The wide room held its breath like a pond under ice, neither side speaking, while the blonde woman stared as if her gaze were a knife scraping bone.

Mizuki stood with calm like winter frost on glass, unflinching beneath that gaze, which made the blonde woman blink as if a bird had startled from a branch.

She hadn’t pictured this ending, her thoughts scattered like fallen leaves, yet here a girl stood again before her, a touch of steel shining on her face.

“What are you here for?” Her voice fell like a pebble into still water.

“I want to change.” The words came out like a lantern lit in fog.

“Then you’re in the wrong place; I don’t offer that service.” Her refusal was flat as a shut gate.

“But—” Mizuki’s hope flickered like a candle in wind.

“No buts. I don’t recall inviting you.” The blonde’s tone was cold as slate.

“I…” The syllable stuck like a seed in the throat.

“Demon Sovereign, did you misunderstand something? I never said I could help you.” Her words clicked like beads, each one a small, hard truth.

Mizuki couldn’t refute; her hands clenched like claws, knuckles pale as moonlight against stone.

It was true: from any angle, the blonde had never promised help; she’d only tossed a few warnings like pebbles across a stream for fun.

She just didn’t want to watch an idiot drown like a moth in oil, especially if the filthiest hand pushed her under.

Too many partings had passed her eyes like seasons; numbness crept in like frost, yet she couldn’t become stone.

Call it kindness or call it naivety; it was simply her temper, like a stubborn pine clinging to a cliff.

But why had this girl come, when their paths were parallel lines like rails that never meet?

“Tell me, Demon Sovereign, how did you know I was here?” Her question cut like a thin blade.

“Sham—my friend—told me. She said you’d be here.” Mizuki’s answer landed like a sparrow on a branch.

“A magician, huh… No, the Magic Institution.” Her murmur was snow-soft. “Of course she’d know where I live; that crowd collects secrets like jars of fireflies.”

With that, her doubt eased like fog lifting; Sham’s roots lay in the Magic Institution, and the blonde had left her own little tale there, like ink on paper.

Otherwise, by her usual habits, a sword would already kiss Mizuki’s throat like a cold river, and questions would flow like winter rain.

Since Sham had sent Mizuki, a guest was a guest, like tea poured no matter the weather.

“Drink something?” Her courtesy was a lacquered tray, smooth but distant.

She was an iceberg, yes, yet even an iceberg offers a seal’s path to rest.

“No thanks, I didn’t come for tea.” Mizuki’s refusal was plain as unpainted wood.

“Then what did you come for?” The pause between words hung like a windless banner.

“I want to know why you told me to stay away from Night Phantom. She’s not a bad person.” Mizuki’s voice trembled like a string on a zither.

“I warned you so you wouldn’t end up hating her.” The answer was a bell struck once in an empty hall.

“How would—” Her protest fluttered like a trapped moth.

“Many swear they won’t hate their friends,” the blonde said, face as still as a winter lake, “but crisis shatters oaths like pottery, and loss turns friends into enemies.”

Anyone else, Mizuki would have hit back like a cat bristling, but not this one.

The woman’s face was blank, yet her eyes carried a dusk-tide sadness, the kind that speaks of one’s own storm.

Mizuki couldn’t deny a story traced in scars like rings in wood.

“I…” The word was a stone she couldn’t swallow.

But retreat was a cliff behind her; she could only go forward like a seed pushing toward light.

“I want to grow strong. That’s all.” Her resolve stood like a pillar in wind.

For a heartbeat the blonde’s hand twitched, a sparrow startled off the eave.

“Why?” The question slid like steel from a sheath.

“I can’t refute you. Maybe staying away from Night Phantom is best. Maybe I’ll end up hating someone when it breaks.”

The truth burned like sake in her chest. Say it.

You can do this. The thought fluttered like a hawk rising on a thermal.

“But if I become strong—strong like her—then I’ll have the right to stand beside her. With strength, mountains part and doors open.”

Simple, clear, like sunlight through bamboo.

To walk shoulder to shoulder with her, Mizuki had to molt her old skin like a cicada.

“I see. You want strength like Night Phantom’s, so you feel worthy to stay at her side.”

The blonde stood, gaze cold as a north wind, yet Mizuki met it head-on like a river meeting the sea.

This was Mizuki’s lone vow, a blade sheathed in her heart.

“But why come to me?” The question drifted like frost.

“You warned me off her, so you must be strong. Sham also said you’re strong. I figured you could tell me how to get there.”

The blonde searched Mizuki’s face like sifting sand for gold. Not a lie, not even a tremor—only a steady flame in her eyes.

She means it, the blonde decided, as firm as a nail in oak.

“You’re right. I am strong.” The admission rang like iron on iron.

She was a bladeswoman of the Underworld, a storm that chose where to break.

Others stood at her height—Night Phantom could match or surpass her—but that didn’t blunt her edge.

“But I’ll tell you with all the weight of winter: there are no shortcuts. The more you chase, the steeper the hill gets.

You want to surpass Night Phantom, but you can’t. Not yet. You still have miles of night to walk.”

To be strong, you need talent like flint, work like rain, and persistence like roots.

Every Underworld powerhouse was forged in hardship like steel in a furnace.

Take Yun Shi, for instance; she’d ground herself for decades under her Clan Head’s roof like a millstone on grain.

“Trying to get a shortcut from me? Impossible.” Her words shut like a gate-bar.

Mizuki’s hunger was real, but her path was too fast, like running on thin ice.

You don’t become a powerhouse in a season; even a lucky wind needs a sail.

“Night Phantom is terrifyingly strong. She can turn the most useless scrap into a spearhead. You won’t learn that in a lifetime.

That’s why I told you to keep your distance. You can’t afford to provoke her.”

Yes, Night Phantom was a quiet mountain hiding a thunderheart; only another peak could sense her height.

Even without leaning on any Artifact Spirit, her power spiked like a storm-tide.

Catching up to her was like chasing lightning with bare feet.

“I see…” Mizuki’s disappointment fell like ash.

She’d thought the answer waited here like a key on a hook, but the door stayed shut.

To grow strong, must she fumble alone in the dark again?

Not even a hint to undo Elana’s last two seals? The thought was a thorn under skin.

She had hoped that someone versed in the Church would offer a Witch of Artifact Spirit origin a lantern for the road.

But no.

It still came down to her hands and her breath, step by step like stones across a stream.

“I don’t have a shortcut for you,” the blonde said, voice flat as snowlight, “but there is a way to make you move faster.”

Thud!

No joy met the words. Pain did—hot and blooming—when a strike hammered Mizuki’s gut like a ram, flinging her into the wall like a rag in the wind.

Her throat coughed raggedly, sound scraping like a saw; the ache in her ribs crackled like ice.

“If you want strength that badly, then I’ll train you. You’ll drill till you’re remade, or you’ll die.”

Her stare was a winter wolf’s, cruelty in every syllable like iron filings in blood.

She knew this truth: the weak don’t even own the right to die; the river takes that choice.

Don’t want to be mocked? Change your bones like a smith changes iron.

………………

Somewhere in Japan, Yun Shi lived her peaceful days like a cat in sun, and maybe it was a trick of the heart, but calm kept deepening like dusk on water.

Underworld by origin, yet living steady in the Outer World like moss on temple stone—strange, and strangely gentle.

Right, just like a certain idiot born in the Outer World who dove headfirst into the Underworld, flipping her life like a sleeve.

“I can’t tell if that’s good or bad,” Yun Shi sighed, the thought drifting like a leaf.

The Church loomed on the horizon like a line of dark pines; was it fine to be this idle?

“Hey hey, Yun Shi, let’s go play, okay?” Moa tugged her hand, bright as a lark in spring.

“Don’t always think about playing.” Yun Shi tapped her head, a raindrop on a lily—scolding in tone, indulgence in touch.

“Hehe, but it’s rare to have time; not playing would be a waste of sun!” Moa’s grin sparkled like dew.

“What about the Church? And there’s a rumor the Underworld will see a third Artifact Spirit. You’re not nervous?” Yun Shi’s brow furrowed like ripples.

“Yun Shi, you worry too much. Rumors are just mist; don’t chase mist.” Moa waved it off like smoke.

“But—” The protest was a thin reed in wind.

“Aww, so many rumors at school call you a playboy. But really, isn’t this ‘playboy’ actually a playgirl?” Moa’s tease danced like a butterfly.

“…” Logic sharp as a slap left Yun Shi wordless, her silence a rock in the stream.

Thanks to Moa’s jab, Yun Shi left the tangle of thoughts like a snake shedding skin and focused on play.

It was a good thing. She’d rarely had chances to just be with a friend; now and then, joy was medicine like ginger tea.

After years of family torment like iron chains, today’s sunlight felt earned like bread from sweat—hard-won, precious.

She had spent so much, lost so much, to stand under this sky. The cost rang in her bones like a bell.

She was content: days with sunlight, a companion called friend—what could be wrong with that?

If asked to trade this life for a noble rank in her clan, she would answer, like a blade laid flat: I won’t trade.

At least now, she still felt human, warm as a hearth.

Thinking that, Yun Shi lifted her face to the sun and gave a smile that fit her shape, bright as a crescent on clear water.