, like a moon reborn.

She had seen killing on battlefields more than once, like crows settling on snow. She was used to watching. But watching and doing are two different roads. Raised far from darkness, never taught the shadowed side of the world, to stain herself today felt like being told to drink ash. She didn’t know how to begin.

Anyone else would be the same. You can’t judge a person by a single storm. Switch her position with another, and they’d hesitate too; some would shatter, like glass under frost.

She bit down hard, lowered her head, and stared at her hands like pale leaves.

Her hands hadn’t touched a single drop of blood.

“Do it…? But there’ll be no path back. If I don’t, I’ll never grow. Will I always need others to shield me?”

She sank into a struggle that gnawed bone.

“Hurry up and get used to killing. How long do you plan to be protected?” a voice whispered, like cold wind under a door.

“Ara, Mizuki-chan, you can’t go without a weapon~” another laughed, like a bell behind smoke.

Out of nowhere she remembered the dead. Faces that would ache forever, like thorns she couldn’t pull.

Wasn’t this how it began? Her weakness failed to protect comrades. They hadn’t been close, yet they were real in her heart, each a person with weight and warmth.

They died—so suddenly there was no time to blink—so why not avenge them, like laying incense at their names?

No. That isn’t me. Avenge them… and one day I’ll walk the path of Miss Night Phantom’s hate. Don’t. Anything but that.

But if I don’t, I betray the dead. If I don’t, my heart won’t find peace, like a drum that won’t stop.

No. I must not build my power on hatred. That wouldn’t be me. I’m a person; I can’t take the dark road.

“Mizuki, careful. Footsteps are closing.”

Elana’s voice cut clean through the tangle, like a blade through rope.

Slowly, Mizuki felt the struggle settle, like silt in clear water. Her mind cooled; her focus honed sharp. Strangely, the dark emotions dropped away. Now… only calm remained, and a tight thread of thought.

She thanked, again, her quick adaptability, like a reed bending in wind. She drew a deep breath and tightened her grip on the scythe.

She made her choice like a slammed gate. Mizuki lunged out with the Reaper Scythe, meeting the searching enemy face-to-face. Before they struck, she swung hard, like a storming wave. But the inner barrier snagged her wrist; the slash fell wide. The enemy seized that instant and countered. A blow crashed into her abdomen; she staggered back, mouth filling with iron.

She saw a blade drop toward her face and jolted, rolling aside. Luck brushed her shoulder like a wing. The ruckus woke nearby patrols; bodies converged like wolves to a kill.

Mizuki’s face drained, like snow under soot.

…

“Miyuki Kiseki is gone?”

Yun Shi sounded surprised, with a quick thread of urgency running through her voice.

“Yes. I don’t know how, but when I noticed, Mizuki was already gone. I’m sorry, I…” Sham’s voice shrank, like a candle in wind.

“You stay here.”

With that, Yun Shi left this battlefield and sprinted toward another, like a hawk cutting currents. She didn’t know Mizuki’s position, so her path snaked without pattern, a wild weave.

That fool can’t even bring herself to kill. Alone, she’ll be in danger, like a lamb in thorns.

So there’s no reason not to go.

Thoughts of Mizuki filled Yun Shi’s head like a rising tide. If her face weren’t hidden behind her Goggles, they’d see the worry, sharp as lightning.

She suddenly wondered when she’d started caring so much about this girl, like a knot she hadn’t noticed until it pulled.

…

“Ahhhhhh!”

Terror first, then a furious abandon, Mizuki swung her scythe like a mad wind, as if motion alone could build a shield. It didn’t. At best, it kept enemies from closing fast, a brief fence. Wait too long, and the fence collapses.

“Calm down, Mizuki!”

Elana roared, hauling Mizuki back into herself, like a hand grabbing a sleeve. The enemy saw her stop and rushed in; guns spat fire, sparks ripping air.

Mizuki dove behind blown-out stone, the cover like a tattered cloak. She slid through the hail of bullets with practiced turns, listening to their hiss like angry bees.

She wore struggle on her face, teeth set. She tried to nail down resolve, but doing it proved harder than saying it, like stepping into winter river water.

“Mizuki, settle your breath. What you need now is resolve.”

“Elana…”

“Think it through. Your resolve. What do you want to protect?”

…

Mizuki stopped fighting herself. Her hands lowered. Her expression smoothed, like frost settling.

“I want to protect…”

Of course—friends. Family. Comrades. Names like lanterns in the dark.

She realized how simple she was. She didn’t dare kill because she feared her friends would pull away, like doors closing. But if she didn’t, she’d lose them anyway, like a bridge burning behind her.

She had to choose. No retreat. No hesitation. Time was a blade at her neck.

“Power. The power to protect the comrades I cherish.”

“Then that’s enough, my foolish master~”

“Eh?”

“That’s you. That’s enough.”

That was her resolve, the best blade for walking far on a strong path.

So shed your skin. Rise.

Elana sounded like she was smiling, but no one could see her face.

Suddenly, the Reaper Scythe flared with light, lines like lightning branching. The cover around her cracked and powdered into ash. The enemies saw and charged, eager to claim her life, like jackals tasting blood.

“Form One—Black Iron Wings!”

The scythe burst into a streak and bloomed behind Mizuki. Her back snapped open with wings, iron feathers drifting down like dark leaves.

They weren’t feathered like common wings. They gleamed steel-black, cold enough to bite. Mechanical lines folded like origami, gorgeous with menace.

“Go, Mizuki!”

At Elana’s push, Mizuki’s back muscles twitched. She beat the wings. A dense gust lifted her body; her feet lost weight, and she sailed up like a crow on a storm.

“Flying?!”

The enemies stared. Then slivers fell from the sky—deadly iron blades, edges keen as winter. They struck; blood blossomed like red chrysanthemums.

Mizuki landed; the enemies rushed. She stopped thinking and let the last decision hold. A few panels tore free from her wings and speared forward, crunching into bodies. Warm blood sprayed her face like rain.

…

The bodies at her feet went still, life draining like color from a painting. Mizuki froze, staring blankly, then looked down at her hands, sticky with heat. Panic surged up like bile.

“I killed… I killed someone…”

She stared at the blood staining her palm. Her stomach heaved; she forced it down, jaw tight. She tried to cover her mouth and nose, but the sight of her own hand made her flinch, like fire.

“No… I don’t want to kill…”

Tears hit the ground, small moons on dust. She collapsed inside, yet the wings kept firing, cold reminders that she was still butchering.

Why is the will to survive this strong? Why am I calm after killing? Will I become cold-blooded, a person of ice? No. That filthy version isn’t me. It shouldn’t be like this!

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

No. I don’t want to be a murderer. No. I’m not—

…

When Yun Shi reached the battlefield, the fight had just ended. Corpses lay everywhere. Blood painted the floor like a lake.

“Is this… real…?”

Yun Shi stared, disbelief cutting her like a shard. Kneeling in grief was Mizuki. Blood stained her hands. Fact stacked upon fact: Mizuki had killed.

“I killed… I avenged Miss Hawk Hunter and the others…”

Mizuki knelt and hugged herself, voice trembling like a loose string. Her mind teetered on the edge.

“I did it. I did it… I really killed…”

She cried and mumbled, words broken like rain. Mizuki Kiseki had truly touched blood.

Yun Shi’s first kill had been far worse, storms without shelter. By her measure, Mizuki had done amazingly. A person from the Outer World learning to kill—without resolve, it’s impossible. Mizuki had found her resolve like a torch at dusk.

“Let’s go back.”

Yun Shi’s voice softened, a warm cloth laid over a fever. She stood before Mizuki and steadied her. What Mizuki needed now was time to adjust.

“Uuuuuuu…!”

Lost and drowning, Mizuki found a light and crashed into Yun Shi’s arms, clinging like a child. She cried from the throat. That sound wasn’t sorrow, or joy, or grief. It was the comfort of someone who found a glimmer after despair, like dawn under cloud.

Mizuki Kiseki was just an ordinary person. What she did today was already remarkable. She would grow. But now, she needed to pour it out.

“You’ve worked so hard. You did so well.”

Watching Mizuki sob against her, Yun Shi’s heart softened, like wax near a flame. Her tone eased, gentle where it was usually clipped. She even stroked the back of Mizuki’s head, soothing her, telling her without words that someone still stood at her side.

Mizuki didn’t hold back; her sobs surged like a river in flood, pouring everything out.

Yun Shi ignored her clothes soaking through like rain on moss; with a patience soft as falling snow, she soothed the crying girl.

“Little one—just this once, let yourself be wild as the wind with me.”

She told herself that to make peace with the moment, unaware that this small kindness would carve itself into Mizuki’s future.

She didn’t know she had stepped to Mizuki’s side at the darkest hour—when the heart was a broken vessel, when rescue was the only light.

To Mizuki, Yun Shi’s embrace was a hearth in winter, a lantern in fog; it seeded a lifetime, a warmth she could never forget.