The sea looked calm, a silk veil over swells that already heaved like mountains, rolling unseen toward land. A new storm was coming, silent as a blade in rain. Those who knew could only lay down measures, like sandbags before a flood, and wait.
It was a natural disaster crafted by human hands.
Contradiction, yes. Reality of this world, yes.
Inside the submarine, Yun Shi let out a breath, a small cloud in a steel cave.
Close to Britain, she would face the Underworld’s gloom and the past she abandoned, both like shadows tugging at her sleeve.
She had rehearsed the moment, armor around a fragile heart. When it arrived, the armor rattled anyway, emotions in disarray like scattered leaves.
Truth was, she never thought it would come this fast, a storm breaking before she raised her umbrella.
“Yun Shi-chan?”
“I’m fine. Keep moving.”
No matter how much trouble churned inside, Yun Shi wouldn’t say it. She’d swallow the thunder rather than show the rain.
When she became Yunshi Bianqi, she chose to face everything alone. Not because she loved walking empty roads, but because that was the only road left.
“Sawagawa Moa, it’s enough that you stay beside me. That’s good enough.”
Company on the path was blessing enough. Entrusting her heart was a bridge she couldn’t cross.
“Yun Shi-chan, can’t you trust me? Say something, at least.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“But—”
“Keep moving. No more noise.”
“...”
Moa watched Yun Shi keep the world an arm’s length away, like a frost line that never thawed. She knew some of Yun Shi’s secrets, could be her friend, but the inner garden stayed walled. Heaven set that rule long ago, and it hadn’t changed.
If only someone could open that locked gate.
Moa wished it like a silent prayer.
The submarine surged toward the far coast, a black arrow under waves. London’s shoreline loomed, gray as slate. Yun Shi slid on her Goggles, then raised her mask, a curtain pulled before war.
Seeing her alert, Moa understood at once. Her small face tightened, a spark of steel, ready to meet the first blow.
Shadows waited on the beach. People from the Underworld. Their purpose was written in the tide.
In a world of rough wind and restless waves, this was normal. Another clash would be staged here, like thunder finding its drum.
They were ringed by armed men, blades and barrels glinting like cold fish scales. Their faces held no kindness, only a haze of killing intent like winter fog.
Andrea drew her sword. Her eyes were frost, her stance a calm pond.
“So many...”
Mizuki clenched the Reaper Scythe. A bead of sweat slid like a raindrop. Saying she wasn’t nervous would be a lie; these were people from many factions, not top-tier, but weathered stone. Alone, Mizuki wouldn’t be enough.
Even with a title, Mizuki wasn’t a famed force of the Underworld. She sat somewhere above mid-tier, a flame that didn’t yet become wildfire.
One against a hundred was a tale, not a plan.
“Mizuki, you stall them. I’ll take the front,” Elana said, voice steady as a mountain path.
“Okay.”
With Elana’s hand at her back, Mizuki felt a breath of confidence, like a lantern lit in dusk. With that strength, maybe there was a chance.
“Fall back, Mizuki.”
Andrea stepped in front of her, expression unchanged, like drifting clouds over still water. Numbers didn’t matter to her; the sea didn’t count waves.
“Miss Andrea?”
“I can handle them alone.”
“—!”
“Your job is to watch.”
“Wait, Miss Andrea—!”
“Quiet.”
She ignored Mizuki’s worry and walked forward, a single figure against a wall of steel. There was no tension in her gaze, no crease of fear, only a cool stillness like night water.
These were Underworld men, carved by a dark grindstone. Their hands would be merciless; that much was certain.
“Haah!”
One charged, and all followed, a pack breaking into a run. Their weapons flared with Mystic Power, light coiling like snakes as they rushed Andrea.
“Miss Andrea!”
She didn’t flinch. Stillness first, motion after. She sank her hips, a reed bending, and vanished off the earth.
Whoosh!
Time seemed to pause. In that held breath, Mizuki saw Andrea’s sword move with her twist, the blade falling like lightning. Blood fountained, a red flower opening in dust.
Splat!
It sprayed across the ground. Shock rippled through them, then confusion, then fear, like ripples across a frozen lake. On Andrea’s face there was only a clean, merciless calm.
Even if she wasn’t cruel, her blankness cast a nightmare’s shadow.
Another flicker, and even the sword’s arc felt frozen in crystal. Battle will lit Andrea’s eyes, a hidden fire inside an ice sculpture.
Both hands cut. She turned, chopped, spun, chopped again. She threaded through bodies, carrying beads of red on her edge. A thrust, a pull, a backward stab. A block, a disarm, a finishing stroke.
Red flooded the field, a low tide of ruin. Corpses struck the eye like hammer blows. In every gaze, Andrea stood alone, sword in hand, cold as moonlight.
She lifted her head, looking toward the sky as if listening. Melancholy brushed her eyes, a cloud passing. Memory called, like a bell over a distant field.
“So strong...”
Mizuki’s awe was honest. It felt unreal, a dream with a steel taste. This was her mentor, a power terrifying enough to quiet thunder.
“You’ll reach it one day, Mizuki~”
This was a true Underworld force—one against a hundred, a king’s stride in the dust.
Andrea took no pride in the tally. Her mind walked backward, along blood-slick stones.
Long ago, a battlefield. Blood stank like iron, rot like swamp. It was the closest road to hell this world offered.
Two girls stood in the ruin, both blonde like wheat under a dying sun. One, a teen, was carved with wounds; blood pooled around her, a small lake. Beside her, a girl no older than ten.
“I... can only make it this far. I’m sorry...”
The older girl spoke with regret, each word tugging a fresh pain, threads pulling at torn flesh.
Blood flowed faster. Her face twisted tighter. The little one could only watch, hands like empty cups.
“Sis...”
Tears fell, warm rain on cold stone. Powerlessness pressed on her chest like a stone mill.
“From here on... you walk... alone... okay...”
The teen stroked her sister’s head, forcing a smile that was uglier than crying, a cracked mask over love.
“Enough. Don’t say it!”
“Little sister...”
“No, no! Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t you live—”
“...Because... I don’t have the strength to survive... I’m weak...”
She coughed blood, eyes trying to close like tired doors. She kept them open for her sister, one last gaze at family.
“The Underworld is a place of darkness... Escape is a dream... so...”
She reached out, palm trembling, and cupped that tear-drenched face, steadying her world.
“For what you want to protect... struggle... become strong... Andrea...”
Her hand fell heavy to the ground. No breath followed.
That memory stayed carved in stone. It was the moment that turned the river.
It shaped her life, root and branch.
Andrea Alex—that was her whole name, and her whole vow.
Now, she feared nothing.
Splat!
Her sword danced again, and she threw herself into the clash, life after life clipped like threads.
“Swordmaster Andrea Alex. Famous technique, ‘Sword Dance.’”
Elana named the form, and Mizuki’s heart surged, another tide of awe.
Blood-soaked, Andrea carried a kind of beauty, a hell-born bloom, terrible and pure.
For enemies, she was nightmare. Blade up, blade down, blood scattered like rain. That was her way.
“Next. Who’s coming?”
The strong hold the right to decide the weak’s death. Naturally, they choose the enemy’s fate.
