In contrast to Holy Voice, things looked bleak for Xinyin and Celia Maya. Not because they were weak, but because all four undead matched them blow for blow, like storm fronts colliding.

One against two only works when you tower over the enemy, like a mountain against two streams. When both streams carry equal force, the outcome writes itself.

They also lacked a Semi Origin Artifact, that near-miraculous blade Holy Voice wielded, so they fought bare-handed against steel, wind against iron.

Xinyin held steady. Her swordcraft cut like wind through tall grass, and her magic threaded the gaps like lantern light through fog, leaving her the breath to counter.

Celia Maya faltered. Her gift was healing—a gentle rain and steady spring—not the iron hail of combat, so her light met spears and shriek.

Even with mid-tier Law Realm strength, she was forced into a shield’s life, waves battering granite, because the two undead moved with the scar-deep instincts of veterans.

Thankfully, Qianji slipped in beside them, a quiet current taking weight off their shoulders. She took the support role, the hands behind the loom.

Don’t let her mage-warrior duality and all-school mastery fool you into front-line expectations; as a conductor of the orchestra, she was brilliant.

Qianji’s power was whole-cloth, a tapestry rather than a single thread, and her spellbook was a forest of leaves under starlight.

The Sacred Life Sword watered her support magic like a spring flooding fields, even more than it sharpened her battle arts, so she moved with easy grace.

In the Elven Realm, she’d trained under moonlit boughs and learned much; Elunis had taught her the Sacred Life Sword like the sun sharing its warmth without reserve.

Celia’s side burned hotter, so Qianji stayed close like a guardian shadow. For Xinyin, she swooped when the wind shifted.

“Sorry to trouble you so much, Qianji.” Celia’s breath came frosty and quick. She drove out one undead, saw another strike from the blind side, and threw dawn-bright Holy Light while thanking her.

“No worries. Your Holy Light tears into undead like sunrise over frost. That alone helps a ton.” Qianji shook her head, uncorked a Supreme Divine Elixir, and drank, the fire coursing back through spent veins.

The undead shrugged off Holy Light’s shackles like wolves snapping cords and surged again. Qianji and Celia shared a look, gears meshing as the storm rolled back in.

Celia fought on the line, a bright blade against night. Qianji stood behind, feathering buffs like wind under wings and reading movements like chess moves on a rainy board.

She layered weaken, hinder, and confuse—nets, fog, and snares—to clip claws and muddy steps, timing each cast to Celia’s rhythm like drumbeats.

Celia felt a swell of respect—no wonder the Mizumi Clan’s current prodigy stunned the world. If Qianji had Law Realm power, even fresh-broken, she’d press the two undead like a mountain on a river instead of playing support.

Outside, Law Realm meant one-in-ten-thousand brilliance, a comet in a night sky; yet next to Mizumi geniuses most lights looked like candles at dawn.

Talent aside, the resource gap yawned wider—wells to oceans—and any faction felt powerless standing before the Mizumi tide.

As an elder, Celia steeled herself—she couldn’t be a weight around Qianji’s ankle—and her strikes flared hotter, like a hearth stoked high.

...

“Flame Dragon: Frenzy.”

Her longsword roared with flame. At the moment it bit into undead bone, the fire scattered like sparks in wind, the blade unraveling into a serpent-belly sword, a whip-blade. It coiled the undead in front, circled fast like a willow in gale, bound tight, then lunged past, stabbing straight toward the one behind Xinyin.

Clang!

The crisp ring of iron on iron carried across the open ground, riding a blood-scented breeze like a bell across a scarlet field.

The undead with a thick bone shield blocked the sudden thrust, but flame licked through, and soul-deep pain made the instinct-driven thing wail like a beast in a brand.

Seizing the gap, the undead before Xinyin ripped free of the coils, roared like a storm-torn cliff, raised its bone spear, and drove it forward like a fang.

Poison mist seeped from its body, blending into the air like bruised clouds, green and violet smoke thickening until sight turned to swamp.

“Damn, too late!”

She couldn’t reel the whip-blade back in time, and the venom cloud pressed close like a night tide. Xinyin braced to take the strike, risk heavy wounds—then the world shifted.

Mana surged without warning, a thunderclap blooming nearby. The undead in front and behind Xinyin screamed, blown back like leaves in a squall. The dense poison fog broke and fled, swept clean like dawn wind.

“Whew—made it. Xinyin, you okay?”

The one who crashed the field was Wansheng, a falling star in a dark sky, and she’d flicked the two troublesome undead away with ease.

“I’m fine. Thanks for the help, Wansheng. Is Holy Voice okay?”

Xinyin snapped the serpent-belly back into a straight blade, breath steadying like ripples calming on a lake, and gave sincere thanks.

“Mm. Holy Voice has the Allsaints Spirit Staff and Wanling, so that side’s fine. Your side’s the messy sea.”

Xinyin had almost been hurt, and Celia plus Qianji were stuck in a tug-of-war. Wansheng’s gaze cut toward Qianji, the spark of surprise like moonlight on steel.

“That’s Holy Voice’s niece, right? She’s impressive. First time I’ve seen a human with talent that scary, a seed cracking stone.”

Even if Holy Voice was the youngest Law Realm powerhouse in history, Qianji’s raw gift felt a touch stronger, like a sharper wind.

Forget swordplay; her all-school magic talent alone bent the rules like bamboo in storm—Wansheng had never seen its like.

If our master guided her, Yumigawa Senki might outshine her brother, Yumigawa Sumeragi, in time. Wansheng let the thought drift like a reed—such things need fate, not force.

“Yeah. Sumeragi and Lixue already shocked me, and then Qianji turned out to be the scariest of all.”

Xinyin nodded, the shared awe settling like snow on pines. You don’t measure Mizumi Clan talent with common sense.

“Alright, save the chatter. Those two pests are coming back. Let’s finish this.”

“Mm. I’ll trouble you, Wansheng.”

The tide turned fast. Wansheng handled two like a hawk on two crows, and Xinyin slid to Celia’s side to help against the undead swordsman, blades crossing like lightning forks.

After a while, Holy Voice and Wanling finished their field and arrived like twin gusts, and the tug-of-war began to end, the rope easing toward victory.