“Huh? So it really was, then...” The thought rose like mist lifting off a lake.

Whether it was or not didn’t matter now; Bai Zhi had already cut it down like weeds. The lantern I needed was the truth, and she held it.

Outside Western Garden City, Xuewei found nothing but dust and silence, a field of ashes with no trail to the Flower of the Other Shore. Crews swarmed in like ants to a broken hive, and pity tugged her like rain on a sleeve. “Brother, why don’t we help them? With bare hands, this place won’t rise again in a lifetime.”

“But I only know ice and water magic...” Tangxue hesitated, a chill ripple across still water. Was she supposed to freeze the ruins into a glassy sea? People can’t live on ice.

“I’m not asking you to rebuild the ground,” she said, voice soft as reed wind. “Just clear the flames hanging in the air and the necrotic miasma... I’ll take the deathly part.”

“Oh—so that’s it!” Tangxue’s realization clicked like sunlight through cloud. She’d forgotten dense mana scalds mortal bodies, bronze in the blood that never washes out.

The Kelinveil clan’s scarlet flame runs fierce as a summer blaze; even they can’t reel it back like a hooked fish. But Tangxue could—water and ice smoothed its bite like rain on coals.

A cold wind whooshed through, and the heat that had been searing the air sank to normal, a fever breaking at dawn. Xuewei stared, wide-eyed at the miracle, her heart a small, proud tide—her brother’s grip on the elements flowed far steadier than hers.

“Ahem. Leave the rest to me.” Xuewei closed her eyes and laced her fingers, calm as a prayer stone. When she opened them, a warmer hush spread, subtle as sunlight on frost.

“The dead’s breath stops life from taking root,” she said, voice low as earth under snow. “Without cleansing, even if you fill it flat, it’ll be a sand-bare desert. All right, Brother. We’re done. Let’s go.”

“Mm.” Tangxue nodded, a leaf answering wind, and reached out. Hand in hand, they stepped into the rippling portal like two swallows into a night gate.

“Ah... we’re back again.” The imperial capital opened before them like a scroll, and Xuewei stretched, lazy cat in familiar sun. Ten-odd years had made it home in her bones; and in one day, the crews had raised ruins into streets again—miracle stitched like gold thread.

“Still as pretty as ever. Last time I came here was over a decade ago, right?” Tangxue smiled at her sister, memory drifting like incense. First time at the palace, she’d come to play with Xuewei; Bai Zhi had welcomed her warm as a hearth, yet Tangxue felt like a pebble on marble. Elegant maids flowed like swans, music chimed like crystal, and her country self sat wrong, a burl in silk.

It wasn’t that palace music grated; it glimmered like starlight. She just didn’t like the air of it—she preferred dinner with familiar faces, warm bowls and easy laughter like firelight.

“Yeah, I still remember coming here,” Tangxue murmured, nodding by reflex, thoughts pacing like rain on eaves. Workers set garden ornaments like petals on water; mages inscribed defensive arrays, lines bright as fireflies. Far off, Bai Zhi waited at an open-air terrace, tea steaming like a small cloud.

“Good afternoon, Xuewei, Tangxue. Here for afternoon tea?” Bai Zhi’s smile curved soft as spring wind. Tangxue rose on tiptoe and waved, a sparrow’s flick.

“Royal Sister... after something that serious last night, why didn’t you call us?” Xuewei’s voice tightened, a string drawn. “We told you we were in East Mountain City visiting Mother Yueyao. One word, and we’d have come running.”

“Mm, the moment I got inside I knew I’d been duped,” Bai Zhi said, a shadow clinging like soot. “I couldn’t get a message out. If I could’ve, I would’ve. My first solo decision almost got me killed, but hey, the Radiant Empire’s calamity is settled for good.” She giggled twice, bright as chimes, and lifted her cup, a petal sip.

“Royal Sister, was your foe an undead? Or a Flower of the Other Shore officer?” Xuewei’s gaze sharpened, a blade in the sheath.

“Why the sudden ask?” Bai Zhi’s eyes narrowed, memory rippling like black water. “From our exchange, I’d say she was a normal person possessed by a wraith. And I caught its outline. Xuewei, remember the continent history in our clan library? In the original world, our plane’s main continent was only a prison island, a stone lid on calamity and wraiths. The master of this region was the Ice Deity, Rain Moon Willow.”

“When the Frost Calamity broke loose and no god could answer, we were abandoned like a raft cut from the ship. Beneath our feet lay countless wraiths, stripped from reincarnation, sentenced beyond death—no living mind would hesitate over that choice. After that, every high-tier being who could leave, left in a heartbeat, like birds before a storm. Even the Water God who guarded us to the end departed. No deity stayed to wait for a cold grave. To them, it was a small ripple; the main world is a sea, and our plane a pond.”

“The wraith I fought was one aggregate among the main world’s thousand swarms, its malice and hatred enough to scour a world clean. While we traded blows, I could feel she couldn’t fully ride that power—some sliver of hope still lived in her heart, and I slipped a blade through that seam. She kept mentioning divine-aspected mana. Behind her wraith, another force lent a hand, like a shadow under the wave.”

“I suspect a demon god from beneath the Abyss...”

“That wraith should’ve been locked in Hell alongside such gods. But the Gate of Hell can’t open lightly, so our ancestors bound it here with seals, a mountain pegged by nails. Yesterday, I ended the wraith that had plagued the Kelinveil clan for a thousand years. I’m honestly pretty happy—hee-hee. Not calling you was, well, a small selfish wish, like keeping one peach for myself.”

“Abyss...” Tangxue’s eyes sank, deep as a well. The word tugged old echoes like wind on chimes.

“Sorry, Royal Sister. I never saw that in the books...” Xuewei lowered her head, shame pooling like ink. She rarely went to the library; when she did, she napped like a cat in a sunbeam.

“...Ahaha.” Bai Zhi laughed, thin as paper, and let it drift.

“Little Tangxue, the word ‘Abyss’ seems to hook you, doesn’t it~?”

“Yeah. It feels familiar,” Tangxue said, face set like frost. Somewhere in her past, that name had left a burn.

“Then I’ll dig up what we have on the Abyss,” Bai Zhi murmured, eyes closing, fingers pressing her brow like clouds kneading a ridge. The Kelinveil are old as river stone; the clan library holds thousands of histories, each a brick-thick tome, dense as a forest. As queen, she’d had to read them all before the crown. To recall the Abyss now was fishing a silver thread from a mountain of spaghetti code; her head ached before the hook touched water.