In a tucked‑away corner of Japan, the Quadra Eye Family was a hive mid‑swarm. Couriers darted like swallows, passing news like lit torches. Every face was set like winter stone—habit hardened, but today stricter still.

Yuuya stood apart like a lone pine above a steady river of kin. Weariness fogged his chest before his feet moved. He sighed and slid out of the crowd; for him, quiet was the only harbor.

“A year, huh...” he murmured into the chill.

His steps drifted toward the main estate, leaves following a path toward the gate.

He hadn’t seen her since a year ago; wonder tugged at him like a distant star behind clouds.

When he heard she’d defected, his first thought wasn’t to drag her back. Fear, sharp as ice, bit for her safety. But when Mia and Eil’s bodies were recovered, hope thinned like smoke; if her two dearest were gone, what of her?

He wanted Yun Shi alive, a fragile flame in winter grass, yet his hope was thin. The Flamebu Family bred many traitors; few met good ends. Leave the Clan Head’s line, and almost no one carves a name in the Underworld.

He even wondered if his sister was already gone. Denial rose first, like a wall against tide; in his heart he clung to Yun Shi breathing.

“As for odds, it’s a fog with no map...” He laughed at himself, bile bitter as burnt tea; he never wanted to admit it.

A year had slid by, yet the thorn still ached; yesterday kept its shadow over today.

“Young master, please hurry. It’s about time.”

Yuuya’s smile turned more bitter, like tea steeped too long, but his stride lengthened down the corridor.

“I know. I’m coming.”

Next, he would head to Italy and clash head‑on with the Magic Institution. He’d also face the True Palace Family and fighters from the Church.

His foes were battle‑scarred steel; whether he won was a coin tossed into storm wind.

But a family task leaves no shore to turn to. He was Yuuya, a force in the Underworld; there was no room to retreat.

Once Yuuya had geared up, in the main hall, Shino hadn’t relaxed for a heartbeat. She would send her son to the field; as mother and steward, she’d see every fighter off.

Her list was long as a winter night. Beyond placements and routes, she had to sit in for the head and steady the manor like a lighthouse.

Family wars like this weren’t rare, only thornier than most. At least they weren’t emptying the house to meet the enemy, or the roots would bleed.

“All preparations are complete; only the troops need to gather.”

Shino signed her forms; after triple‑checking, she let her breath settle and entrusted it all to those stepping into war.

She glanced at the space before her—only quiet air—yet memory replayed last year’s defiance, someone raging against her orders. The rebellion failed on paper, but Shino never tasted victory.

Since her daughter walked out, a full year had drifted by. What churned in her chest was hers alone. Whether Yun Shi lived or not, she couldn’t read it.

So she would choose to forget. Just a tool, she told herself, a name like dust under boots, not worth mention.

“Alright, assemble all family members.”

She set down one task and moved to the next, a wheel turning in rain.

Every Underworld battle comes like a thunderhead; no one knows where the lightning will land.

People waited in wind and downpour, yearning for the sky to clear.

...

United Kingdom, Magic Institution.

At headquarters, Witches took orders to head for Italy, banners snapping like crows’ wings. Many joined for profit, yet the Magic Institution’s redeployment rolled on like gears.

As long as ranks were full, they feared no battle. What shape the war took, they’d watch the tide; the calendar never lacked storms big and small.

Bena Sovalen sifted papers, her stamp thudding like a metronome; now and then her mouth tightened, a shadow across calm water.

She stamped and slid finished files aside, an old road well traveled. Her assistant gathered them in silence and turned for the door.

“Wait.”

Bena Sovalen stopped her with a word, sharp as a bell.

“What is it, Major?”

“Sham Einafel, the one sent to Japan—any news?”

At any hour, Bena cared about the Artifact Spirit’s trail. Most at the Magic Institution dismissed that unknown thing; she believed like fire under ash.

Why? A friend once handed it to her, and she knew that friend’s measure. Useless things were never given; she trusted that truth.

“No. After Japan, no contact. She’s probably dead.” The assistant’s answer was casual, tossed like a pebble.

“Understood. Get back to work.” “Yes, ma’am.”

Without the answer she wanted, Bena waved her away, then faced the paper sea alone. Work piled like snowdrifts; even her planned leave looked ready to melt.

She smirked without mirth and dove back in.

...

Church, cathedral.

Anjel weighed two Magical Stones in her palm, closing and opening her hand like a tide; repetition soothed her storm.

At last she set them upon a Bible, candlelight licking their facets, and admired them in solitude.

These two Magical Stones were the last Artifact Spirits left in the world, the Church’s full‑force crystallized; their worth sat beyond coin and ledger.

Their origin was tangled. Making them had cost storms of effort. Artifact Spirits needed the Magic Institution’s hand and the Clan Head’s power; for that, Anjel stirred up wars of whispers, sent webs of spies, and placed diplomats like chess pieces, all for first‑hand truths.

Because they were so hard to forge, their value was incalculable, a mountain under mist.

Artifact Spirits made Anjel’s ambition possible, a road laid across the night.

“The whole Underworld, hmm...” An eerie smile cut across her face, aim set far beyond one scrap of land. She wanted the entire Underworld.

It was arrogant, almost a dream spoken to a mirror. With Artifact Spirits in hand, it didn’t feel hard.

“Artifact Spirits are the key to reshaping the Underworld. Pity they choose their own masters.” She sighed like wind through stone.

Ancient Church tomes said successful Artifact Spirits carried spirit. They could be tools, living things, even artificial minds; complex as storms, their destined masters would shatter the board.

Anjel had given one to an old friend in the Magic Institution, to honor old ties and to test whether the Artifact Spirit could truly bend the game.

If so, the Church could become the force that ended the Underworld’s long night.

“Leaving things like that out in the open—really wise?” A woman crossed the hall, words bare as blades, bold before the Church’s nominal high leader.

“Then I’ll have you keep it. What do you say, Arimil?” Anjel didn’t rebuke her; her tone was soft, like tea steam.

“I’d rather not. Sounds like a headache.” The woman’s reluctance hung like frost.

“One Artifact Spirit is already out for testing. Of the other two, I think only one is truly what the Church needs. Deliver this one to its master.”

“You’re just handing it to me like that...” “It has to be you. After all, Artifact Spirits won’t follow our will.” “...Don’t make a habit of it.”

While they spoke, outside was deep‑snow season, flakes falling like feathers.

Deis had bought bread and was heading back; snow thickened. She hugged the paper bag, shouldered wind and white.

“So heavy... should’ve asked more people to come.” She grumbled; no umbrella, one pair of hands; anyone would.

“Arimil’s gonna gripe again...” She thought of that woman and smiled wryly, then stopped wasting time and ran into the drift.

A slender hand tugged at her coat hem, light as a twig in wind, and she stopped dead.

She turned. A girl—still a youth—stood there, face pale as chalk, clothes ragged, lips purpled by cold, her thin layers useless against winter.

The girl was nearly spent, voice a snowflake ready to melt, yet survival pushed her head up and she forced out a plea: “Could you give me... a slice of bread?”

Under swirling snow, the girl’s silver hair streamed with the wind, weaving into the white like a ghost thread.