The Church was the Underworld’s largest power, a sanctum no one dared trespass, like a walled city under thunderclouds.

Within it gathered many strong ones, and forces as unpredictable as mountain fog.

Even so, the Church didn’t strut too loud, like a tiger that knows other tigers circle.

Powers in the Underworld checked each other, like stones on a Go board locking lines.

Beside the Church stood the Magic Institution, and far in the East rose the seven Clan Head families, like seven peaks watching.

Pick a fight with any of them and you’d bleed, like pulling thorns with bare hands.

That’s why the Church, strongest of all, never claimed the crown, like a king who feels the crown burn.

But that was yesterday’s map; today the rivers have shifted, like floodwater after a storm.

The Church now carries fewer scruples, its gaze widening like a hawk’s at dawn.

They’re weighing how to rule the Underworld, like laying a black banner over the plains.

The spark was a direct clash between the Magic Institution and the Divine Ling Family with the Flamebu Family, like steel meeting lightning.

Their ally, the Single Leaf Clan, was dragged in, and war flowered in the East like fire among dry reeds.

The Magic Institution and the Single Leaf Clan won, yet their strength frayed like banners torn by wind.

The defeated Divine Ling Family and Flamebu Family fared no better, like wounded wolves limping from the snow.

That ruin-for-ruin war fed the Church fat, like a harvest after locusts spared one field.

While the others sag like spent bows, waiting means losing the last daylight.

So the Church expands, sharpening knives and doctrine alike, like a forge blazing before war.

If it works, the Underworld will have one ruler only, like a moon alone in a clear night.

In the chapel, Anjel prayed, incense curling like pale snakes, her voice a low river to God.

It was an unwritten rule here: on weekends everyone prayed, like soldiers polishing armor under the bell.

When she finished, Anjel returned to her desk; reports piled like bricks, and pride warmed her chest like wine.

“Dais, how’s the task I gave you?” Her tone was calm, like snow hiding a blade.

“As you ordered, we handled the opposition,” she said, words clipped like drumbeats.

“We’ve imprisoned all who joined the riot, and met the other factions’ attacks head-on like shields against rain.”

“I remember the loudest critics were the Magic Institution and the Asakura Family with the Kananin Family, right?” Anjel asked, brows like drawn lines.

“Yes, High Priestess,” Dais said, nodding like a reed in wind.

“The Magic Institution’s Witches are much weaker now, so they can’t meddle much, like a fire starved of air.

But the Asakura Family and the Kananin Family can’t be ignored, like rocks in a fast river.

The Kananin Family’s head has formally declared war on us, like a banner raised at sunrise.”

Hearing it, Anjel frowned, worry seeping across her face like shade across a courtyard.

“Kananin Rin,” she murmured; the name pricked like a thorn.

“She’s the loudest voice against us.” Her breath cooled like night air.

“They call themselves neutral, yet she deals with the Underworld’s lions, so her ties run deep like roots.”

“She’s only held the clan head seat for a year, right?” Anjel’s tone was mild, like tea that hides heat.

“So young and hot-blooded, and the road will teach her, like stones schooling bare feet.”

“That’s true,” Dais said. Her eyes flickered like candlelight.

“The previous Kananin head ruined her name with a berserk sorcery scandal, like a fire that ate the house.

She had to abdicate, and the young Kananin Rin took the seat, like a swan on rough water.

She’s young, but don’t underestimate her, like mist that hides a cliff.”

“What do you mean?” Dais asked, curiosity quick like sparrows.

“Kananin Rin’s no fool who drifts,” Anjel said, voice like a bell.

“If she dares shout at us, she has her reasons and confidence, like a bow drawn to the ear.

Likewise, the Asakura Family opposes us for a reason, like a house that bars its door for storm.

Especially their young heir, Asagi Renka; I’ve heard she’s razor-sharp, like frost on steel.”

“High Priestess, are you worried about them?” Dais asked, breath held like a held note.

“Partly,” Anjel said. Her gaze stayed steady like a lighthouse flame.

“But the arrow’s on the string; it must fly, like thunder that won’t return to cloud.”

As the Church’s supreme leader, Anjel bore that weight like armor; once she chose ambition, there was no retreat like winter’s edge.

“Lady Anjel, Rebecca is back,” Arimil said, stepping in without knocking like a breeze through an unlatched window.

Anjel didn’t mind; she’d grown used to Arimil’s ways, like a river accepting a familiar stone.

“Let her in,” she said, words soft like velvet.

Soon Rebecca entered in a Church Witch uniform, black and silver like night frost.

She saluted with a knight’s bow and half-kneeled, loyalty laid out like a blade.

Guilt hit first, heavy as rain on slate, before she spoke.

“I’m deeply sorry, High Priestess,” Rebecca said, voice rough like a scraped string.

“I failed the mission.” The words dropped like stones.

“All three targets slipped the net, like fish in a muddy river.

And the Artifact Spirit Witches you named—I didn’t kill a single one, like arrows falling short.

I even lost several hundred soldiers; I’m useless, like a blade gone dull.”

“I’ve heard it all from Dais,” Anjel said, patience warm like lamplight.

“Rebecca, you did well enough.” Her praise landed like a hand on a fevered brow.

“But, High Priestess, I—” Her protest fluttered like a trapped moth.

“Rebecca, you’re my finest Artifact Spirit Witch,” Anjel cut in, voice firm like iron.

“Your power is enough to erase enemies, like tide erasing footprints.

Besides, I didn’t plan perfectly,” she admitted, honesty clear like cold water.

“I forgot that even diminished, the Magic Institution still had fight, like embers that burn the hand.

You did your best; go rest,” she said, final as a bell at dusk.

“Yes. Thank you for your understanding, High Priestess,” Rebecca said, relief loosening her shoulders like thaw.

She rose and withdrew, step by step like leaves drifting away.

Seeing it, Dais bowed to Anjel and followed, her pace quick like rain.

“That child works hard,” Arimil murmured, eyes on the receding figure like a hawk’s.

“To her, this place is shelter,” Anjel said, a small smile like dawn.

“She wants to give back; that’s easy to understand, like fire drawn to hearth.”

Anjel turned to her files again, paper rustling like wings.

In the corridor, Dais and Rebecca walked shoulder to shoulder, silence hanging like fog between eaves.

Feeling the weight, Dais broke the quiet, words gentle like drifting snow.

“Rebecca, are you used to days like this?” she asked. Her concern came first, warm as a shawl.

“Fighting every day—do you feel tired, like a candle in wind?”

“No,” Rebecca said, head lifting like a blade.

“Compared to my past, this is far better, like stepping from cellar to sun.

The High Priestess saved me; I want to repay her, like water flowing back to its spring.

I fight with that in mind, like a drum that won’t stop.”

“But you push too hard,” Dais said, worry knitting like lace.

“You finally found a steady place, yet you’re running everywhere, like a horse still whipped.

How’s that different from before?” Her question hung like a bell’s echo.

They reached the exit; Rebecca opened the door, iron cold like moonlight, and they stepped into the training ground like stepping into heat.

The yard swarmed with trainees, bodies moving like waves, breath rising like steam in winter air.

They trained by the book, to reach the battlefield sooner, like saplings forced toward storm.

Some were younger than Rebecca, faces still soft like peaches, yet they strained for war like bows pulled past limit.

Battle is cruel, she thought, a millstone that never tires, turning.

“Those two Artifact Spirits are too lucky,” she said, bitterness dark as ink.

“They don’t know our misfortune, like birds who never see cages.

Sometimes I can’t grasp why the Artifact Spirits chose them, like gods tossing lots.”

“You mean the Demon Sovereign and the Night Phantom?” Dais said, naming them like thunder and mist.

“They do live in gentler places, like valleys spared by hail.”

It wasn’t hard to see why Rebecca felt so, her past thorny like brambles no other hands had bled.

Bias blooms where scars stay, like moss on a shaded stone.

“I must defeat those two Artifact Spirits,” Rebecca said, resolve flaring like a torch.

“I’m the strongest Artifact Spirit; I’ll prove it, like steel ringing true on anvil.”

“More than that, you need rest,” Dais said, voice soft like rain on tiles.

“How about we go out and clear your head, Rebecca?” she added, tempting like a market’s lanterns.

She knew Rebecca loved to shop, joy for her like sweet wind.