Leaving the office, Rebecca’s heart kept rippling like wind on a pond. She replayed every word from Anjier, weighing each syllable like grains of rice. Someone greeted her, yet she drifted like morning mist, unaware.

“Rebecca, what are you thinking?” a voice cut in like a bell in fog.

“Oh? Oh, Deis-san, nothing. I was just spacing out, like a kite without a string.”

“Forget it. Rebecca, let’s grab dinner,” Deis-san said, like setting a pot on a warm hearth.

“Sure, my treat,” Rebecca replied, like offering tea on a rainy day.

“No need. Come to my place; I’ll cook. I’ll surprise you, like fireworks over a lake.”

“Eeh, now I’m actually excited,” Rebecca laughed, like a sparrow hopping toward crumbs.

Anjier had taught her that friendships mattered, like ropes on a cliff. Rebecca couldn’t help Anjier much, and overthinking wouldn’t change it, like a reed against a flood. Better to loosen up, like letting rain soak the dust, because idle days might vanish, like dusk swallowed by night.

Inside the Church, people readied for war like smiths before a storm. They fought for ambition, with bridges burned and arrows only pointing forward.

“Finally, has the day arrived?” Anjier murmured by her window, like speaking to a winter moon.

She had waited long to realize her vows, like a seed aching for spring; now was the hour to act, like a blade leaving its sheath.

At the Magic Institution, witches busied nonstop, like bees in a hive. They couldn’t interfere much in the Underworld, yet they refused to await doom like sheep in snow. Any Witch who could help and fight prepared earnestly, like soldiers tightening knots before a river crossing.

By manpower and money, the Magic Institution lacked, like a boat without a deep keel; conditions for war weren’t met. They leaned on allies for aid, forging and importing weapons like borrowed fire, fighting for the Underworld’s shifting skies.

In her office, Bena Sovalin finished the last pack of cigarettes; as the ember was crushed, her heart stayed a furnace. “No more?” she muttered, looking at the empty box like a hollow shell; her mood buzzed like trapped flies. Without smoke, she couldn’t think clearly; the facts were a tangled forest, pressure a mountain pressing on her ribs.

“Anjier...” Bena returned to her seat, brows knotted like rope; palm to forehead, she thought and found only blank snow. She spoke Anjier’s name not for drama, but because long ago they were classmates, like two saplings under one gardener. Back then she wasn’t a Witch, nor of the Church; they were ordinary folk of the Underworld, chasing power like runners chasing wind. After the teacher died, they parted at a fork, like rivers choosing valleys. One became a Witch; one joined the Church; years crowned each as leader.

Bena Sovalin wasn’t young; thirty counted like rings on a tree. Ten years since they split, enough to change distance like shifting dunes. “In the end, we still have to fight,” she said, fingers closing like iron; killing intent flashed like lightning behind storm glass. Even as old acquaintances, she couldn’t avoid battle; different stances meant different roads, like tracks that never meet. Anjier now opposed the Underworld; how could she not stop her, when she was the Magic Institution’s heart, beating like a war drum. At this hour, she had no retreat, like a bridge cut behind an army.

“Major, the Asakura Family sent an invitation,” her secretary said, voice crisp like chalk on slate.

“What does it say?” Bena asked, like testing the edge of a blade.

“The Asakura Family will aid us, but on the Italian front they want the two Artifact Spirit Witches under their command, like hawks on their glove.”

“...” Silence hung like a curtain. As expected, the Asakura Family had set the abacus from the start, each bead clicking like rain. They knew the Magic Institution lacked the base to clash head-on with the Church, so they offered this path, like a bridge over rapids. We also don’t hold authority to command Witches; the compulsory order was used once, like a bolt spent; using it again feels wrong. Besides, the two Artifact Spirit Witches may not heed me; rumor binds them to Asagi Renka of the Asakura Family, like threads on a loom.

“I understand. Do as they ask,” Bena said, voice steady like a lantern in wind.

“But won’t this...” the secretary began, worry blooming like frost on glass.

“We’re the ones asking for help; don’t overthink,” Bena answered, like pushing a boat into current.

She had truly decided to fight the Church; she needed strength for a decisive clash, like thunder gathering for one strike. This time she wouldn’t sit and wait, like prey frozen on snow.

Alaska, USA. On the top floor of a luxury hotel, the hall gleamed like a palace. Walls wore glorious paintings, proclaiming nobility like banners in sunlight. Yet there was only one table, set with costly wine and steaks and roast chicken, aroma rising like warm incense.

Kananin Rin hadn’t lifted her knife or fork; she watched Shitou Yuya cut his steak, eyes steady like a winter lake.

“Rin, aren’t you eating?” Yuya asked, voice soft like wool.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, like a closed lotus under rain.

“I see,” he said, and kept to his Western meal, chewing flavors that felt like damp ash. They stayed silent until Yuya set down his knife and fork, not full, just unable to swallow more, like a clogged stream.

“Rin, I...” he began, words fluttering like moths.

“Where’s Shen Ling Zou? Where did he go?” she asked, tone flat like a blade’s spine.

“Oh, he’s gone to Paris, said it’s urgent,” Yuya answered, like tossing a pebble into dark water.

Silence returned, awkward as tight shoes. Yuya wondered what had her so quiet, like a cat watching from shadow.

“Yuya, when you fight, do you ever think of me?” Rin asked, eyes clear like frost.

“Eh, what do you mean?” he said, heart stumbling like a goat on scree.

“Are you dense? Lacking power, why not ask me to help? You lost in America; what does that tell you?” Her words struck like hail.

Yuya fell silent, unable to deny a fact hard as iron, like a mountain blocking the road. He had rushed with Shen Ling Zou to the American front; the outcome was expected—he lost badly, like a sapling in a gale. Fundamentally, they lacked troops; the Divine Ling Family’s decline couldn’t support war with the Church, like a drum with a torn skin. The Four Pupils Clan stayed neutral and distant, like a fox watching from ridge, so the two of them had no support. Just two people couldn’t change the board, like two stones against a tide.

Kananin Rin was different; she held authority, her status another sky, like a pavilion above the field.

“Sorry, Rin. But I can’t rely on you; I have my own responsibility. You may get mad, but I won’t depend on anyone,” Yuya said, stubborn as granite.

Rin knew this about him; years had carved that shape, like water shaping stone. “Yuya, I know. But do you know why you fight? If your sister saw you, would you be happy?” Her voice carried like a bell at dusk.

She hadn’t planned to speak Yun Shi’s name, but she found she couldn’t avoid it, like a thorn in the path.

“Why did you have to bring her up?” Yuya snapped, displeasure rising like storm wind. He’d already sulked after defeat; now his sister’s name darkened him further, like clouds swallowing sun.

“I just want to know if Yun Shi matters to you,” Rin said, gaze steady like bamboo.

“Of course. She’s my sister,” he answered, fierce as a wolf guarding a cub.

“Then consider this: she may be watching the Underworld’s tide. You fighting recklessly makes her worry in secret. Do you look like a brother?” Her words were needles, cold as sleet.

“Rin, can we not talk about this...” he pleaded, voice thin like reed.

“Fine, I won’t. But think it through—are you right or wrong?” she said, letting silence fall like snow.

She had to make him understand: one person changes little; fighting the enemy alone is laughable, like a moth charging a bonfire. Kananin Rin didn’t want Yun Shi, far across the world, to worry for family; she’d promised to care for them, like a vow carved in wood. Especially Yuya—she couldn’t let go, like a hand holding a slipping rope.

Rakuyoku High School still seethed with life, festive air peaking like drums at a harvest. It was the final day of competition, so everyone cherished it like the last fireworks.

“No matter how I look, it’s amazing. I wish my school were this lively,” Sawagawa Moa said, eyes shining like river water.

“If you like it, how about testing into this school next year?” Mizuki smiled, gentle as spring sun.

“Yes, I’ll get into this high school,” Moa chirped, eagerness fluttering like swallows.

“Then do your best, Moa-chan,” Mizuki encouraged, voice sweet as warm tea.

“But I’ll need senpai’s help. Can you tutor me?” Moa asked, hope rising like a kite.

“Of course,” Mizuki replied, promise firm as knotted silk.

They walked chatting, laughter ringing like chimes, drawing glances like flowers draw bees; pretty girls were always popular. They were together because Moa had set out to find Yun Shi, then met Mizuki alone, and they drifted together like boats on one current. Between girls, friendship blooms easily; a single topic can plant roots, like seeds in soft soil.

“By the way, where are the other senpai? I haven’t seen you together,” Moa asked, curiosity peeking like a cat.

“Well... they’ve got things to do, so they’re busy,” Mizuki said, smile tight as a bowstring.

“Is that so...” Moa murmured, suspicion glinting like a fish scale.

Facing her look, Mizuki gave a dry laugh, unable to say they’d quarreled, like hiding smoke behind a fan.

Moa let it go, still scanning around, seeking that familiar friend like a star in dusk. “Why can’t I find Yun Shi? I came specially for her,” she said, voice tilting like a searching bird.

Hearing Yun Shi’s name, Mizuki’s heart jolted like a drum; her feelings tangled like vines. That name had brought too much lately, piling pressure like snow on eaves; yet because of it, her distance with Sham had shrunk like two paths converging.

Mizuki was weighing an answer like tea leaves, when Yan Er spotted them and came over without hesitation, like a breeze crossing a field.

“Mizuki, isn’t that Moa? You came too—welcome,” Yan Er called, smile bright as lantern light.

“Yan Er-senpai!” Moa cried, flying into her arms like a small bird, joy warm as sunlight.

“Long time no see. You’ve been scarce; are you doing well?” Yan Er asked, voice soft as velvet.

“Mm-mm, I’m great!” Moa beamed, happiness bubbling like spring water.

“Yoshi, good girl. Senpai will treat you, how about it?” Yan Er offered, generous as a full moon.

“Hold on, Yan Er. I was the first to meet Moa-chan; I’m the senpai,” Mizuki cut in, bristling like a cat.

“What’s the difference? We’re both senpai. Are you the only one allowed the title?” Yan Er teased, laughter quick as sparks.

Moa ignored their bickering, eyes fixing on the arena like an archer’s aim. “Found her!” she shouted, joy flashing like a firework.

Effort wasn’t wasted; Moa finally spotted Yun Shi. In that arena, Yun Shi prepared for the match, calm as a blade in its sheath.