London sat in the eye of the storm, a warfront where waves of conflict kept breaking.

The Underworld shifted like weather on a mountain ridge; no one could read its next gust.

To those who lived below the surface, Britain felt like the most dangerous ground, a field of thorns under a gray sky.

They watched from the shore while the tides clashed, hands empty, hearts clenched.

All they could do was pray for a hand to still the waters and end the feud.

The Outer World laughed beneath warm lights, blind to shadows behind the curtain.

For every burst of joy, a sob hid in the alley’s rain.

The world stayed crooked like a bent tree; some truths were seeds you weren’t meant to see.

After slipping the Church’s net like a silver fish, Mizuki and her companions finally breathed.

The rest of the mess wasn’t hers to shoulder, and her mind felt like a quiet lake.

When the unit marched toward the English Channel, she turned back and came to London.

She stood by a river smooth as glass, faces shining like noon, no despair in their eyes.

Life flowed on like current, and smiles held like lanterns in wind.

If she hadn’t bled through that battle, she’d doubt it happened, like mist after dawn.

But it wasn’t a dream; Mizuki felt its scars like cold iron on her skin.

“What’s wrong?”

Andrea sat beside her, gaze on the steel-blue sea, voice cool as shade.

Only the two of them were here; Sham had gone to the Magic Institution’s main hall.

Mizuki glanced at her mentor, then tucked the words back like a letter unsent.

Miyuki Kiseki’s path had been unreal, a single bridge from the Outer World into the Underworld.

She could’ve stayed clear of those shadows, like a bird avoiding storm clouds.

What wind drove her into this sky?

“Nothing. I’m just a little homesick.”

The ache rose like smoke; she was flesh and blood, not stone.

Ever since she chose to train under Andrea, Japan had become a distant shoreline.

Most days she lived abroad, a traveler with salt on her coat.

Truth be told, she missed home like winter misses firelight.

“Then go,” Andrea said, casual as a breeze.

But concern settled under her tone, soft as moss.

She didn’t want Mizuki to taste the bitterness of losing family.

While the path was open, time with them was gold in the palm.

When they faced the Church, the war would be a long night, and duty wouldn’t let go.

“No need. Ms. Andrea, let’s start the special training.”

Resolve hardened like frost on glass; her eyes held a steady flame.

“Really not going back?”

“Mm. What I need now is to get stronger.”

“That’s your word, and it’s a one-way road.”

Seeing her choice firm like stone, Andrea rose and led her toward the beach.

They had missed a day because of the battle, a page torn out by fire.

Today, they’d write the line back with sweat.

“Starting today, try to control your Artifact Spirit. Summon your weapon.”

“Yes!”

Mizuki called the Reaper Scythe into being, midnight steel curving like a crescent moon.

She sank into a stance, eyes sharp as ice, then kicked off and surged forward.

Clang!

Sparks hissed like fireflies as the blade swept, each step a drumbeat toward the strike.

Andrea slipped past the arcs like wind around rocks, meeting her head-on without even drawing steel.

Confidence sat on her shoulders like a mantle.

“This time, you’ve clearly improved. Your attacks have rhythm.”

Andrea dipped under the overhead swing and snapped a kick into Mizuki’s back, clean as a gust.

“Your grasp over the Artifact Spirit is decent, but power isn’t meant to be spent like sand.”

Andrea pressed a palm to Mizuki’s spine, then heaved and threw her like a wave throwing driftwood.

“You still haven’t found your own way of fighting.

With no foundation, and no path of your own, even a god’s weapon turns dull.”

Mizuki clawed up from the sand, breath burning like smoke in her chest.

Andrea watched without flinching, patient as a winter moon, and waited for the next rush.

“Getting stronger doesn’t happen because you say it.”

Mizuki shaped a machine gun, iron gleam hard as rain on stone.

She yanked the trigger and stitched the air with fire.

Andrea finally drew her blade, moving forward through the storm, a white line of intent.

Boom!

A heavy strike cratered the ground, dirt blasting like embers.

Mizuki reeled, shock and doubt tangling like roots.

Andrea didn’t blink; her face was a still mask.

She raised her sword, and Mystic Power threaded the edge like lightning.

She cut, sending slashing intent ripping outward.

Mizuki dodged, and the sword aura punched a hole behind her, clean as a spear through cloth.

Confusion swarmed like gnats; in training, Andrea never aimed at her vitals.

Why were the edges pointing straight at the heart now?

Before the thought cleared, Andrea’s blade scythed down.

Mizuki rolled, grit biting her skin, then came up and saw the thrust drop for her chest.

Her reflex snapped like a whip; the blade bit sand by her side, a narrow miss from death.

“Ms. Andrea, you—”

She didn’t finish.

Another cut roared down, splitting the beach like a riverbed.

Mizuki gritted her teeth and gripped the machine gun, knuckles pale as bone.

A full barrage hammered out, and the storm of lead pushed Andrea back a step.

Even so, Andrea gathered herself fast, sword art sweeping like a hawk’s dive.

Her point locked on Mizuki’s heart, and the attack came straight as a comet.

“She’s going all in...”

“Mizuki, from her stance, this isn’t a test. It’s a real kill.”

Elana’s voice was cool water in her ear.

“But this is training...”

“Careful, Mizuki. She’s truly treating you as an enemy to cut down.”

Listening to Elana, Mizuki felt the ground drop like a cliff.

This wasn’t a lesson; it was a duel where breath and blade decided dawn.

Andrea was serious, and the resolve in her strike carried the chill of a grave.

Mizuki’s throat tightened like a knot, fear cold as iron filling the spaces strength had warmed.

“Mizuki!”

Elana’s shout snapped her awake.

Andrea’s sword was a foot from her chest, a lightning bolt about to land.

Clang!

The Black Iron Wings burst open, feathers of shadow unfurling like a storm.

Mizuki slipped past the edge and launched into the sky.

Andrea glanced up at the airborne girl, face blank as stone.

She wrapped her blade in Mystic Power and cut toward the clouds.

Whoosh!

Several streams of sword aura turned into slicing currents and lanced for Mizuki.

She beat her wings, weaving through the sky like a swallow in rain, sweat running cold.

When her speed faltered and her height dipped, Andrea swung with full intent.

A fierce sword aura, raging like a river in flood, slammed into Mizuki.

“Ah!”

The hit threw her hard, and the ground rose like a wall.

Pain burst through her like fire, and getting up felt like lifting a mountain.

Andrea stood in the distance with her sword, eyes as cold as frost.

She wasn’t going to wait.

Mizuki bit down and forced her legs to hold, fingers tightening on Elana like a lifeline.

Without pressure, iron never hardens; Andrea knew that truth like scars know skin.

If Mizuki wanted strength, let her stand at the brink where life and death trade shadows.

Only then would she touch the heart of power.

Andrea lifted her sword again, and the next strike gathered like dark thunder.