Everything aboard the Sky Voyager had turned to stone, a living ship flash-frozen into an ash-gray reef.

When the Skyship settled on the Voyager’s deck and Yue Liuyi’s feet touched that familiar ground like stepping onto an old riverbank, she finally believed what her eyes saw.

Even the trees and meadow weren’t spared, their swaying shadows stopped like broken pendulums, their soft turf bristling into a bed of spears, a garden sealed under frost.

The ship’s buildings matched the ruin, their stone skins heavy as storm clouds, the shine of metal gone, the glass dulled into slabs of gray crystal like packed winter ice.

The deck lay empty, a plaza under an eclipse, and the once-bustling Sky Voyager felt eerie and cold as a deserted shrine.

“How… how is this possible?” Voices burst from the Skyship’s hall like startled birds, passengers collapsing where they stood, staring at the scene as if at a nightmare unblinking.

Maria hadn’t told them the rumor of the Lost City, a ghost wind best left unsummoned, or the faint-hearted would have dropped like leaves in a sudden frost.

The Rangers Lodge stepped out, their boots tapping like pebbles in a dry stream, and took measure of the Sky Voyager.

“A powerful force swept through here like a tidal wave, turned everything into stone, and the magic feels permanent and whole, which is bone-deep terrifying.” Maria’s brow knit like tightened string while a bead of sweat fell like cold dew, her hands steadying the detector as if cradling a heartbeat.

Yue Liuyi knew why Maria was tense, a drumbeat under the ribs, because Nightmare Rust’s field only stains a few dozen meters with temporary rot, like a passing blight on iron.

But now the entire Sky Voyager had petrified, a mountain raised in a breath, a feat needing hundreds of thousands of elite mages, while the Voyager had fewer than a hundred on its best day.

“To remove this spell would still take tens of thousands of elite mages, a skywide choir we don’t have,” Maria said, the words falling like lead shot.

“Don’t lose heart,” Dixue answered with a smile bright as a winter sunbeam. “At least we know the Voyager was caught by a strong spell splash, not a curse with fangs.”

“But anything that can cast this is terrifying enough,” Yue Liuyi whispered, dread rising like cold fog as she remembered Maria’s rumor, that diary’s monsters crouching like shadows in a quiet ruin.

If something turned a giant like the Sky Voyager to stone, what chance did she, Dixue, and their companions have, thin reeds before a gale?

“Um… LittleSnow, should we maybe…” The fear came first, a knife of ice, and then the image followed like thunder after lightning—Dixue, Dawn Goose, Maria, Zaocun, everyone frozen into statues.

She saw herself left alone on the skywide mausoleum, her footsteps echoing like a lone bell, the same sights repeating forever without a single flutter.

“Don’t worry, Little Moon,” Dixue said, walking over like a warm breeze and hugging the blue-haired girl from behind, her voice a hearthfire in a storm. “We know the Voyager better than anyone, so this is our home field.”

“Is it… really?” The doubt shivered like a moth’s wing, then eased under the pressure of Dixue’s arms.

“Mm.” Dixue nodded, firm as a sword point, then issued orders as crisp as falling beads. “Maria, come with me for a first sweep around. Little Moon, stay in the Skyship, wait for me, I’ll be back soon.”

“Dawn Goose, protect the ultimate weapon and the passengers,” she added, the words snapping into place like tiles in a roof.

“Mm, I’ll take responsibility and protect the ultimate anti-Dixue weapon,” Dawn Goose said dryly, her gaze steady as a drawn bow.

“Stop calling it that,” Dixue huffed, the protest light as a tossed pebble.

The plan set like ink on paper, they moved.

Xiang Xiaoyan stepped into the corridor, her eyes skimming like sparrows along the railings, checking the passengers’ safety.

The planet’s air wasn’t poisonous, a relief like clear rain, but the heavy yellow haze carried grit; in plain words, PM2.5 was off the charts like fireworks at noon.

“Dawn Goose, I heard knocking in a room on the third floor,” a bald man said, his seriousness like a stone lantern, “is there a machine there?”

“Third floor?” Xiang Xiaoyan frowned, lines rippling like wind on water. “I don’t remember Lingwei assigning rooms up there, most should be spare and empty.”

The Sky Voyager had four levels, near a hundred rooms like stacked honeycombs, most idle, with new passengers only filling the first deck, and Dixue with Yue Liuyi on the second.

“Let’s take a look,” she said, the words quiet as a lifted latch. “I hope there’s no leak we missed.”

“Good,” he answered, a nod like a hammer tap.

Together they opened the door that rattled like a loose drumhead and found—

“Little fairy! I swear I’ll turn over a new leaf, reborn as a saint! Thank you for remaking me!” Gong Linxun knelt on the floor, his head knocking like a carp at a temple gate.

“…” Xiang Xiaoyan’s silence was a still pond. She’d almost forgotten him, a stray fish in a jar, the underwear thief she’d schooled and locked in here before everything turned to stone.

“Dawn Goose, this is the underwear thief?” the bald man asked, his tone flat as a blade.

“Mm. Yes,” she said, the admission simple as a nod.

“So you’re the underwear thief,” he said, stepping forward like a prow, one big hand lifting Gong Linxun by the tie and drawing him close like a hooked fish.

“S-sorry! Big bro, spare me for the sake of my youth!” the thief babbled, his fear spilling like beads.

“Hmph.” The bald man shoved him back with a push like a rolling wave, then turned to Xiang Xiaoyan, his gaze steady as iron. “Leave him to me. He’s the type with a lustful mind and timid hands. Put him in my room, I’ll keep him from mischief.”

“Then I’ll trouble Officer Chen,” Xiang Xiaoyan said, her relief soft as a sigh, handing him over like passing a heavy bucket.

He was a detective, broad as a gate, who’d stayed aboard by chance to fetch files on the Murder Fiend, and so slipped the storm’s first blow.

“No trouble, it’s my duty,” Officer Chen said with a nod like a closed case, then sighed, the sound a wind through pines. “I don’t know how my colleagues are. I hope they’re safe.”

“I hope they’re safe too,” Xiang Xiaoyan said, the wish floating like a lantern on dark water.

“Thanks,” he answered, the word small as a seed.

Back in the lounge, her gaze passed over the passengers, faces tight as tied bundles, ordinary folk stranded in an uncanny scene, their nerves fluttering like trapped swallows.

What surprised Xiang Xiaoyan was Yue Liuyi, the blue-haired girl wound like a spring, the most tightly strung of them all.

Her cheeks flushed like late peaches, her eyes flitting toward the door like minnows, her white knee-highs pressed together like closed pages, fingers pinching her skirt hem like a charm.

Xiang Xiaoyan liked this blue-haired girl, a quiet affection like tea warmth, because unlike Xinrui, Yue Liuyi seemed dazed and sweet on the surface yet turned reliable when storms hit.

So it puzzled her, a knot she turned over like a smooth stone, why Yue Liuyi was this tense now.

Is she… afraid Dixue will get hurt, she thought, the guess unfolding like a paper fan. Those two really are close.

She walked over, weighing her words like rice grains, because she never spoke without counting them first.

“Liuyi, worried about Dixue?” she asked softly, the question a hand on a shoulder.

“Eh? Uh…” Yue Liuyi’s eyes widened like two wet gems, her startled face as cute as a startled cat.

If I’d met her first, before Dixue scooped her up, Xiang Xiaoyan mused, the thought drifting like smoke.

“Don’t worry,” she said at last, the comfort steady as a beam. “This isn’t hard for us. It’s not the worst danger yet.”

“Eh? This doesn’t count as…” Yue Liuyi whispered, the doubt a tiny moth.

“Mm. Dixue is durable,” she said, deadpan as a drum. “Even missing an arm, she’d still make it back alive.”

“Eh! Missing an arm?” The squeak leapt like a dropped cup.

“Wait—no, I mean, her body’s like a cockroach, she just doesn’t die,” Xiang Xiaoyan corrected, the metaphor landing like a shoe.

“So LittleSnow is a roach!” Yue Liuyi blinked, the jab light as a feather.

“…” Xiang Xiaoyan’s silence returned, a lake without ripples.

“I’m back,” came a bright voice, the door opening like a petal as Dixue stepped in.

This time it wasn’t Dixue flinging herself into Yue Liuyi’s arms, but Little Moon who ran like a soft breeze, her small body gentle as a child waiting for a parent.

“Wow! Little Moon’s first time being this proactive! So good, so obedient,” Dixue cooed, hugging Yue Liuyi close like a precious quilt and stroking her hair with a palm like warm silk.

The picture of two girls in an embrace fell into everyone’s eyes like a blossom drift, sweet and startling.

“LittleSnow… are you going out again?” Little Moon looked up, eyes shimmering like a lake, the hint of tears bright as dew.

“Mm. The deck’s been scouted, no survivors, all turned to stone, but the cabins aren’t checked yet,” Dixue said, her words a measured drum.

“T-then… can you take me with you?” Yue Liuyi asked, the plea soft as a kitten’s paw, her reddened eyes wet as spring.

“Eh?” Dixue froze, surprise landing like a snowflake.

Yue Liuyi wasn’t acting cute, no sugared act, because the root was harsher than blush or shyness.

It was daytime on this planet, the sky high as a lid, and worse, it was noon, the sun a white coin pouring heat like wine.

After Dixue left, Yue Liuyi felt the wrongness, a mana bias cascading like a waterfall, a pull that gnawed like ants, a change she could not stop alone.

If Dixue hadn’t returned on time, Little Moon would have flipped back into a boy, a reversal sharp as a snapped string, and the thought made her stomach drop like a stone.

So the urgency came from the heart, a bell in a fire, but in others’ eyes it looked like a clingy plea, a kitten mewling for milk.

“Mm…” Dixue didn’t want to take Little Moon, caution pricking like thorns, because the Sky Voyager felt dangerous, with unknown monsters like wolves in fog and traps like teeth under leaves.

She could protect Little Moon, a promise like iron, but unknowns stalked the halls like shadows, and even iron can bend.

Yet today’s Little Moon was too cute, sweetness overflowing like honey, and if Dixue refused, she’d fail as the rightful owner of this hug pillow, which was unforgivable.

“Then… if that’s the case,” she said, caving with a smile like sunlight through clouds, “Little Moon must wear proper protection, so I can cover you instantly.”

“O-okay! Protective gear is fine,” Yue Liuyi nodded, relief blooming like a wildflower, because more defense is never wrong on a haunted ship.

“Then… no takebacks, Little Moon,” Dixue teased, her eyes bright as stars.

“T-takebacks?” The question trembled like a leaf.

When Dixue fetched a white box from the cabinet, smooth as a cake, Yue Liuyi felt a bad premonition rise like a chill draft.

“Ta-da! The newest magic protection collar,” Dixue announced, popping the lid like a magician, revealing a silver-white collar and chain, the chain ending in a handgrip like a leash handle.

“As long as Little Moon wears this and I hold the other end, I can cast a shield straight through, fast as lightning,” she said, excitement sparkling like frost as the blue-haired girl took one tiny step back.