Night sat like black silk over the world, a hush where secrets pooled like moonlight in a deep well.

A white-robed girl stepped toward the pier, each footfall like ripples across ink. A smiling girl waited like a lantern by the water.

“Sorry to keep you, Mizuki~” Her voice rang like a small bell over calm waves.

“It’s fine. I just got here.” Relief drifted like mist from her chest.

“I swear I’ve barely spoken lately. I feel invisible, like fog in noon sun...”

“You won’t be nervous, right, Mizuki?” Concern pressed like a hand on a paper window.

“Mm. I’ve been through a lot. It’s just the Magic Institution. No big deal.” Her courage sat like a warm ember in winter.

“Uuu... you’re ignoring me again, like a shadow at noon...”

They chatted as they walked, their words bobbing like gulls. On the sea’s glass lay a black shape, submarine-like, striped with red lines like a torpedo’s veins.

It was the Underworld’s swiftest ride, a dolphin of steel that could cross the world like a leaping spark.

Mizuki had told Sham she accepted Lian Hua’s invitation. Sham didn’t flare like dry tinder. She understood and backed her, a steady rock in a river.

Sham did it mostly for Yun Shi. She guessed Yun Shi might go, so she couldn’t leave that storm untended.

As those two readied to depart, another pair aligned like twin stars before dawn.

A girl in a black cloak watched the approach, her stillness like night over calm water.

“Yo, good evening, Yun Shi~” Moa came grinning, her Witch getup flickering like a carnival under moon.

Yun Shi looked at her, cool as shade. She hadn’t put on her Goggles yet; her true face shone like polished obsidian.

Her black hair streamed like ink in wind. Her slightly melancholic gaze held winter light, making even the silly outfit look like spring on stone.

“Ready, Sawagawa Moa.” Her tone was a blade sheathed in velvet.

“Mm. All set. My agent had business, so it’s just me.” She shrugged like a leaf riding a breeze.

“Good.” The word fell like a pebble into still water.

“Is it really okay, going to the Magic Institution?” Doubt fluttered like a moth around a candle.

“We’re just showing our faces. We head back tomorrow. Seeing that place isn’t bad.” Her words walked like bamboo in rain.

When talk touches the dark, Yun Shi sheds her playful thorns. She turns steady, like a mountain under storm.

She’s sensitive to the Underworld. She can’t greet darkness with sunny laughter; she meets it like frost meets glass.

This trip answers Asagi Renka’s invitation. Whether she truly accepts, she’ll weigh it like a merchant with gold.

Facing the Church isn’t a joke. It’s thunder you don’t whistle at.

The Church is one of the Underworld’s Three Powers, a cliff you don’t chip with a spoon.

Even the Four Pupils Clan couldn’t stir that sea without sinking.

“Move.” The word was a signal flare in mist.

“Got it~” Moa’s grin popped like fireworks.

The black craft waited like a crouching shark. They sat inside, the hatch sealing like a lid on a secret.

It slid onto the water, then blasted like a rocket, a comet skimming the sea toward the far western sky.

Inside, the layout was plain as a monk’s cell. The seats were tight, a box within a box.

Yun Shi leaned back, boredom like drizzle tapping glass. She waited for the end of the line like a clock watching itself.

Moa sat bright-eyed, her excitement beating like wings inside a cage.

“What’s wrong, Yun Shi? First time abroad, and you’re not happy?” Her tease floated like foam.

“Once we reach the Magic Institution, don’t call me that. Use my codename.” Her voice cooled like iron in snow.

“I won’t use your name either.” Her resolve was a lock on a gate.

“Okay.” Moa’s sigh curled like steam in winter air.

Moa could only accept Yun Shi’s calm. When darkness stirs, Yun Shi’s cool lands like shade under noon sun.

Ask her why, and she’ll say she’s used to it, like a scar that forgot its first cut.

The ride was fast, a hawk cutting wind. In under four hours, they’d reached their mark.

London unfurled like a painted fan, streets flowing with bodies, smiles like cornfields under summer suns.

Blond hair and blue eyes flashed like coins. You could feel it—this was a land tuned to another sky.

Tower Bridge stood first in their gaze, a necklace of stone over the Thames, famous as a lighthouse on an empty coast.

Japan trails London by nine hours, a shadow behind the sun. Night there, daylight here, two lids on one eye.

Mizuki looked at the unfamiliar streets, her heart thumping like a drum at a festival. It was her first time abroad, a kite let loose.

Her English should hold like a rope. But they say foreigners speak fast, like rain on tin. Could she keep pace?

“Mizuki, we’re not here to play. Work first, then I’ll take you to play till the stars blur~” Sham’s smile glinted like a blade kept friendly.

“Mizuki, don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t forget your task.” The warning pricked like a thorn at her heel.

“S-sorry!” Her cheeks burned like dawn over snow.

She’d forgotten she was here to work, not to wander. Shame clung like wet clothes.

Still, the scenery soothed like tea. British gardens love natural grace, painting reality with a clear eye, like sunlight on stone.

It’s a different concept than the East, a parallel river under another moon.

Even in daylight, Mizuki and Sham had a schedule. They could go straight to the Magic Institution, like arrows to a mark.

A pickup awaited, all women, their presence like silk instead of steel. No hulking agents breathing like oxen.

At the destination, Mizuki gaped. The headquarters rose like a palace carved from light.

Its façade shimmered like frost-work. It rivaled famous sights, carrying itself like a crown at court.

So this is the Underworld’s true face, gilded like dragon scales. Luxury glowed here like midday sun on water.

The Underworld is a place of mysteries; nothing is strange when clouds carry knives.

Inside, the décor flooded her eyes. It was luxurious as a royal banquet, every corner set like jewels in velvet.

Mizuki felt she’d entered not a Magic Institution but a feast hall, where the upper crust moved like swans.

“Amazing...” Her breath drifted like smoke.

“Mm. First time, huh? Not strange. Enjoy it~” Sham’s chuckle chimed like glass.

“Oh, the Magic Institution. It’s my first time here too.” A playful murmur rose like bubbles.

“Is this really the Underworld, Sham?” Mizuki’s doubt flew like a bird looking for a branch.

“Mm, it is. What, not what you imagined?” Sham’s smile curved like a crescent moon.

Mizuki shook her head, her hair swaying like grass.

“I’m just surprised.” The words fell like soft rain.

The hall teemed with Witches, brushing past each other like reeds in wind. Strangers stayed strangers, parallel lines under the same sky.

Sometimes glances pooled at one spot. The focus was Mizuki Kiseki, an Eastern face shining like a lantern in Western fog.

They didn’t think much of it. Eastern Witches weren’t rare; this was another wave on a big sea.

Mizuki studied the architecture, her curiosity unfurling like a fern. Then noise rose inside, a clash like thunder in a gallery.

Something was flaring elsewhere, an argument crackling like dry leaves. The crowd swelled like a tide around a rock.

Drawn by the commotion, Mizuki and Sham drifted closer like boats on a current. The scene froze them like frost on glass.

A girl in a black cloak stood there, her Goggles hiding her face like clouds over moon. Her posture was calm as winter water.

She stood openly, her “openings” like an empty gate. She didn’t care. Her indifference hung like a banner in wind.

Before her, a woman who’d failed a sneak attack sat hard on the floor, her anger twisting her face like knotted rope.

Mizuki knew her. It was Photon, whom she’d met at the Clan Head bout. After her friend Tyrant died, she’d bent like a branch under ice.

Picking a fight with Yun Shi felt inevitable, anger like a river seeking a path.

“Night Phantom, you—!” Her shout cracked like a plank.

“Can’t you keep it down?” Yun Shi’s words shaved the air like a cold blade.

“You—if not for you, I wouldn’t be like this. Night Phantom, I hate you...” Her voice dripped like poison into a well.

“How boring.” Yun Shi’s reply was ash on wind.

She let Photon’s rage pass like rain on stone. The antics bored her, too childish by far, like kids throwing pebbles at a cliff.

She turned away, walking like a shadow at dusk. Moa had been waiting like a candle held steady.

Most Witches in the hall glared at Yun Shi, their eyes like thorns. They saw her as the filth of the Underworld, a stain on silk.

“Night Phantom. Moa. Long time.” Mizuki’s greeting lifted like a kite string.

“Oh, Mizuki-senpai, long time~” Moa’s delight rang like chimes.

“Hi, little Moa. Remember me?” Sham’s voice smiled like warm tea.

“Of course, Sham-senpai. We met last time~” Moa’s wink flickered like fireflies.

They slipped into catching up, words soft as petals. They hadn’t noticed the room’s mood, a storm coiling like snakes.

Yun Shi stayed silent, her calm taut like a bowstring. She knew this was a time for ice, not fire.

“Heh. You, Demon Sovereign—remember me?” Photon’s smile spread sickly, like mold on fruit. She stared with eyes cold as frost.

“Photon...” Mizuki’s name fell like a leaf.

“You don’t get to say my name!” Photon’s roar slammed like a door.

Moa’s smile dropped, her face hardening like stone. She stepped before Mizuki, a small shield under thunder.

Yun Shi thumbed her gun, the click like a cricket in dry grass. She was ready, a storm coiled in a sheath.

Demon Sovereign was Mizuki’s codename, her place in the Underworld like a seal pressed in wax.

That’s why Photon called her that, venom like smoke.

“Demon Sovereign, don’t think you’re strong. To me, you’re weak, a title pinned on paper.” Her scorn cut like a thin blade.

“Eh...” The sound faltered like a candle.

“You can’t compare to Tyrant. You’re a weakling waving a flag.” Her words hammered like sleet.

“If Night Phantom weren’t here, I’d shatter you.” Her nails flashed like knives.

“What did you say...” Mizuki’s voice trembled like water.

“Do I need to repeat it? You’re nothing, a brittle shell.” Each word fell like stones.

“A soft ant that needs saving.” Her disdain burned like lime.

“Night Phantom covers you, so you get by.” Her laugh was a raven’s croak.

“You think you’ll be protected forever?” The question hissed like steam.

“You just clung to a lucky thigh, a petty hanger-on.” Her sneer coiled like a snake.

“You could die any day. Weaklings get culled.” The verdict dropped like a guillotine.

“Don’t you get it? I hate you. You’re too weak.” Her howl tore like wind through broken shutters.

Photon’s rage poured over Mizuki like a storm-tide. Maybe she was venting. Maybe the red heat drove her. Maybe she hadn’t meant to go this far.

Mizuki couldn’t refute a single word, her throat knotted like roots.

You’re a weakling—those four words branded her heart like hot iron.

Silence pooled in the hall, heavy as deep snow. No one spoke, only Photon’s harsh breathing like a bellows.

“Enough.” A voice broke the hush like a crack of lightning.

“You four. Over here.” The woman didn’t spare Photon a glance. She pointed at them like a judge’s rod.

A cold memory flashed like steel in sunlight—Mizuki knew her, no doubt; the woman who had commanded in the Clan Head battle.

Yun Shi and the others didn’t fuss; they just followed, like leaves slipping after a steady current, already guessing the message.

They left Guangzi standing dazed, and the four drifted off like morning mist toward another room.

In an inner office, Bena Sovaren sat quietly, her gaze a still lake as she watched them enter.

The decor was polished: new‑style chairs with a foreign tang, papers squared and pale as cut stone; the owner’s habits showed like grain in wood.

Her voice flew straight as an arrow. “I know why you came to the Magic Institution.”

“I don’t support you making an enemy of the Church,” she said, cool as shade beneath an eave.

Cold prickles rose on Mizuki’s skin as that deep gaze swept the girls, a winter draft lingering longest on her.

“But I won’t stand in your way either.”

The line fell like a pebble into still water, and surprise rippled across their faces.

“I’m doing this for my own reasons,” she went on, eyes set like rock under tide. “You want to press the Church, and I don’t have the hands to stop you.”

“The Magic Institution still needs rebuilding, beams and rafters skewed by past storms.”

“Some Witches want to press the Church too; that flock won’t bend to my rope.”

“Recruit allies or turn foes if you like; I won’t begrudge you, but…”

“Just don’t drag the Magic Institution into it,” she finished, drawing a clean line in the sand.

Whatever follows, the Underworld’s struggle is a monsoon you can’t dodge.

A new storm is about to rise, skirts of cloud already lifting at the horizon.

At the far‑off Church, as if they’d caught the scent on the wind, they moved as well, bells stirring like birds at dawn.

“It begins,” the blonde woman said with a crescent‑blade smile.

“Get ready. The Third Vessel Soul is about to appear.”

Where that Underworld storm will make landfall, no one knows; all anyone can do is wait like small boats for the typhoon’s first wave.