Britain had already come apart at the seams, the streets a field of storm-carved masks with no warm smiles in sight—this was the stone-cold sky of reality.

Watching a once-glittering city rot like fruit left in rain, Andrea felt a tangle she couldn’t name, a chill tide behind steady eyes.

She’d been born in London, carved her childhood here; it wasn’t kind to her, yet she never came to hate this iron-and-fog metropolis.

London housed the Magic Institution’s headquarters and the Church’s stronghold, two moons of the Underworld hanging over the Thames like twin tides.

Unless those moons crashed into each other, chaos shouldn’t flood these alleys—and now, that collision was exactly what churned the night.

“This war’s going to drag on,” she murmured, voice as flat as a winter lake.

If her math held, it would grind on till next year; winter might thaw before steel did, and wild cards could stretch it longer.

The world felt like a compass spinning, needles broken, storms gnawing at the horizon.

Since the Divine Ling Family clashed head-on with the Single Leaf Clan’s Magic Institution, the Underworld had rippled apart like torn silk.

With giants limping, the small packs started howling, and every other banner stirred like grass in a growing gale.

It was a bad map, a bad wind, a worse sea.

Andrea didn’t watch long; after a breath like frost on glass, she turned back, knowing London’s fire wasn’t hers to shape today.

Soon she’d likely travel alone to Rome; before that, she had to force Mizuki to adapt, like steel plunged into quenching water.

Back on the beach, Mizuki was still drilling Elana by herself, her focused face a blade-edge glinting under a pale sky.

Even the ice-queen Andrea felt a faint ripple on her still lake when that determination caught the light.

“I wonder when we can go back...” The longing hit first, a tide that tugged before any motion.

Mizuki trained, but her mind drifted like a kite; ever since London, she’d had no idle dawns, no easy dusk.

That idle ease hadn’t visited since the Divine Ling Family’s war; now, homesickness nipped like wind at the back of her neck.

She could once go home whenever she wished, but Andrea had hardened like iron, and the door felt latched by winter.

At least she could make international calls eastward every day, thin lines across the globe like telephone wires over gray seas.

The fees bled like paper cuts—but Andrea paid, so Mizuki let the meter spin like rain down a window.

“Mizuki, train right, or Andrea Alex will hammer you,” Elana warned, voice a bell in a fogbank.

“I am training. I just miss home,” Mizuki said, breath hitching like a skipped stone. “The school’s sports meet is coming.”

“I left the Student Council to Xiaoyun. I don’t know if he can handle it. The president’s gone to fight, too.”

Thinking of it tightened her brow like a knotted ribbon; Lian Hua had already gone to the Italian front, and the backbone had left.

Mizuki lingered in Britain, the Council untended, and she began to worry whether that pretty-boy vice president would drown in paperwork.

“Mizuki.”

Elana was about to tease when a familiar voice cut in, cold as steel through mist.

“Yes, Miss Andrea—I’m not slacking!” The fear hit first, a spike of ice, before her hands moved.

That devilish voice of the last few days froze her spine; she snapped up a machine gun and shredded the targets with a rattling hail.

“Mizuki. Next training.”

Andrea wasted no words, a knife going straight to the heart of it.

“Eh... I haven’t finished this set yet...” The hesitation trembled like a leaf before any step.

“If you want to finish, I won’t stop you. But what I propose is high risk and high return, a cliff-edge climb.”

“It can make you stronger fast. Take it or leave it—it’s your line in the sand.”

“Really!” Hope flared like a match in wind.

“Of course. First, answer me, Mizuki—are you truly fighting with resolve, not just with hands, but with bones?”

Andrea’s face was always winter-clear; today, her gaze was even sharper, like frost biting glass.

“Yes! Please start the next step!” The answer leaped out, a spark that didn’t look down.

“Too rash, Mizuki. You’ll pay for that,” Elana muttered, a small thunder under a gray lid.

Mizuki, caught by the current, didn’t hear; to grow fast was a dangling rope over a ravine, and she grabbed it.

Andrea saw no objection and said nothing more; with Mizuki’s eager steps trailing, she led west, weaving through roads like cold rivers.

They skirted every riot like stepping past brushfires, heading deeper where the air felt thick as smoke.

The farther they went, the more Mizuki’s gut curled, her earlier excitement dissolving like sugar in rain.

“Stay here.”

“Eh?”

“Stay. Here,” Andrea ordered, voice a snow-edged blade. “Listen: alone, kill every enemy. Fail, and they kill you.”

“Wait—Miss Andrea, what do you mean?” The fear surged before thought, a wave slapping the pier.

“Think it through yourself. Do it yourself. That’s how you learn what your strength is for.”

Andrea ignored Mizuki’s stunned eyes, drew her sword, and slashed; a razor wind carved the buildings around Mizuki like paper screens.

The gust flung Mizuki backward like a leaf; the cut lines marked the arena like claw marks on stone.

Beyond lay a Church squad; Andrea had already counted their tents like stars through fog.

Mizuki bursting into their ground would read as a raid; the hornets would swarm, and she’d stand alone in a circle of wolves.

That was the training: Mizuki, by herself, had to break a Church squad—hard as climbing ice with bare hands.

“Enemy attack!”

“One target confirmed—others unconfirmed!”

“All units on alert!”

At once, Mizuki ducked behind a wall, breath jittering like rain on tin; gunfire rolled a heartbeat later.

“What is this, Miss Andrea!” Panic hit before breath, a flock scattering from a hawk.

“Don’t shout, Mizuki. This is the training she meant,” Elana said, voice flat as slate. “If you don’t kill them all, you die. That’s her point.”

“You’re kidding! How do I take that many alone!?” The helplessness surged like floodwater in a narrow alley.

“If you don’t, there’s only a dead end,” Elana answered, a bell toll in fog.

She hadn’t expected Andrea to be this harsh, to push like a winter river; it felt like forcing a door in a storm.

To live, you kill; if you won’t fight, you won’t grow—truths that only bloom when the cliff is under your heels.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A heavy machine gun howled like iron rain; a grenade clinked to Mizuki’s feet like a dropped stone.

“Mizuki!” Elana’s warning rang, a flare in smoke.

Mizuki reacted fast, sprinting forward; the blast behind her slapped the air, nearly blowing her off her feet.

“There! Fire!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The bullets stitched the world like a mad tailor; in that iron storm, Mizuki found no opening, only knife-cold air.

Rounds whistled past her ear and chewed the wall ahead; cold sweat slid down like meltwater.

She materialized a machine gun, clenched it like a lifeline, and pulled the trigger; bodies fell like cut grass.

More enemies ducked behind cover, muzzle flashes spitting like fireflies in a black field.

“No good—too much fire!” The line felt like a dam about to break.

Pinned, she hugged the shattered wall; alone, she couldn’t turn the tide, and the empty space beside her hurt like frostbite.

Mizuki tasted, bone-deep, how brutal solo battle was—like walking a cliff with no rope.

Andrea watched from afar without moving, a silent glacier while the distant barrage bloomed like iron flowers.

“Give up, or break through. It’s in your hands, Miyuki Kiseki,” her heart whispered, a voice swallowed by wind.

You could call her merciless or cold-blooded, but not empty; her intent was a sealed letter only she could read.

What Mizuki lacked now was a do-or-die leap, a last step over thin ice.

Enemies closed in like a tightening noose; Mizuki gripped her gun until her knuckles frosted, and still had no key.

“Mizuki, do something. Or you really die,” Elana urged, a steady drum through smoke.

“Even if you say that, I...” The words broke like twigs; she had no plan, only dark water.

Her gaze dulled like a fogged mirror; surrender tempted like sleep in snow—if she was this weak, why flail at the tide?

Her fingers loosened; the gun sagged like a tired wing.

Then a silhouette flashed through her mind—a masked girl, face unknown, a back walking away into white noise.

“No. That’s wrong,” she gasped, a spark hitting dry tinder. “Completely wrong.”

If she quit here, her vows would be pretty frost—seen, then gone; better not to speak at all.

She’d come this far; why hover on the bank? Jump.

She seized the gun, resolve hardening like quenched steel across her face.

Boom!

Smoke rolled, and a demon hawk tore out of it, talons like knives, ripping bodies into raining scraps of red.

A purple-ashen aura rushed at them like night fog; lives were snatched before they could blink.

A shadow streaked; Mizuki unfolded her Black Iron Wings and burst through the line like a black arrow.

Owning the sky, she swung her scythe once, and several lives went dark like candles in wind.

On the ground, bullets couldn’t reach her high arc; their shots fell short like pebbles thrown at the moon.

The demon hawk screamed; a light orb lanced out, and the blast roared louder than shells, tossing flesh like autumn leaves.

“What monster is that...” Fear cracked their voices, a chill wind through tents.

They’d expected one person; instead, they met a storm with feathers and steel.

Mizuki beat her wings and danced through air; her scythe folded into a gun, and she stitched the ground with fire.

Casings fell like brass rain; bullets tunneled through bodies, and one by one the forms crumpled into dust-colored dirt.

“I can’t give up. I must not give up. Because... I can’t die.” The vow lit her chest like a coal.

That thought sharpened every move; backed to a cliff, she drew on strength she’d buried like seeds in winter.

These days of drills weren’t empty lines; she’d been changing without seeing it, growing rings in her trunk.

As enemy fire swelled into a red tide, she cast Absolute Defense, a clear shell that turned iron rain aside like hail.

The moment the barrage thinned, she dropped the shield and poured fire back, a gust returning down the valley.

Blood spattered her cheek like scarlet ink; her breath went rough, but her feet never buckled.

The men ahead began to fear her, to fear the girl who made their hope feel like smoke.

“Not bad,” Andrea murmured at last, a thin smile cracking winter.

She’d expected Mizuki to take longer to reset; instead, the girl found her feet fast, like a blade catching light.

The training finally bore fruit; Andrea’s satisfaction was quiet, a warm ember under snow.

Thunder rolled; explosions drummed across the ground, and screams echoed like birds circling the same tree.

Miyuki Kiseki felt no pity; not because she refused, but because habit was setting like plaster.

She used to fear killing, to flinch at corpses like cold water; now, she had to learn to look past.

This world left no room for soft hands or soft hearts, not if you wanted to live through the night.

“I just want to live, and you want me dead,” she said, raising the machine gun like a judge’s gavel.

“Then I don’t have a choice.” The words fell like stones.

We fight to survive in the Underworld; that’s the ground under our feet, hard and dark.

If not for the Underworld, she would lay down her weapon like a branch after storm.

But our stances are split like riverbanks, destined to face each other as enemies.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The bullet hissed past, a cold streak in the air.

It carved through flesh and blood like winter wind through thin paper, reaping another life with a silent scythe.