On the broad skybridge, steel rang and echoed; sparks skittered across the floor like fireflies; the ceaseless clatter of blades spilled into the open air. She felt distant from the blades, yet they grazed her shadow.

She set her feet, let her body flow, matched the rhythm, struck whenever a gap breathed open; even a miss must be a response—Andrea had drilled it in.

So Mizuki was a hawk for openings; that was training’s first law.

Clang!

Her knife got knocked free with a sting; unarmed, Mizuki became a living target, and Andrea’s scything kick slammed her into the ground.

“Ow. Miss Andrea really doesn’t hold back at all...”

Pain pricked; Mizuki muttered a small complaint.

“On a real field, no one would be this polite to you.”

Andrea sheathed her weapon and replied with her ice-queen calm.

Training had stretched long; its edge finally showed. Mizuki’s talent held; she kept pace. Andrea judged that, given time, she could grow.

Fate twisted the thread: she came from the Outer World, a stray color that clashed with every hue of the Underworld.

Andrea didn’t care about her roots.

Andrea hoped she’d do something to tilt this chaotic world; that was her quiet wish.

“Alright. If you’ve rested, start again.”

“Oh, got it.”

“Also, training moves to the next stage.”

“Next stage?”

“Mm. From now on, drop whatever’s in your hands and fight with your Artifact Spirit, full force.”

Her breath hitched.

“No need to hold back. Go all out, and I won’t show mercy either. Do you understand, Mizuki?”

“Yes!”

At that, Mizuki shed her doubt, lifted Elana, long resting at her side, and let a confident smile bloom.

“Let’s go, Elana.”

“Oh, no problem. I shall give you my full strength!”

“Heh-heh.”

Warmth swelled; confidence curled around her like morning mist. She couldn’t help a cute smile. Andrea’s permission to use her Artifact Spirit meant her strength was finally recognized, and the path ahead promised new trials.

Whatever waits ahead, she won’t stop. To one day catch up to that person. To one day protect everything she loves. She must keep moving.

“I’m coming, Miss Andrea.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The exchange of weapons rang again, a peal across stone; a new round of training began.

Mizuki’s free, confident smile and Andrea’s constant ice-queen poise carved a striking scene on the skybridge.

What it will become—only time will tell; eyes can only watch the storm gather.

...

Inside the Magic Institution, Bena Sovalin sorted files in her office. Everything was as usual; even the teacup sat in its unmoved place.

In the ornate cup, red liquid breathed steam; waves of aroma drifted in, a noble scent like velvet wine.

A friend had gifted her this rare red tea. She liked it; she brewed it on schedule, every day.

But today, there was no time to savor it; the day buzzed with work...

“The Church, huh...”

She sank into the backrest and stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling like dark clouds.

Her files were about the Church. Witches who wanted to resist it filled a large portion of the list; the rest were Clan Head members planning action. Yet none of that changed a single fact: the Church stood at the eye of the storm.

As part of the Magic Institution, she dared make no move. Others would. In just days, witches seeking permission to strike the Church had hit double digits.

The outlook was bleak, like winter settling in.

Bena Sovalin sipped the red tea, letting her mood loosen like a slackened bowstring.

Beep-beep—

The telegraph-like device before her chirped. She knew who it was. She set down the cup and flipped the switch.

A woman’s image bloomed on the wall. She smiled. White nun’s robes draped her figure—clearly, the Church.

“Long time no see, Bena.”

The other greeted first. Bena stayed silent, breathing steady again only after a moment, then met her gaze.

“Anjel.”

Calm returned. Bena looked at her, expression layered like folded paper.

Anjel smiled softly.

“Surprised I could tap this line?”

“I know. Only you know our route.”

Seeing an old face in the projection, she grew oddly calm.

“That year, you were just a nun, and I was just an ordinary witch—friends with a decent bond. Now you stand where all the Underworld races to attack. Foolish. During the Clan Head war, any other stance would’ve spared this. You chose the worst road.”

“I know the cost, and I won’t let go.”

“Did ambition carve you into this?”

“Partly. More, it’s to steady the Underworld. If it can be settled, isn’t that good? Don’t tell me you’re blind to the times.”

Her words held a blade of truth. If the Church truly ruled the Underworld, the long chaos might end. To those craving stability, that lure is strong.

“I’ve been waiting for a chance. The last war was once-in-a-lifetime. If the Clan Head faction weakened, the Church could rise, couldn’t it?”

“But the Magic Institution got dragged in. We lost even the strength to oppose your Church.”

Bena said it coldly, like frost on steel.

“I know your displeasure. You’re a big name in the Institution; of course you think that way. But Bena, aren’t you the same? Fine words on your lips, yet you plan to use an Artifact Spirit to strike at our Church.”

Anjel smiled; a hint of killing intent glimmered in her eyes, cold as moonlight.

“I thought that giving you an Artifact Spirit would make the Institution an ally. I was wrong. Two Artifact Spirits emerged with no direct tie to you. Naturally, your favor for the Church evaporated. So rebellion sits within reason.”

“Don’t twist this...”

“Isn’t it true? You didn’t stop the two Artifact Spirits—best proof. In your heart, you’re set against me.”

“You’re the same. For the Institution to rule the Underworld, you issued compulsory summons to drag two Artifact Spirits into war. Without Artifact Spirits, how would you plant roots? Even with a win, you’d sway in the storm. You wouldn’t stand firm.”

“Enough!”

Shame burned into anger. Bena Sovalin swept files and teacup off the desk; red liquid splashed across the floor, the white papers soaked and stained through.

It was true, undeniable: Bena Sovalin thought exactly that way.

Political scheming or personal calculus—her logic was razor-correct.

That’s who she was: in the storm-tossed Underworld, she used anything of value. Simple as that.

Everyone did, to carve a seat in the Underworld; anything usable was used.

Bena Sovalin was only one among them.

Anjel wore a pleased smile. How many feelings hid in it—no one knew.

“I knew you’d be like this.”

Still the same as before, unchanged.

“Don’t make that face. I know exactly what I’m doing. If you want to come, then come. Whatever happens—it doesn’t matter.”

Confidence curved on Anjel’s lips. She didn’t fear the storm’s eye; more than that, she looked eager.

A terrible thought surfaced in Bena’s mind; her body shivered before she could stop it.

“Don’t tell me... you’ve already found the third Artifact Spirit...”

Long ago, when the Second Soul Artifact had just been completed, the Church began crafting the third, the final Artifact Spirit.

Back then, she didn’t think much. The bearer of the First Vessel Soul hadn’t appeared. However many were made felt distant to her. She paid the matter little mind.

But since the First Vessel Soul’s birth, she never again underestimated an Artifact Spirit.

She’d come to believe their power could reshape the Underworld’s pattern.

The prior two Artifact Spirits had no direct link to the Institution. If the third belonged directly to the Church, then...

Disastrous.

“Anyway, I’m curious—what those two Artifact Spirits already tied to you will become.”

With that cryptic line, the wall projection died, leaving Bena Sovalin frozen in place.

How the Underworld’s situation will evolve is hard to judge now...