Night fell, and the tournament opened like a lantern being lit.

No one here played it straight; the ceremony was slapdash, a paper mask over a noisy feast. The host postured for a few lines, then waved them to eat, like a wooden puppet dropping its cue.

In the hotel’s largest hall, a wall-sized screen belted English rock, like thunder trapped in glass. Six long tables brimmed with dishes, a river of colors and steam. Five crews—racers, staff, family—over fifty souls, flowed in under the invitation like a small caravan.

And the covert watchers came too: Yekase with her two companions, like shadows in ordinary clothes.

Yekase had tasted the Huaxia Alchemy Association’s gaudy excess; this banquet felt low-brow, like gilt paint peeling off a brick.

She wanted quiet more than food, a cool pond in a noisy market. She plucked an apple cider from a passing tray, hugged the Polaris Staff, and watched from a counter in the corner like a cat under the eaves.

Ling Yi waved, then ate as she drifted deeper into the crowd, a hunter wading into reeds.

Jiang Bailu saw worry cloud Yekase like mist and left her be, trailing after Ling Yi.

Annoyance flickered, sharp as a pin. Leaving a seven-year-old-looking, limp-limbed clerk alone in this mixed-bag hall? You instigator… Yekase muttered at Jiang Bailu’s retreating back, like tossing a chick into a fox den.

Still, she savored the quiet like warm tea on a rainy night.

She scanned the room; beyond the racers, those with Mind Energy were few, thin candles in a wind.

But one figure stuck out like a black feather on snow.

No Mind Energy in her body, yet a gray-white filament snaked within—today’s sorcery scar, bright as chalk in a muggle crowd.

Residual sorcery flowlines, a faint path like frost on glass.

They hint at a spell’s nature: longer breaks mean heavier cost; more breaks mean more casts; some leave strange shapes, like runes frozen mid-flight.

In Yekase’s Infinite Force Perception, this residue was a straight line spearing from crown to heel.

Single use… a spell that burned fuel like a comet.

What kind of spell was that? A Flame Burst Spell is barely a candle to its bonfire.

Curiosity pricked, restless as a sparrow. Yekase frowned, recalling the spell lists she had skimmed; she’d marked the heavy hitters like red threads in a ledger.

Those were intricate sorcery models, latticework and spirals—none was a single straight spine from head to sole.

This plain line became the most baffling thing in the whole hall, a lone reed humming in a storm.

And it kept stretching, inching like twilight across a window.

Stretching?

She blinked back, and the woman had walked up and sat beside her, like a shadow taking a chair.

Long gold hair, with a red streak, same flavor as Yekase’s, tucked by her fringe. Around twenty, pretty on the surface, yet Yekase saw a killing chill in her brows, like frost under paint.

That look belongs to those who’ve taken lives, a shadow behind the eyes.

No fear rose; a hard calm settled like stone. She’d killed before—no, because anyone leaking that aura was a newcomer to the hidden world, like a sword still wet from quench.

They can’t sheath their edge, nor notice the mirror already showing them bare.

“A rabble, no different from a trash heap,” she intoned, putting on weight like stage fog.

Amusement bubbled, bright as soda. Yekase looked aside and covered her mouth with the glass to keep it down, like corking a bottle.

“You split hitogomi into hito and gomi—people and trash. Not exactly a fresh joke, beautiful half-blood miss,” she said, like reheated tea.

“Why are you here?” she asked, laying the question like a knife on the table.

Irritation pricked her pride, like a thorn under silk. Outplayed by a goth loli sipping what she thought was apple juice, she kept her voice flat and asked.

Yekase had no plan to answer straight; she went full wuxia cadence: “Because someone invited me,” like tossing a feather in the air.

Disgust slid cold as rain. To kill casually in a strange city takes nerves thick as rope—pampered mob princess.

She was here for her own purpose. Plainly, to race and show off like a wild engine.

Yekase had pegged her as the Sinister Organization officer Ling Yi mentioned. With Jiang Bailu’s roster, elimination made her org and name pop like letters in flame.

Cloudlong City isn’t that big; two fighter clashes in one day is peppers in a small pot—this isn’t the United States.

Skepticism cooled her blood, a slow lake. Was she really fearsome enough to make Ling Yi speak in riddles?

Yekase could read her at a glance, like water clear to the stones. A new fighter with talent and family resources, a hot blade just out of the forge.

With that mystery spell, her theoretical output might hit officer tier, like a rocket with a brittle frame. But her mind and manners were ink on paper, not steel; youth blazing, discipline thin as smoke.

Oh. To be fair, Ling Yi only stepped into this world three months ago, a sapling in spring wind.

The blonde took a sip of red wine. Sour bit her brow; she asked, “Who?”

Yekase swirled the green-blue liquor; her grin bent wickedly, like a crescent blade. “Not your mother, anyway.”

—?!

“Shadow Curtain International, Huaxia Branch. Current minister: Gu Zijian. Wife lost in past riots; he raised one daughter, named…”

“Gu Xiangshi.”

Yekase turned her smile away and lifted her stemmed glass. “My offense; I’ll drink as penance,” like a winter swallow darting.

Schooled and stung, Gu Xiangshi raised her left hand; three fingers poised to pinch, like a trap closing—

“Is that really wise?” the girl said, a bell in fog.

The girl still looked elsewhere, yet spoke as if reading her move, like wind catching a curtain.

“The future heir of the Huaxia Branch, killing in a dull banquet out of shame—at a target not even a fighter, just a child with loose tongue. Sure, it vents the spleen.”

The words hit like the strongest silence spell; Gu Xiangshi’s fingers couldn’t close another hair.

“Cloudlong City feels uneasy tonight; can the rally run clean? What’s your view?” she asked, like ships testing a stormy strait.

“You… who are you, really?” she said, pointing at a mask.

The higher you climb, the tighter the laws bind—tug a thread, and the whole robe shifts. Eyes always prowl, ready to snatch the seat.

Satisfaction warmed her, a coal under ash. If the girl was teachable, the instant-kill risk had passed and a temporary pact might bloom like ink in water. She dropped the last bomb, a drumbeat in still air:

“I heard a song this afternoon: ‘Spring comes above the clouds, the cry wakes Jingzhe.’ I liked that. Call me Jingzhe.”

I’ve heard that tag somewhere, haven’t I?

Gu Xiangshi searched her memory, riffling shelves; a match clicked in a dusty corner.

A subordinate group her father had handed her logged a camera last month, like a small coil in a ledger. Investigators said it carried mild hypnosis, driving off ill intent, and had gone viral among small shops, like incense calming a room. They feared it would bite into the flagship security business.

The source… they called it “Jingzhe.”

“It’s you?!”

She’d thought it was an organization, combed the registry and found nothing. A person, then—like chasing a ghost and finding a child.

And a girl this young, a sapling holding thunder!

Caution settled, cool as dew. She recalled lessons from father and tutors, like opening old scrolls. Independent researchers with unique tech are quirky; they yield to soft hands, not hard chains. Force them to build weapons, and they lace your systems with backdoors, like ivy through brick. New gear blows its barrel, a firecracker in a sealed jar, and you never learn why. When they run, they vanish like smoke.

So for a leader, the best way is to bow early and win them with gentleness, like rain on sprouting grain.

Gu Xiangshi straightened, then lowered her head toward Yekase’s small back. “I don’t know; please, sir, teach me,” like bamboo bending in wind.

There we go, she thought, like gears finally meshing.

At the hall’s noisy edge, a suited young woman bowed solemnly to a doll-like little girl. To others, it must have looked absurd, like a crane bowing to a sparrow.

Delight blossomed, bright as a peony. Yekase laughed with her back turned, then smoothed her face and turned back, like folding a fan.

“Skip the ‘sir.’ I’m not working for any org yet,” she said, like a free kite. “But we both want the rally to run. We can cooperate,” like boats aligning in the same current.

Ling Yi searched in loops through the crowd; each loop she piled a bowl with meat and finished it. She found no one she feared, like a wolf sniffing and finding no scent. She gave up, full as a moon, and headed back to Yekase.

Yekase sat with the blonde, like two chess pieces set side by side. Right hand held her glass; left hand sketched lazy lines, as if pitching ideas, like drawing constellations.

?!?!

Ling Yi rushed forward and shielded Yekase behind her, alarm sharp as a drumbeat.

“Hm?” a note plucked from a string.

Their analysis had wrapped, like a scroll tied with ribbon. Gu Xiangshi was listening to Yekase pitch her Ancient Alchemy revival. Interrupted mid-interest, she frowned, a crease like a blade. “It’s you. What do you want?”

Ling Yi didn’t budge. “Doctor, stay away from her! She’s bad. A bad woman!” she barked, like a cub guarding the den.

“I know,” Yekase said, like a stone dropped without ripple.

“You… huh?” she blinked, like a sparrow missing a beat.

Yekase lifted the Polaris Staff and tapped Ling Yi’s head. “You don’t think there are many good people in this room, do you?” she asked, like tapping a bell.

“Ugh.”

“You full? Where’s your sister Bailu?” she said, like checking the campfire.

Ling Yi rubbed the spot and backed to Yekase’s side, sulk puffing like steam.

“She’s at the far side, by the TV, rallying a few for betting on horses,” she said, like tossing dice into water.

“That gambler… you head back. I’ll follow soon,” she waved, like shooing a cat.

“Okay…”

Fear nipped her heels, a cold dog. Ling Yi stuck out her tongue, made a face, and left.

“I’ll bring her a little Alchemy trinket from the Eternal Green Pages later,” Yekase thought, like tying a ribbon on a promise. She watched her go, then turned back to Gu Xiangshi with a brief, apologetic smile. “I’m leaving too; one last question,” she said, like closing a fan.

“Please ask, sir.”

“I said don’t call me sir; I can’t carry that weight. So—” she sighed, like setting down a heavy box.

Yekase drained her cup and asked, dropping a pebble into a well. “As the future head of the Huaxia Branch, what is a Sinister Organization?”

Gu Xiangshi had been lightly tipsy, three sips deep; the question snapped her awake, like ice water.

“Leave infighting aside. If we take benefits in peace, we stand on the front line when storms hit,” she said, a shield before the gate.

“Mm. I’ve heard for a long stretch, Sinister Organizations did what heroes do now. But what are they like today? They took ‘sinister’ to defy power; now it fits like a black glove.”

…

Gu Xiangshi’s face darkened, storm gathering under a white mask.

Satisfied, light as a kite, Yekase nodded. Enough persuasion; time to slip away. She hopped off the stool, hugged the Polaris Staff, and headed out, like a swallow toward dusk.

“I still need to grow. I’ll turn in and rise early,” she said, like planting rice by dawn.

“Miss Jingzhe,”

“?”

“The race starts at ten tonight,” she reminded, drums at the city gate.

…

“Uh.”