Seeing that, Oz didn’t press. For once he was surprisingly magnanimous, a wave of his hand like a tired breeze, his voice carrying a helpless sigh.

“Alright, alright, I won’t bring it up again. Beautiful miss, please don’t get so worked up.”

Aphelia wanted to tell him she was actually male, but this body wasn’t convincing at all. Not more, not less—curves in all the right places, like a sculptor’s careful knife. The slightly loose black robe hid most lines, but she was here to fight, not to smother herself in cloth; her exposed collarbone was a white arc declaring her gender like moonlight on stone.

If men were this lovely, women would die of shame.

Aphelia thought it over, then sighed, a quiet wind settling over a lake.

“I’ve delivered my message. What you do next is on you. If you push too far, the next handler won’t be me. I don’t know what will happen.”

Oz brushed a fingertip along his scabbard, and a teleport scroll bloomed in his palm like a folded star. He clearly meant to leave right in front of her.

“You’re not afraid I’ll jump you?”

Even Aphelia heard how pointless that sounded. With his power, even falling into the Void would be a stumble, not a grave. Only someone burned by it would be this sensitive.

“Not afraid. If you don’t believe me, try.”

Smiling, Oz fired the scroll. A portal opened, shimmering with spatial light like a rip in the night sea. He shrugged at Aphelia, a casual dare, then stepped in with unhurried grace.

As he crossed the threshold, Aphelia really wanted to punch him—even if he’d crawl out of the Void, she could at least make waves. Then the battlefield flashed in her mind: that pitch-black dot like the Plague of Beasts, his strength to tank two Titleholders, and the shadowed pedigree of a Demonic Knight. Her fist loosened like a cloud.

“Oh, right—”

Just as the portal was closing, with most of him gone, he popped back—his head jutting through the light like a mask in a dark window. The sight pricked cold along Aphelia’s spine; a solitary head like that would startle anyone. The spell pinched between her fingers didn’t fly, which was already restraint.

“Be careful, next.”

He dropped that headless line and vanished. This time the portal closed without tricks. Aphelia exhaled, a leaf drifting down, and turned to leave.

“Be careful next…” So broad it was basically a polite warning. They’d barely spoken, but Aphelia didn’t take Oz for a man of empty wind. If he turned back to say it, there was a point tip-down beneath it.

What, exactly, should she be careful of?

She learned soon enough.

A distant black tide rolled in—Dark Dragon Soldiers, a storm front of scales and steel. From four directions they closed, numbers brushing a legion; not the sky-piercing killing aura of veterans, but sheer mass pressed like a falling cliff.

“Too bad. I can run. If an army wants to net me, seal my spee…d…”

She reached for Arcane Power to break the ring—and blinked. Again, nothing answered her call.

Why? She hadn’t touched the Plague of Beasts. Did Oz lay a trap at parting? Too exquisite—sealing a Titleholder’s Arcane Power under her nose?

No. It wasn’t the same as the Plague. She communed with ambient Arcane Power and elements, and they stirred like reeds in wind. Her senses were normal, the river visible, the bucket empty.

Not completely unusable—but only to coat a weapon, crude as a basic enchant.

So what was this? She could feel the flow, but couldn’t draw it into form. Like being knocked down a realm—Arcane Power skimming the surface, no spells, only shine. In a clash against a legion, that was a fatal hollow.

In those few thinking heartbeats, countless Dark Dragon Soldiers charged, weapons low, wave crests at three meters. Halberd-bearers needed only one breath of distance to skewer her like a fish.

Aphelia’s mouth curved, a moonlit hook. No panic, only cloud-light calm.

“Then come!”

No time to think? Fight. With near-Titleholder strength, facing thousands was a familiar rain; back when she challenged the demon race, she’d stood in storms like this.

Her Bracer Gauntlets unfurled into a twin-headed spear, a dragonbone branch. One swing, two closest soldiers were pierced, then flung back into the ranks like stones into a pond. She strode in, spear singing, and the formation churned, a red squall tearing canvas.

Far off in Clive City, Nero nursed a headache like an iron band while the network lay severed. He kept pinging watchers on the Hydra Plains through a magic crystal; with each silent reply, his face darkened like gathering clouds.

At last he crushed the crystal, exhaled hard, stood, and drew the curtains—daylight spilling like a river.

His observation point topped the mansion; from here the Hydra Plains lay open like a map. That was why he’d chosen it.

“Jasmine, have your family’s agents sent anything recently?”

Nero mulled and muttered; the Hydra Plains grew stranger by the hour. One watcher had found a Hydra clansman bunker—everything intact, no breath inside. That was days ago. Today, not just him—all watchers had gone silent, like stones dropped into deep water.

“We… also lost contact. But they’re not dead. Their state is… strange.”

Jasmine’s voice wavered, a reed in wind. She’d only just gotten the news; their agents had vanished like morning mist. If not for a family method confirming they lived, she’d have written their names in ash.

“Strange?”

Nero frowned. Unlike Jasmine’s clan, he couldn’t read life or death. He could only draw water from her well.

“Precisely—teetering between life and death. Our clan gives each agent an artifact from childhood, housing a shard of their soul, to watch their state. Brighter shard, better life; when it goes completely dark, they’re gone.”

As Jasmine spoke, Nero understood enough, and let the rest lie; clan secrets were stones you didn’t overturn in a partner’s garden.

“So by that, are their shards dim or bright?”

“That’s the problem.” Jasmine tapped the table, a sparrow’s beak to steady nerves. As deputy head of intel, this kind of silence gnawed deepest.

“Their soul shards keep flickering, bright then dim, like dying lanterns. We can only read it as the enemy captured them, tortured them to the brink, then used spells to drag them back.”

“But our networks both went dark right then—just as we were moving to phase two. Someone should’ve told Aphelia the second phase. Now? No replies at all…”

Nero looked at the files scattered like fallen leaves. Partners’ recent intel matched his watchers’ last notes. If it were only this level, his watchers wouldn’t be taken. Which left one path: they learned something that must not pass, and a powerhouse cut the line.

“Jasmine, do you think we should’ve told Aphelia everything from the start…”

“Absolutely not.” Jasmine’s answer was a blade. “She’s still a newcomer. It’s always right to keep suspicion. Who knows what she’d do once she knows the true target.”

On matters like this, she stood with cold reason; that was why Nero had chosen her, a steady stone in a swift stream.

“Which is exactly why I’m worried about Aphelia finishing the job. The water’s too deep—tug one thread and the whole weave shifts. Even I can’t read the board clearly.”

Nero returned to his seat. From a hidden drawer he took the watchers’ files on Aphelia’s movements, drew out a map, and began to redraw her route, ink tracing like a hunter’s path.

He had to catch her current trail. Only then could he find Aphelia still somewhere on the Plains. Only then would the plan gain a single, clean drop of chance.