When she opened her eyes, pain bloomed like rust along her bones, as if her body might fall apart. She didn’t want to rise, but a tight, quiet instinct said laziness led nowhere, so Miyuki Kiseki pushed up, hand on the bed’s wooden edge like a shoreline.

Bandages wound her like pale snakes, and the sharp scent of medicinal wine clung like wet leaves. No wonder she felt off; the ache was simply her wounds speaking.

She remembered fighting Andrea before darkness closed like a curtain.

“If you’re looking for that woman, she wrapped your wounds and then left,” said Elena the Weapon Spirit, who had waited at her desk like a silent guardian.

“Left? Where?” Her voice carried the grit of sand.

“I know not,” Elana’s tone was old as a temple bell. “But since she’s set herself against the Church, ten to one she’s gone to battle.” The word rang like steel in rain.

“…Elana, how long did I sleep?” The question rose like mist before dawn.

“Not much, only two days. In my view, Mizuki, you’re forcing it. Rushing bears no fruit,” Elana said, a cool stream over hot stones.

Her heartbeat slowed under Elana’s counsel, and Mizuki let her mind settle like dust. She faced her choices with the weight of a stone in her palm.

To grow stronger, to seize that certain person in the Underworld, she had worked beyond the usual measure, like a bow drawn too far. But she forgot the body is a finite vessel; it can’t carry endless strain like a reed against storm.

However far the heart may fly, without grounded steps the path won’t open; wind alone doesn’t carry you across earth.

“Maybe you’re right, Elana.” The words tasted like bitter tea, honest and steady.

She’d been too hungry for results. Training had brought harvest and thorns. If Andrea hadn’t used this bout to teach her, she’d still be chasing the shortest road to power, like trying to skip stones across a sea.

The door whooshed open, and Andrea strode in wearing her Witch attire, black hems smelling faintly of night. She looked tired, as if battle’s soot still lined her eyes.

“Awake?” Her voice was a single flint spark.

She didn’t wait for an answer; she crouched to change her shoes, soles dusted like ash.

“Mm, Miss Andrea, I—”

“Training. Tomorrow, we continue.” The words sealed Mizuki’s mouth like hot wax.

Mizuki gave a wry smile, a curve thin as a crescent. Reality was a stone in the road; she had to pick it up.

Only Elena the Weapon Spirit knew why Andrea cast those blunt lines like nets—it kept Mizuki from asking where she’d gone and what blood she’d faced.

Andrea might not be flawless, but she was a whetstone, true enough to hone a blade.

……

As the morning sun rolled back over the rooftops like a gold coin, Yunshi Bianqi rose with a slow breath. She touched the quiet of the room and felt how soft it was.

As expected, Sham—who’d slept beside her—was gone, vanished like a breath on glass. Just as before, she had appeared out of nowhere and faded the same way. Only this time, she wouldn’t drift back so easily.

“Sham…” The name felt like a bruise under the tongue.

She clenched the Magical Stone of their pact until it bit like winter ice, and her chest tightened like a drawn thread. She couldn’t answer Sham, and silence was a blade that cut a heart.

But what could she do? Her hands felt like frost; she could do nothing.

She dressed and combed her hair, motions smooth as water. At last, she could return to school. Once, she’d rejected it like a closed gate; now a rare warmth—thin as sunlight through clouds—stirred as she looked ahead.

She wore the men’s uniform, crisp as new leaves. After checking everything twice, she patted her chest and headed straight for the door like a small, steady runner.

The air on the way tasted fresh, not because the city was clean, but because compared to smoke-thick battlefields, this felt like rain after ash. Only those who’ve lost learn to cherish; empty hands remember weight.

At Rakuyoku High School, a tide of students flowed through the gate, laughter like sparrows skimming light. Yunshi slipped into the current, searching for her classroom with eyes sharp as needles.

Before she reached it, a hand tapped her shoulder in the corridor, a quick sparrow peck.

“Yo, where’ve you been these days?” The voice carried a grin like a sticker slapped on a wall.

The playful smile might look cute to others, but to Yunshi it sparked an itch, a knuckle’s ghost.

“None of your business,” she said, cool as shade.

She couldn’t exactly say she’d been on a battlefield; gunsmoke still clung like a shadow.

“Eh, stingy, tell me—” The lilt was sweet as candy.

“Maya Hanazaka, please don’t act cutesy at me.” Her tone was a straight blade.

When it came to the yuri type, Yunshi had built immunity like a thick coat.

“Tch, not cute at all.”

“Save it. By the way, anything up with the Student Council these days?” She shifted the topic like turning a fan.

“The vice president and president are both gone. Even the reliable accountant took leave. Tell me, will this Student Council function?” Maya’s words scattered like cards on a table.

“…Got it. I’ll go now.” Resignation pulsed like a slow drum.

She caught the hint. Like it or not, she had to handle it—pick up the broom and sweep.

If she’d known, she would’ve stayed abroad, trading paper for steel and the hum of war.

Yunshi opened the Student Council room door with a touch of resentment, light as smoke. One glance—empty, a shell that echoed.

Of course it was; this room was Asagi Renka’s private office, rarely visited. Sometimes the vice president or the accountant would come, footsteps like brief rain.

With them gone, Yunshi naturally became the stand-in, keys falling into her palm like small, cold fish.

“Sigh…” The breath left her like a thread.

She brushed dust off the desk, fine as snow, set the files in neat stacks, then sat and read, eyes steady as lanterns.

Most pages wore Asagi Renka’s red marks like maple leaves; only a handful remained untouched. They covered the sports festival’s opening ceremony and budget allocations, simple currents to cross.

She settled and began to work, pen a thin blade. Checks where checks, crosses where crosses.

Morning homeroom suited the task, quiet as a tea house. Being alone was dull; she found herself missing the previous Student Council president, a presence like a steady pine.

“Hm?” The sound was a small lift.

A familiar silhouette rippled outside the window, like a willow shadow. Yunshi set down her pen and walked to the glass, drawn as if by a thread.

Beyond it, the broad campus flowed with smiles and easy chatter, sunlight dappled like fish scales. Amid the crowd, one girl stood out.

She was clearly a foreigner, beauty sharp as a cut jewel, drawing gazes as naturally as a flame draws moths. And unlike the smiling faces around her, her expression stayed the same from start to end.

It was the look of fatigue, a winter over spring.

“Sham…” Guilt wrapped Yunshi’s shoulders like a rain-soaked cloak. She knew she was the reason for that tiredness, and there was nothing to explain that could lift it.

She turned away, palm to her brow, thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. Her eyes were fogged, lost in a gray lake.

“Sham, you look a bit off today. What’s wrong?” Concern drifted from friends like soft drizzle.

Sham couldn’t answer. After a long breath, she sighed, a wan breeze through reeds.

“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” The lie sat light as paper.

She didn’t dare share her private storm.

Ever since England, after spending days with Mizuki, she felt it more and more: Mizuki also had feelings for that person. Put simply, Mizuki was her enemy, two blades drawn to the same flame.

Why had she only now realized that Miyuki Kiseki was her true opponent? The girl she’d subconsciously ignored was a thorn under silk—no longer to be underestimated.

“Morning, Sham-chan~” A refined yet unpretentious girl walked up, grace like a clear stream. Sham’s dim eyes caught a brief light, a lantern in mist.

“Mizuki…” She spoke the name, but her voice lacked its usual spring, a season gone thin.