The sun at daybreak lifted like a pale blade, washing the earth in milk-gold, pouring soft light across the overpass.

A breeze skimmed through, tugging a loose strand of hair. Her pulse tightened as she looked at the woman opposite; the hush made that figure colder, like frost sealing a lake.

Expressionless, she stood untouched by the sun; if anything, the stillness turned her into an iceberg with a human outline.

Miyuki Kiseki clenched her fist hard, then let it ease open, eyes leveled straight ahead.

“Ready?”

The golden-haired woman asked it cool as winter rain.

So this was the training she’d mentioned—the only, and the best, way to grow fast.

But the road would be thorned.

“Please.”

Even so, there was no way back.

“Then let’s start with a fight.”

“A fight? Not teaching first?”

“I’m not good at teaching. We fight, and I’ll see exactly where the gap is.”

“I see...”

“You’re the junior. You attack first.”

The golden-haired woman drew the slender sword at her hip and, still as a glacier, gave Mizuki the order.

Mizuki didn’t argue. The power in that aura wasn’t fake. Anything less than full force meant eating a loss.

“Elana...”

“No problem. Go.”

Elana’s voice was for once solemn. At Mizuki’s call, there was no hesitation—only a push to go all out.

This opponent wasn’t small fry.

“Form Three, Reaper Scythe!”

The weapon bloomed in Mizuki’s hands. Her face sharpened, and with the scrape of her sole, she sprang. Violet ghost-flame breathed off the scythe as she drove for the blonde’s “openings.”

The golden-haired woman stayed the same ice-sculpture beauty. A casual twist at the waist—one stroke—and her sword split the incoming blow like silk.

!

No time for shock. A flash of gold streaked past her eyes; pain exploded in her abdomen; her body flew.

The weapon slipped free and clattered bright as glass. Mizuki slammed into the ground and skidded.

“Can you stand?”

The blonde asked it without a flicker.

“Yes!”

Stubborn, Mizuki pushed up, snatched Elana from the ground, and faced forward again.

She sank her hips, set her guard, and launched.

Thud!

As expected, she got kicked out of the air again.

But this time, she didn’t lose her grip. She—

“Form One, Black Iron Wings!”

The scythe unfurled into iron-dark wings. They snapped open and flung her skyward. In a blink, she was aloft, a second scythe in her hand—the Reaper Scythe she’d just dismissed.

“She’s flying...”

Surprise flickered in the blonde’s eyes, then frost returned. The rumor said the Second Soul Artifact was a fiend. It seemed the rumor wasn’t a lie.

Mizuki chopped down hard from the sky, borrowing gravity’s weight to make the strike bite.

The blonde didn’t even frown.

Boom!

Another single stroke. She blew through Mizuki’s attack. Before Mizuki sensed how bad it was, a sword aura, keen enough to seam the air, screamed toward her. Startled, Mizuki threw up her defense.

“Form Five, Absolute Defense!”

It held the incoming strike for a breath, but it also marked her in the sky. The blonde could see the half-sphere glittering up there like a soap bubble.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Several attacks slammed in, shivering the Absolute Defense and rattling Mizuki inside.

“This is bad!”

“What is it, Elana?”

“The biggest weakness of Absolute Defense is the air. It’s built to root on the ground. Right now, we’re forcing it midair with Black Iron Wings.”

The golden-haired woman had obviously seen that. That’s why she could hammer at the airborne Mizuki without worry. Switching between two Forms always had a cost. Black Iron Wings plus Absolute Defense looked ironclad, but the joint had a seam.

“End.”

She said it flat, then carved the sky like slicing fruit. Several slashes tore the shield apart. The shock knocked Mizuki loose, and she fell.

“Time, four minutes and twenty seconds.”

The blonde sheathed her sword, stepped under, and caught Mizuki out of the air with a steady hand, voice even.

Mizuki had lost completely. She hadn’t lasted ten proper exchanges.

That was the gap.

“Your instincts in combat aren’t bad. Your technique is poor. And you’re too impatient.”

She set Mizuki down and explained, ice-clear.

Every word rang true. There was nothing to argue.

Only the strong can name what the weak are missing.

“Again.”

Mizuki stood anyway. Stubborn. She could only drink from failure.

“Good. Take the initiative.”

Seeing Mizuki push forward without prompting, the blonde didn’t waste time. She gave the order.

Mizuki coiled and sprang. Her foot snapped off the ground. The Reaper Scythe flashed as she swung down.

The golden-haired woman drew and met the blow. Then the dance began—speed and swordplay threading tight. Every time Mizuki attacked, the other intercepted. Every time Mizuki stepped back, the other stepped in. Blades whirled; their shadows braided. Mizuki was running out of breath.

Thud!

A heavy strike caught her waist. Mizuki locked up for a heartbeat. In that sliver, the blonde took it all—sword-hilt into Mizuki’s gut, a free leg chopping across, and Mizuki went spinning.

“Kh—kh...”

Pain flared to every edge of her body. Every nerve protested. Cells felt like they were dying fast.

“Continue?”

“...Mm. Again!”

The end was the same: kicked into the dust.

Looking at the girl sprawled on the ground, a flicker of surprise rippled under the blonde’s iceberg calm.

“I told you. You’re too impatient. Your craving for success wears your openings on the outside. Why be that foolish?”

“...One more time!”

Thud!

Kicked away again.

“Your technique is better, but not cooked through.”

Thud!

“What you lack is calm. That’s a fatal taboo.”

Thud!

“Your combat is too monotonous. There’s no personal way. It’s not you using the Artifact Spirit; it’s the Artifact Spirit using you.”

“As you are, you’re too weak.”

“Finery on the outside, a shell full of seams.”

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Clang!

Her weapon flew.

Another kick sent her skidding.

Mizuki lay there, all dust and bruises, nowhere clean, pain clouding her eyes.

Not enough. Still not enough...

What can this level of strength even do?

The distance is too far...

Bitter as gall. Why does that person stand at the farthest reach while she’s left at the tail? Distance isn’t a river you can measure. It’s near to impossible.

What bites worse is that person isn’t happy. She stands far, yet she’s the one most wounded. The loneliness of that black cloak’s back made Mizuki’s heart ache for no reason.

Unwilling. That person took all the darkness on herself. Then what can Mizuki bring to stand beside her? She has power Mizuki doesn’t. Mizuki has companions she doesn’t.

Mizuki wants to share those companions with her. But first, she needs power to match her step.

So change. For the one you like, change. To prove you’re worthy, change.

If you don’t rise now, when will you close that distance?

Mizuki stood again, grief in her ribs, eyes locked forward.

“Why are you getting stronger so fast?”

The blonde truly wanted to know. Strength is slow work; that’s what experience said. But Mizuki’s pace... was quick. Not flashy, but real.

“It’s not fast at all. Compared to her, I’m miles behind.”

“You probably have talent.”

“But what I want is strength.”

“Then prove it with action.”

She’d probably picked up a very good seedling.

“Do you know, Miyuki Kiseki, the one you’re chasing isn’t just a step ahead.”

At some point she began using Mizuki’s full name.

“Night Phantom. She’s a true powerhouse of the Underworld. Even I have to acknowledge her strength. Maybe she’s stronger than me. Someone like that—and you still want to chase her?”

“Is that a question? Of course. I... have reasons I can’t abandon. I won’t give up, no matter what!”

“If that’s truly what you think, then show me. You’re strong, sure. But compared to those above, you’re behind by orders of magnitude. As you are, you don’t even have the right to choose. If you want change, show me resolve!”

She lost count of how many times she got kicked. The pain had gone beyond words.

Even so, Mizuki kept getting up. Not a word of complaint. She could quit the moment she said it, but she didn’t.

The reason was one person. A black silhouette.

She remembered the street talk, all circling that same person...

“Did you hear? That Witch called Night Phantom. She took everyone’s pay again.”

“Her again. Because of her, we can’t earn a bounty!”

“Forget it. She’s too strong. Don’t poke that hornet’s nest.”

“She’s different. Mizuki, better not compare yourself to her. She’s not someone you catch up to easily.”

She wanted to change—because of her.

Because Mizuki liked her. That was all.

Changing for someone you like—what’s wrong with that?

Before, she wanted to protect the world everyone shared. Now, she wanted to catch up to that person, take someone’s hand, and bring her into her own world.

To do all that, she needed strength.

“Drop the Artifact Spirit.”

Suddenly, the golden-haired woman gave the order, face unreadable.

Mizuki’s stunned look didn’t surprise her.

You lean on your Artifact Spirit like a crutch. Plenty of Witches do. But Night Phantom is different—she fights with steel she brought from the Clan Head, not raw Mystic Power. Only true hawks spot it.

In the Underworld, real powerhouses carve their own way; they don’t kneel to raw force. Night Phantom blends her Artifact Spirit with a style honed like river stone.

First Vessel Soul may seem frail to you, but her edge lies in how she channels power—like a dull blade lethal in a master’s hand. Cling to your Artifact Spirit, and strength stays a mirage.

Heat surged, then steadied inside Mizuki; her hand clenched, then let go.

“Mizuki...”

“Sorry, Elana—hold on a heartbeat.”

Mizuki let her weapon fall like a spent leaf and drove in bare-handed.

In that breath, turmoil blew out like a candle; only a winter lake remained inside her.

The result was brutal—Mizuki took hits like hail on a tin roof, her count climbing in a hard line.

“Let’s stop here today; first days shouldn’t burn you out like a bonfire.”

“No way. Come at me again—one more round, like thunder rolling back.”

“Request denied. You rest tonight; I’ll treat your wounds. After that, it’s a storm—one full week of hell training.”

She looked at Mizuki—scars mapping her skin, clothes torn like storm‑bitten sails—and the blonde woman’s conscience tugged; she didn’t push the cruelty further.

Besides, this girl carried a rare resolve—like flint lit behind the eyes, a spine strung with wire.

Maybe she can make it—like a buried seed finding spring.

I wouldn’t be surprised if her name rose in the Underworld one day, carved like a blade mark on stone.

With her, joy comes easy, like sunlight after a long winter; I haven’t felt this in ages.

Maybe taking her as a student won’t be a bad bargain—like trading a coin for a spark.

“From now on, I’m your mentor. My name’s Andrea. Let’s walk this path together, like two lanterns in the same night.”