Britain, the Magic Institution. The grand lobby gleamed like polished jade, wide halls flowed like silk, and every passing robe flashed like coins, proclaiming opulence to any outsider.

This ancient seat of Witch power had birthed countless Witches, feeding the Underworld’s wars like wind stoking embers, and driving that shadowed realm into deeper turmoil.

A girl of thirteen, maybe fourteen, in a peculiar mage’s robe, walked alone; a simple scene, yet eyes gathered like crows drawn to bright grain.

“Look, her.”

“Hm? What about her?”

“You don’t know? That’s Sham Einafel.”

“Oh, the rumored Witch agent whose tests showed a high match with an Artifact Spirit. I heard she was gifted a rare Artifact Spirit Magical Stone.”

Every corridor carried whispers like drifting leaves, and most fell on her, which soured joy like rain on kindling.

Her brows tightened like a drawn bowstring; she could already foresee the next turn of the talk.

“But she doesn’t have a contractor, right?”

“Yeah. Her contractor has to be someone chosen by the Artifact Spirit. You think anyone like that exists?”

As expected, the whispers bent into thorns and pricked her name.

Knowing this didn’t shield the heart; pain bloomed like frost under the ribs.

“Artifact Spirit… the Magic Institution hasn’t even heard of such a thing for years. Whether it grants power unlike other Magical Stones is still fog.”

“If you ask me, an Artifact Spirit is scrap. No Witch will ever seal a pact with it. Sham Einafel just can’t find a contractor, so she made it an excuse.”

“If an Artifact Spirit Witch could be found, the whole world would shift like plates under the sea. But that’s impossible, right?”

“So, simple truth—Sham Einafel is just a poor soul without a contractor, yeah?”

Words grated like sand in a wound; Sham wasn’t immune.

Pain first, then anger, then helpless silence, like a storm that won’t break.

She lacked the courage to stand and argue; in hard daylight, her words felt like paper to flame.

“Maybe… they’re right.”

The thought tasted bitter, like cold tea left overnight.

“But I won’t give up so easily.”

Her tone snapped like a blade; resolve lit her face like dawn on iron.

She would prove it—an Artifact Spirit has a master—otherwise her efforts would scatter like ash.

Back then, Bena Sovalon, the Magic Institution’s leader in name, hadn’t set the highest hopes, but they weren’t small.

“If an Artifact Spirit writes new history in your hands, that would be fine.”

She hadn’t forgotten that line, even if it sounded like a tavern joke floating in smoke.

Sham left the building for open air; she needed cool wind to steady the mind.

“Where am I supposed to find the Artifact Spirit’s master…”

She had worked for months, nearly a year, yet London stayed mute like a locked well.

If she found a woman with high resonance for an Artifact Spirit, Sham could fulfill a Witch agent’s duty, sign the pact, and then…

The first Artifact Spirit would complete its mission like a circle closing.

“Artifact Spirits were made by people of the Church, a fusion of the Clan Head line and the Magic Institution, and an Artifact Spirit can only pact with specific people.”

With no one to hear, she recited its origin like beads through fingers.

“That said, who am I even supposed to find…”

Frustration knotted inside her like vines; she didn’t even know what an Artifact Spirit could do, yet the hunt was this thorny.

Worst of all, she herself had high compatibility, the kind that could sign as an Artifact Spirit Witch.

Her phone chimed like a silver bell just as the thought tightened.

“Mom?”

Curiosity flickered, and Sham opened the message like lifting a sealed envelope.

It was simple—don’t lose heart—and her mother guessed the Artifact Spirit’s master had to be linked to the Magic Institution and the Clan Head. Then a suggestion: go to Japan; she might find useful records.

“Japan…”

She hadn’t set foot there since last year’s fight against the Flamebu Family; what would this trip bring like tides returning to a rocky shore?

Little did she know, this journey would give her few chances to return to Britain, like a path narrowing into mist.

Japan, somewhere beyond a residential block, a small house waited, right as its rental came due like fruit in season.

The landlady was a middle-aged woman, her face mild as spring rain, the kind that doesn’t look like trouble.

In front of her stood someone hard to gender at a glance, about twelve or thirteen, black hair tied into a small bundle like a sprout. Cute and fragile, slim, in white shirt and black trousers—hard to tell boy or girl, like moonlight blurred by clouds.

“Can the rent be any cheaper?”

Clearly, this person wanted to rent the place, like a bird seeking a branch.

“I can cut another thousand. No lower.”

“All right. Deal.”

They haggled swiftly, the talk smooth as a well-oiled hinge.

The landlady took the deposit, then studied the androgynous kid like reading calligraphy strokes.

“Um… little brother? Sister? How should I address you?”

She honestly didn’t know which word would land like a stone without ripples.

“Me… just call me Bianqi.”

The reply was half-misted, like breath on glass.

“You look like a junior high student. Living alone this early?”

She asked it casually, like tossing a leaf on a stream.

“Mm. Mm. I guess.”

The answer was fog-light, neither firm nor soft.

“Where do you study? What grade?”

“I don’t go to school.”

“What? No school?”

The ease in her voice jolted the landlady, a spark in dry straw.

“Yeah. It’s been a long time since I went.”

She treated the topic like a dull blade, not worth polishing.

“But at your age, you should be in school. Not going isn’t good.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. No one cares anyway.”

Indifference settled like dust; she seemed habituated to this weather.

“That won’t do. Don’t your parents mind?”

The landlady couldn’t believe parents would leave a child like a boat without oars.

“Parents…?”

At that word, her casual tone cracked like thin ice.

“I… don’t have such things.”

Parents who discard children aren’t parents; that truth stood like a stone.

Because of them, she lost everything—friends, a brother, even freedom—like petals stripped by a storm.

Would she still acknowledge their existence now, with the river long dried?

When she said it, Yun Shi’s face held cold and self-mockery, and, beneath it, more loneliness than winter sky.

Seeing that, the landlady sensed an unhealed past, and didn’t press; some knots tighten if pulled.

Maybe the child hated her parents, or maybe… there were none; the thought stirred pity like a soft wind over reeds.

So young, yet carrying memories not fit for a child, she seemed far older than her peers, like a sapling weathered by salt air.

“Well, that’s it for today. I’ll be in your care.”

Helpless to pry deeper, the landlady ended the talk like closing a book.

“Mm.”

Yun Shi kept it cool as water, then went to pack, ready to move like a swallow finding a new eave.

“Sigh, a child this small living alone—should I call it maturity, or call it sorrow.”

The landlady’s sigh drifted like smoke across the quiet street.

In the neighborhood, an unremarkable bar sat like a pebble by the road. Yun Shi pushed the door; the lull hour made her timing clean as a blade.

“Welcome back.”

Weiyang wiped a glass, smiling like a crescent moon caught in clear water.

The decor was modest but warm, not a hotel’s gold, yet full enough, like a hearth in winter.

Looking at the bar she often visited, Yun Shi felt mixed tides rise and fall.

“I found a place to live.”

She sat, her voice light as a feather dropped from hand.

Weiyang’s hand paused mid-wipe, then steadied, a wave smoothing after a gust.

“Really? You’ll be living alone now. A bit lonely, huh?”

The forced smile looked crooked, like paper in rain.

“I’ll come back when I can.”

A year of ties leaves threads like silk; Yun Shi felt reluctant, but dependence wasn’t her way, like a blade that refuses a sheath.

“Don’t worry, I don’t get sentimental that easy. By the way, Xiaoyun, since you’re moving out, want to consider school?”

“School?”

“Yeah. Your age belongs in a classroom. You’re from the Underworld, sure, but no rule says you can’t study. I can get you in—you’ll need tests—and if you enter, you’ll make lots of friends.”

“Friends? I don’t need those.”

At the word, Yun Shi’s laugh turned cold, like frost silvering a window.

Weiyang jolted; pain flickered in her chest like a struck string, and she set the glass down.

“I know you fear that having friends means losing them. But that can’t be your excuse. You’ll have to face it, won’t you?”

“Enough. I’m not tangled over something that small.”

Yun Shi stood, expression blank as stone under shade.

“And I think friends are useless. They don’t help me. I can’t use them. They drain effort. Better to spare the trouble and skip them. I can live alone.”

She finished and walked toward the other room, where her luggage slept like quiet animals.

Friends—better not to have them if they’re meant to be lost, like lanterns that always burn out.

That was how Yun Shi saw it, a belief settled like iron filings.

Weiyang sighed and held her tongue, only watching with pity, eyes following the path Yun Shi took like clouds watching a lone bird.