After the black curtain fell, a hidden corner staged another duel of blood and shadow. In sunless alleys, blades whirled and scarlet rain flew.

Across the field, corpses lay like stones paving a brand‑new road. Blood trimmed the path, the iron tang rose like bitter perfume, exposing the world’s true face.

“Hoo…”

Andrea breathed out, a cloud of fatigue drifting from her chest. She folded her weapon away and dropped her guard, calm as cooling steel.

This was the last one. With this outpost crushed, Japan’s Church spies were finished, their web cut to wet threads.

It wasn’t Andrea alone. Other forces in Japan moved like countercurrents, blocking the Church at every turn. They wanted a breach here, a gate to rule the Underworld. That dream burst like foam.

To trade the Underworld’s secret for everything was against heaven’s order. No faction could stomach it. Even the Four Pupils Clan, who hadn’t joined the anti‑Church front, smashed Church bases like falling hail, more than Andrea did.

They’d risk offending the Church rather than let the Underworld’s secrets leak. That says how grave this was. The Church had no clean excuse to offer.

“Tomorrow… we leave?”

Elena the Weapon Spirit spoke, her voice soft, a petal reluctant to drop.

Peace outweighs war by a thousand dawns. Give a fighter a few quiet days; she clings to that light like a hand to warm tea.

“Yeah. Tomorrow we head to Italy.”

Andrea stayed steady, a river that doesn’t ripple. To her, she wasn’t leaving home for the unknown. She was returning to a battlefield with familiar scars.

Ten years of her life were forged on war’s anvil. That’s why her steel rings so hard.

Elana knew this. The worry snagging her was Miyuki Kiseki.

“Let Mizuki enjoy today. Properly.”

Andrea’s tone was cool, like shade under a gate.

She tore through Japan’s hidden Church sites partly for herself, and partly so her student could breathe in this brief, clear weather without clouds.

Mizuki belongs to the Outer World. Better to keep Underworld smoke away, Andrea thought.

Elsewhere in Japan, Rakuyoku High School pulsed like a drum. It was sports day, and the campus was bright with noise.

At the Student Council window, Aya stood like a quiet reed. Her eyes carried a pale sadness.

“What’s wrong, Aya?”

Asagi Renka asked, warmth cupped in her voice.

“It’s nothing. I just remembered… my old school.”

Long ago, because of her Clan Head’s affairs, she withdrew and worked in the main house. A girl her age should spend springtime in halls of laughter, yet she spent hers inside storms.

She faced not books but gunfire, not chalk dust but cordite smoke.

Lian Hua knew. Her path was cut from the same cloth, so she felt the ache in Aya’s breath.

“Then… want to come back to school? You could join our high school if you like.”

“No. It’s not the time. I’ll think about it when the war ends and the Clan Head steadies.”

Yie Caiyin’s days were a millstone. Her Clan Head kept getting dragged into Underworld feuds. The main family’s strength thinned, and now the Church struck like winter.

One misstep, and their place in the Underworld could vanish like mist.

That pressure is a mountain most people can’t even see.

“Aya, I know what’s spinning in your head. I get it. But you don’t have to carry that mountain. You’ve got me.”

“Lian Hua…”

“Trust me. Lean on me. Even if your Clan Head falls one day, I’ll be here, like a wall.”

Aya smiled, a small dawn for this woman.

She’s the same as ever. When trouble knocks, she’s first to open the door, even unasked.

At some point, Aya found herself liking the weight of Lian Hua’s hand on her shoulder.

Maybe she really does like Lian Hua. Maybe.

“Thank you, Lian Hua.”

Liking her doesn’t sound bad at all.

……

England, London, the Church’s headquarters—gilded halls and crowded pews, a hive of worship. These weren’t clueless Outer World citizens, but true Church members.

London’s residents were shifted to a nominal refuge, a paper shield thrown by the government. On the surface, anti‑terror measures. Underneath, backroom trades cast in shadow.

The Church agreed not to shake the Outer World. Not from mercy, but under a press of hands. Too many forces tightened the vise; they had to drop the idea of a public storm.

Thanks to that, London’s knot could be untied. The capital, locked for nearly a week, would soon breathe again.

“Latest international news: the UN reports London’s terrorists are in retreat. They appear to be withdrawing from the capital in an orderly fashion. The UN will press the advantage and strike.”

“Therefore, the lockdown will end soon, and normal order will return. Friends worldwide, especially in the UK, don’t worry—the situation will be resolved.”

“According to current intel, the group that seized London is the world’s top terror—”

Click.

He thumbed the remote and cut the screen to black.

Somewhere in a country’s roadside hotel, a young man had been watching the latest broadcast, eyes dull as coal.

“Pretty words to cover dirty deals. The Outer World never changes.”

Yanbu Junichi killed the TV and tossed the remote aside, a stone skipping once and falling still.

He’d just crawled back from Alaska’s battlefield. A solid defeat hung on him like wet cloth. He wanted rest, a clean breath before plunging back.

Back to the Church HQ—members watched the Outer World’s news. Faces were winter, summer, and storm; some slumped, some burned, some smirked, some smiled without sound. Only one girl stayed silent, from first frame to last.

Rebecca Ben Lowell, holder of the Third Vessel Soul. That was her name, and her shadow.

“Rebecca, the High Priest wants you.”

“I understand.”

Prompted by her friend Daisy, Rebecca left the hall for the office. Along the way, people bowed, palms pressed, respect like a path laid before her.

Her identity carved it, and her strength hammered it.

The Third Vessel Soul, alone, had seized three Underworld titans. She’d beaten the First and Second Artifact Souls until they fled like husked wolves. Her legend rose like a flare overnight.

But that wasn’t what she wanted. Fame and profit drifted past her like smoke. She stayed to repay High Priest Anjel.

“My life isn’t mine. It belongs to everyone in the Church.”

Rebecca looked at the Magical Stone in her palm and murmured, eyes firm as a locked gate.

Rebecca Ben Lowell wasn’t born special. She was an accident amid the Underworld’s chaos, a girl pulled from a storm.

She barely remembers her parents. They said her mother was forced, then chose the final release soon after she was born. She left only a name.

Later, a couple adopted her, and childhood passed like weak sunshine.

The weather broke. For greed, they sold Rebecca to traffickers, pocketing coin with cold hands. She was young, but quick. She slipped their fingers and stepped into the road.

Thirteen years old, and everything gone.

She drifted and settled on London’s streets, living one bite at a time. On lucky days, a fresh loaf found its way to her hands. That was her sky.

Until the day she tugged a girl’s sleeve—Daisy—and begged for bread. By a misstep and a miracle, she walked into the Church and met Anjel.

She remembers Anjel’s first look, gentle as a mother’s hand. She had no mother; to her, Anjel became the mother drawn in her heart.

Anjel had food brought, then a bed, then silence in place of questions. She simply kept her.

Until she took out a Magical Stone unlike the rest. It stirred in Rebecca’s presence, humming like a hidden chord. Rebecca never forgot—Anjel’s face that day, bright with stunned light.

The office door opened. Rebecca saw Anjel at her desk, buried in files. The coffee had gone cold, a small black lake left untouched since morning.

“High Priest, you called?”

“Rebecca? Come.”

Anjel didn’t lift her head. She wrote as her fingers waved Rebecca closer. Rebecca stepped in, obedient as a drawn line.

“You’ve heard it. Our eyes in Japan are finished.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You know what that means. Step one of our conquest in Japan just broke apart.”

“…”

Rebecca held her tongue. Silence weighed like a stone in her throat.

She knew she carried a share of that weight. She knew the plan, seamless as silk. It leaked. The crack was partly hers.

“I’m sorry, High Priest. Please punish me.”

“Let it go. You couldn’t have foreseen all these turns. I don’t blame you.”

She blinked, a leaf shocked by late frost. Wasn’t this a summons to face judgment?

“But, High Priest, the fault is—”

“Rebecca, you’re too young. I won’t let you shoulder that much. Do you understand?”

She froze. Her heart surged, a sudden tide. She never thought Anjel would answer with that gentleness.

“To win, we pay a price. This time I was impatient. The Underworld’s secret was guarded by generations. Breaking it would be wrong.”

“…”

“Rebecca, do you blame me? For sending you, a child, to war. For dragging innocent people into the storm.”

“No. How could I blame you? I’ll follow you.”

Anjel was not only her master. She was her irreplaceable… family.

With that thought pressed to her heart, Rebecca fights.