London, England—an international city should’ve looked like a lantern-lit harbor, all glitter and tide. The streets and faces once breathed thick British mist, and the crowd flowed like a steady river.

A week ago, that scene was common as drizzle, so ordinary no one glanced twice. Now the riverbed lay dry, wind like ash blowing through empty lanes.

Only sometimes did men stalk past with cudgels like knotted branches, their eyes like knives. They roamed the capital like wolves, ignoring people as if they were grass.

Facing them stood police in a line, riot shields locked like a steel seawall. The street air tasted like iron rain before a storm.

“So what, is this all you’ve got?” The leader’s voice cut like a saw, contempt for officers from the Outer World gleaming like frost.

Sweat poured off the commander like monsoon, his gut a basin of ice. His men might not know, but he did—their enemy crawled from the Underworld, not some ordinary flock of terrorists.

The Underworld’s war had rolled over the globe like a black tide, and even the Outer World felt the undertow. Governments called it “terrorists rampaging,” words like smoke over a fire.

Police and soldiers traded fire like thunder, while residents were herded into basements like seeds under soil. People obeyed with fear like cold dew on their backs.

Lately, a humming shook the ceiling like hornets in a hive. The unknowing thought it was an earthquake, but it was gunfire drumming above like a storm on tin.

The Underworld used to move like a shadow, never startling the Outer World’s birds. Now that every faction was at war, silence snapped like an old bowstring.

Power balanced had shattered like glass; stability scattered like leaves in wind. Even so, the Underworld’s big names barked orders like iron bells—no Outer World leaks.

Anyone not tied to the Underworld was evacuated like driftwood pushed from a whirlpool. Secrecy stood like a cliff face, cold and sheer.

“Sir, why not send me to the front? I’ll fight the terrorists, even if I die!” A voice flared like a match in fog.

“John, you don’t know a thing—stay in the White House,” came the reply, flat as a hammer. “London doesn’t need you.”

“Sverre, just guard your base,” another order fell like a stone. “Don’t stick your hands in the terrorist pot.”

“Public security units don’t go abroad,” a dry voice snapped like a twig. “Do your job, hold your line.”

“Counterterrorism? Not your problem,” another said, words like a shut gate. “No troops sent—we already have enough steel on the field.”

Hearing of Britain’s “terror riot,” the U.S., France, Spain, Germany, Italy—all grew restless like horses tugging reins. Their top brass pulled the reins tight, eyes cold as winter.

This wasn’t international theater; it was the Underworld’s secret stage, curtains heavy as lead. Every nation knew that silence was law written on stone.

Around Britain’s coast, reporters and ships clustered like gulls, with helicopters buzzing like flies. None got in. Even satellites blinked, their eyes covered like by storm cloud.

The Underworld paid in blood and coin to erase its footprints like waves smoothing sand. Only its own residents knew the truth—chaos like a nest of snakes.

On an Italian island, land roared like a kiln. Soldiers hurled shells like throwing coins into a well, spending firepower like water in a drought.

Soon blades sang like winter wind. Men closed to knives, smashing steel on steel, sparks falling like fireflies.

Blood flew like torn banners. They stepped over bodies like broken bridges, charging for a ridge of dirt that meant survival.

This was the truth the crowd never touched, the world’s marrow laid bare like bone. The Underworld was blood and shadow, magic like cold fire in the palm.

They used it to kill, to fight, just to keep breathing like embers in wind. No one knew, except those who walked that night road.

“Miss, our line’s about to break!” The cry shook like a bell in fog.

“I’ll reinforce myself. Yuna, take Fourth Squad and hit their flank.” Her answer landed like a dart.

“Yes!” The response flashed like steel in sunlight.

Asagi Renka gave the orders, then watched Yuna run like a gull into wind. Her breath left her chest like a sighing reed.

I just want to go back to school—her heart sagged like a wet cloak. Her mouth curved into a careless smile, hating the fight like bitter tea.

But it was only venting, pressure slipping like steam. She finally understood why Yun Shi begged for school—compared to this deathfield, a campus was a peach garden.

If she didn’t fight, and the Church seized the Underworld like a net closing, the Outer World would feel the quake like ripples across a pond. The worst would drag the Underworld into daylight like a fish hauled ashore.

Asagi Renka was sharp as a needle; she knew what war meant. A big war drew eyes like smoke draws crows, but it beat exposing the Underworld’s heart.

“All right, move out.” Her voice steadied like a drumbeat.

Soon Lian Hua wore a confident smile like a battle fan, hefted a machine gun like a black hawk, and charged into fire. Years of combat had honed her; death was an old neighbor.

The Church pressed back the Asakura Family and the True Palace Family like a wave shoving boats, numbers rolling like surf.

On another stretch of sea, Vivian’s unit traded cannon fire with the Church like thunderheads answering each other. The horizon flashed like broken glass.

“Don’t you dare spare the big guns—send every shell to their faces!” Her shout cracked like lightning.

“Got it, boss!” The reply thumped like a fist on a shield.

“Hey, Vivian, you’re wounded. That body won’t hold—let me take over!” The plea fluttered like a torn flag.

“I’m fine, Ringo. They need me here. Besides, you’re hurt too,” she laughed, light as a spark in ash.

Even under danger, Vivian still joked like a cat on a narrow wall. It left Ringo’s face tight as a bowstring.

“Vivian, you promised Moa—if you die…” Her words trembled like a drawn blade.

“Relax. I won’t die. I’ll bring you back to Japan—I keep my word.” Her vow rang like iron on stone.

At sea, nothing went easy; every swell demanded life like a taxman. Here or anywhere, the wager was always breath and bone.

Germany burned too. A Church branch took a surprise hit like a knife under ribs, scrambling into battle with gunfire chattering like hail.

“First and Fifth squads scout. Second covers. Third and Fourth spearhead.” Orders snapped like flags in wind.

In the camp, a makeshift command post, Yie Caiyin parceled out tasks like a dealer tossing cards. The Single Leaf Clan had bled in the last war with the Divine Ling Family, losses like teeth pulled.

Aya still held a handful of pieces worth moving, enough for a blitz against the Church like a lightning cut. She sent motorized lifts to ferry troops, engines purring like hounds.

A small armored squad rolled like beetles in iron shells. The gear cost a fortune, won after talks like tug-of-war; Aya guarded them like jewels.

This might be her last and sharpest blade against the Church, a final arrow in a thin quiver. Worst case, she couldn’t even schedule the next strike.

War ate money like fire eats straw. Her budget fed only this battle, a single flame in night; if they won, she could think of another spark.

“What a headache…” She set down her headset like a cooled coal and pinched her brow like pressing a bruise.

If it were like that fight with the Divine Ling Family, she thought, she’d at least have room to plan like a chessboard with more squares.

“Sis, what’re you thinking?” The voice nudged like a paw at the door.

“Huh? Oh, Haruto. What is it…” She lifted her chin, cool and aloof like frost, which only made her look adorable like a kitten pretending to be a tiger.

“I want the front line, but you stick me in rear support. Don’t look down on me.” His pride pricked like a thorn.

“Haruto, I’m protecting you. You going up there is asking Death for tea.” Her words fell like pebbles in a still pond.

“I’m not weak. I even helped in the Clan Head war.” His protest rose like heat.

“Sure, sure—you’re amazing. I just don’t need you now.” She waved it off like smoke.

“Why?” The word hung like a drop.

“Because the rear needs a guard. If you go forward, am I babysitting the back? Be good. Support me from behind.” Her tone locked like a gate.

“…Understood.” He swallowed it like bitter medicine, obeying because Aya’s orders seldom missed like a well-thrown dart.

The fiercer the war burned, the more people wanted a glimpse of flame. The Outer World didn’t know the Underworld, but their curiosity pawed the curtain like a cat.

Sophie Marshall, a famed reporter, wore renown like a bright scarf. She’d walked nations like roads and interviewed leaders like peaks.

Every report she filed chased truth like a hound. After covering African refugees and Middle East crises, the world knew her name like a bell.

London’s unrest lit her eyes like a struck match. “Chief, why can’t I go? I need to uncover the terrorists’ truth!”

“Sophie, I get it,” the editor said, voice like a damp cloth. “But no one can know. It’s classified.”

“I can’t accept that. As a reporter, I’m duty-bound to tell the world,” she said, spine like a spear.

“Plenty of countries are handling it. You don’t need to meddle,” came the reply, cold as keys.

“It’s not meddling. I’m committed. If the government hides it, I’ll expose it.” Her resolve stood like a cliff.

She wouldn’t believe she couldn’t break the shell. After a stiff farewell, she flew to Britain alone, heart like a burning coal.

But fame meant nothing at a closed harbor. She was just a woman, kept outside like rain at the window.

“Let me in! I’m reporter Sophie Marshall!” Her shout beat like wings.

“No one goes in,” the soldier said, gaze like iron. “Even a president waits outside.”

She tried to slip through like a fish, but soldiers cast nets. Once she made it, then got hauled out, warning stamped on her like a seal.

“I can’t get in at all…” The words fell like wet sand. Years in the field, and this was her first stone wall.

She wanted to write something that set the world boiling like a kettle. But without data, her pen lay cold as bone.

Today would yield nothing; if she waited till the end, there’d be no story to catch like a fading bird. Her skull throbbed like a drum.

She took a speedboat for a spin, sea breeze cool as silk on skin, but her heart felt like a brick.

She wandered onto a small island, hoping to rest like a traveler under a pine, maybe even meet a wild hermit by chance.

She walked farther, shoreline whispering like silver threads, until she reached a beach—and stopped, breath snagging like a hook.

A girl in a black cloak stood there, still as a shadow on white sand. Sophie stared, blank as snow, at the “cosplay” figure across the tide line.