Compared to school, some things cut deeper—mountains to pebbles, leagues apart from the daily grind.

Sports day, cheer squads—set them beside the Underworld, they’re fireflies before a cold moon.

“It still came...”

Yun Shi stared at the list in her hand, drifting into fog and undertow.

Asagi Renka had pulled this list together—those intending to hit the Church.

Most were already set to move. Mizuki topped the page.

Since Lian Hua drafted it, Yun Shi wasn’t surprised Mizuki sat at number one.

But as she read on, her face tightened like frost on glass.

In the middle, three names glinted like knives.

Shen Ling Zou.

Shitou Yuya.

Kananin Rin.

All three were names that rang through the Underworld.

Pride of the young generation; ripples that pulled tides; strength that wasn’t hollow.

That was why it hurt. Her calm lake bucked into chop.

Shen Ling Zou was the most tangled—enemy and familiar in one shadow.

After their last battle he vanished, but the stain of “enemy” stayed on her heart.

Then there was Kananin Rin. Not close, but they’d crossed paths.

A promising blade in a young scabbard.

A year ago, the Kananin Family suffered a secret-art rampage.

The former head bowed to pressure and stepped down.

Kananin Rin rose to the seat like dawn lifting night.

A frightening foe, Yun Shi thought, a hawk behind silk.

But the last name—Shitou Yuya—was the one she never wanted to touch.

“Why… why did you still show up...”

She pressed her temples like warding off thunder, pain threading her voice.

Long ago, back in the Four Pupils Clan, Yuuya was already in her world.

When she was still Four Pupils Yun Shi, he never left her line of sight.

It was a knot of memories, thorn and blossom twisted together.

“Brother...”

Yun Shi set the list down, turned, and walked toward the back corridor.

Her own name wasn’t on that list. She’d stayed on the fence, watching the smoke.

Lian Hua “kindly” left her out, and maybe that was a blessing.

She’d planned to watch the blaze from the far bank, maybe flick a stone into the flames.

Now it felt pointless.

She had reasons she couldn’t outrun.

She changed into her signature black cloak.

At the appointed pier, a slim silhouette waited, a kite string in the wind.

“Good evening, Yun Shi~”

Yun Shi nodded and walked over, bare-faced; her mask still slept in her pocket.

“Let’s go. London.”

“That fast?”

“Yeah. We have to race the clock.”

“Did something happen?”

Moa heard the wrongness and her brows knit like gathering rain.

Yun Shi never said “we’re short on time” unless the sky was truly tipping.

She exhaled, letting the storm in her chest ease to drizzle.

“I’ve got something I have to do.”

“What is it?”

“Family. I want to see someone from before. Just a glance. No lingering.

Otherwise… I won’t get another chance.”

“...Got it.”

Moa didn’t pry. She knew Yun Shi had come from the Clan Head’s house,

a child cast out from the Clan Head—ashes swept from the hearth.

She didn’t know which house, but she heard the weight in “family.”

If it wasn’t heavy, Yun Shi would never show the soft edge beneath her armor.

They boarded the submarine. The hatch clanged shut like a bell.

It skimmed the sea skin, gathering speed, a silver fish against night.

Their target was London. Unlike past drop-ins and vanishes,

this time was a true move against the Church, a knife drawn, not flashed.

Yun Shi had planned to deal with school’s sports meet, paper banners and cheers.

Now it would wait. She had heavier stones to carry.

Moa watched her profile:

thoughtful, shadowed, a moon behind thin clouds.

“Yun Shi, I…”

“I’m fine. Really. It’ll pass soon.”

She played steady, but the strings hummed with strain.

It wasn’t fine. She was walking toward former family, current enemies.

That tug-of-war could snap most spines.

Something rocket-fast tore across the sea’s mirror, streaking west.

The ripples ran far. The event wouldn’t be small.

Far away, on an overpass, Mizuki’s training ended with sweat like rain.

She collapsed to sit, breath smoking in the cool air.

Not far off, Sham sat watching in quiet, a cat in a window.

Andrea, about to rest, felt her phone buzz like a trapped moth.

She opened it and skimmed.

“So soon...”

Her face stayed calm water, but her eyes wavered like reeds in wind.

She hadn’t thought it would come this fast.

Time had fled Andrea’s hands like sand.

The Church stood grand as a peacocked palace, century-deep and stone-steady.

Christian echoes stained its halls; its history ran long as ivy.

It lived in the Underworld’s shadowed map, born from medieval England’s faith.

In the sanctuary moved nuns, preachers, believers—layered ranks like terraced fields.

Their weight bent the Underworld’s weather.

Anjel smiled, sunlight through stained glass.

She was thrilled: the Third Vessel Soul was in her hand.

For the first time, its bearer tied directly to the Church’s spine.

The previous two Artifact Spirits had nothing to do with the Magic Institution or the Clan Head.

Now it was different. The Third Vessel Soul was a true Church-made thing,

not the sort that bound to a master and followed like a hound.

“High Priestess, everything’s ready.”

A young girl bowed and reported to Anjel.

“Well done. Where’s Arimil?”

“She’s instructing Rebecca.”

“I see.”

Anjel didn’t press. A soft smile, and the moment passed like incense.

A lazy-looking woman knelt with a white-haired girl, palms together in hush.

They prayed to the Lord, bowed to the world’s Creator.

Arimil opened her palm and stared at the Magical Stone, thoughts knotting.

“The Third Vessel Soul...”

Memory tugged her back to the Second Soul Artifact, even the First Vessel Soul.

But now wasn’t an hour for nostalgia.

She would serve the Church and obey every command, steel under velvet.

In the chaotic Underworld, the seven Clan Head families wavered like candles.

The Magic Institution lay in ruins, awaiting rebuilding like fields after flood.

For the Church to seize the helm, there were two paths.

One: crush all forces, swallow the big and the small, forge an Underworld of only the Church.

Two: draw them in, bind them as vassals, merge the powers, and set the Church at the core.

The first was dropped at once. Even the Church couldn’t raze the Underworld.

Try it, and the first to die would be the Church itself.

The second was viable: rule the Underworld and make others bow,

largely by the iron of force behind velvet words.

The Church had moved already.

Submit and be welcomed. Refuse and get hammered, then left to rot.

Under that weather, most factions fell fast—dead or kneeling.

Only the seven Clan Head families remained untouched, for now.

Maybe it was only a matter of clock ticks.

The Church had the muscle to play emperor.

In this Underworld, it held the loudest voice.

Others staggered under blows, unable to stand and answer.

That was the map now.

Might ruled; the weak had no say.

Darkness crept into every corner like damp.

As the Church spread nets and baited hooks, a crisis padded in on silent feet.

Boom!

In a far corner of the Underworld, an open ground erupted.

Blood-red aura swept the earth, like a vampire’s fangs sinking deep.

Spattered blood painted the human world, a storm of red petals.

A monster roared, and deep-crimson crystals geysered from the ground.

They carved through bodies and snuffed Church lives like candles.

A boy, a young man, and a woman stepped in front of a crowd like three pillars.

“Sorry. The Church’s insolence ends here today.”

Shitou Yuya stood there, a smile on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Chaos rolled like thunderheads, sweeping every corner of the world.