In the Underworld, the Church was the largest force, a black cathedral casting long shadows, hungry roots spreading to swallow every small faction.

From old times it burned with ambition, like a creeping wildfire, meddling in every dispute like wind over brush.

Back then, the Magic Institution and the seven Clan Heads kept it in check, like mountains hemming in a restless river.

Now those ridgelines are eroding, and the Church stoops like a hawk; it won’t let this chance slip.

War in the Underworld will sound soon, like distant drums rolling under a storm-dark sky.

This campaign won’t be ordinary; three powers may surge in, like rivers converging into flood.

None of them can stomach the Church’s iron hand, a cold moon hung over every roof.

If the Church seizes the Underworld, their fields will be scythed bare, profits wither like frost-bitten leaves.

Those declaring war now: the Asakura Family, the True Palace Family, and the Kananin Family, three banners snapping like thunder.

Some members of other clans broke ranks to fight the Church, like errant sparrows leaving the flock.

They did it without the Clan Head’s blessing, such as Shen Ling Zou and Yuuya of the Four Pupils, names flickering like torches.

Watching in silence are the Single Leaf Clan and the Flamebu Family, their strength thinned like winter sap.

They can only bide their time, eyes like still water; the Magic Institution too watches from the far bank.

“Ready?”

Asagi Renka asked her people, a steady bell under rain.

“At your command, Miss,” Shizuru Yuna replied, bowing like reeds, and the family bowed with her.

Renka nodded with a small smile, then led them out like a dawn march lifting mist.

Outside, the earth wore trenches and hard-edged forts, scars across a barren field.

Behind those lines, the Church readied rifles, metal teeth glinting, breath held like a coiled snake.

Here, their gear was solid, but thinner than the enemy’s, like leather facing iron; even Mystic Power couldn’t fill that gap.

An off-road truck growled in, dust billowing like smoke; it halted beside Renka, and Kujima stepped down.

“Renka, I brought the support,” he said, voice like gravel rolling.

“Thanks, Kujima. And sorry for asking something this selfish,” she said, a wry crescent of a smile.

“I didn’t agree for you,” he answered, eyes like flint; “I joined because duty calls, a bell in fog.”

“I hate spending my people’s lives against the Church,” he added, words heavy as rain.

“But if we don’t fight, their gaze will still find us, like a hawk over open fields.”

“It’s good you see it clear,” she said, her calm like still tea.

“Relax. We’re allies now,” he said, offering a hand like a bridge plank.

“Thank you for the cooperation,” Renka replied, and she bowed like a willow in wind.

Manpower meant everything to her, weight like stone; without bodies, she wouldn’t move this chess piece.

Kujima’s arrival stacked her side like piled wood; the fire could catch.

Soon, the True Palace Family mustered, banners rising like a tide, ready to spill blood with the Church.

The Asakura Family and True Palace Family joined hands, two blades crossing under storm.

It was a battle they had to win, backs to a cliff, bridge burned behind.

If they lost, they couldn’t regroup; even breathing would feel like winter through cracked reeds.

If she were here, she could help, a missing star to brighten the night.

Renka thought of Yun Shi, sent away at dawn like a released crane; losing such talent stung like salt.

Aya too had left early, gone to meet her brother, a kite pulled by another wind.

In this weather of iron and fire, Renka had to fight and had to win, a seed taking root in stone.

“Begin the battle!”

With that order, the sky split with fire; shells bloomed like red flowers, bullets hissed like sleet.

Spells flared as well, Mystic Power shaping blades of light and winter gusts across the dirt.

“Enemy fire incoming! Send Po Squad to block, a wall of shields!”

“Hit their weak spot there! Drive like rain against cracked clay!”

“Empty your magazines! Let every round fly like bees!”

“We’re breaking here! Someone shore it up, hands under a sagging beam!”

Once war began, it turned white-hot, a roaring kiln; people hacked and screamed, harvesting lives like a sickle.

Renka stayed cool, still water under wind; she had long lived in such storms.

“Yuna, with me,” she said, a drumbeat under breath.

“Yes, Miss,” Yuna answered, knowing Renka’s temper, following like a shadow under sun.

Renka drew her machine gun and surged with the troops, the spearpoint under lightning.

Bang, bang, bang!

The field boiled with shellfire; blood-mist tangled with smoke, a heaven inside hell.

Boom!

Renka stirred Mystic Power, foresight opening like a hawk’s eye; she read the enemy’s next path.

She moved with ease in that bullet forest, a deer through thorns.

Her gaze fixed on an enemy truck, a metal wolf on wheels.

Rumble, rumble, rumble!

She lobbed a grenade, arc like a falling star, and the supply truck burst like a rotten gourd.

The True Palace Family wheeled in artillery, and after loading, yanked cords; shells fell like iron rain.

Men crashed into close combat, broadswords flashing like river silver; Mystic Power spat raw magic, fierce and usable.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

A Church scout team loosed arrows, dark swallows slicing toward them.

These weren’t common shafts; each wrapped in Mystic Power, bite as sharp as bullets.

In moments, the pierced fell, cries fading like embers; others swallowed grief and stepped on comrades to advance.

On both sides it was the same, a red tide without favorites; no one wanted to lose a precious friend.

They just wanted to live, roots clawing soil.

“Cut down the Church! Avenge our companions!” someone roared, thunder in the throat.

“Damn the Clan Heads! Give back our people!” another cried, grief sharp as ice.

Carrying sorrow like stone, they chose to keep fighting, feet pounding like drums.

Blood speckled Renka’s face, but no fear showed; not because she felt none, but because she couldn’t.

She was the core, a campfire in rain; if she didn’t advance, her people wouldn’t move.

“Listen up! We hold the numbers now; don’t waste this wind!” she shouted, words like sparks.

Kujima led the push, and the slaughter spread fast, wildfire racing dry grass.

Outside the field, under the far thunder of guns, Yie Caiyin stood with sorrow like dusk.

Her hand rested over her heart, half-prayer, half-worry, a trembling leaf.

“Renka…”

She wanted to go, tide pulling her steps, but duty pinned her like a stone.

Soon she steadied, regaining that cool river within; she turned away and stopped looking or listening.

She poured her mind into the work at hand, each breath a bead on a string.

After the last Clan Head war, the Single Leaf Clan took a heavy blow, trunk split like lightning-struck wood.

They had little strength to call upon now, cupboard bare as winter grain.

Even so, if she could help Renka, it would be worth it, a candle lit in wind.

“Haruto…”

Aya placed a call, voice soft as night rain.

“Sis? Something up?” he asked, eager like a spring sapling.

“Get ready. Use whatever we can; if it fits the fight, take it,” she said, crisp as frost.

“…So you agree to my plan?” he asked, hope rising like dawn.

“Less talk. Move,” she snapped, a whip-crack of words.

“Got it!” Haruto said, and when Aya got serious, he trusted, like a sailor reading stars.

With her backing, his doubts fell away, leaves dropping in autumn.

Aya hung up and let out a long breath, mist curling in cool air.

“So, we fight again…” she murmured, sadness like gray rain.

She had wanted to never fight again, heart craving a quiet garden.

After that war, she lost too much, and for a time she resisted battle, a bird shunning storm.

If possible, she wished for no more strife, an empty sky after rain.

But that was only escape, a shadow pretending to be night.

“Wait for me, Renka.”

Facing that face again in memory, Yie Caiyin felt her old steadiness return, a blade polished bright.

Her confidence in battle rose, and her refusal to yield came back, fire coaxed from embers.