Lingchen Yao stood again before Jiuqiong University’s Obsidian Stone gate, a black cliff gleaming like wet ink. This time the plaza heaved like a tide.

It was the season of migration. Talented boys and girls flew in like swallows, chasing a wind that might point their compasses toward tomorrow.

He squeezed into the crowd, dragging heavy bags that felt like bricks warm from home. Inside was Chen Xiaoyin’s steady love, packed tight as bread.

He’d told her he didn’t need it, again and again. She stuffed it in anyway, firm as a palm at a door. His head throbbed like split wood.

Unlike the others, he didn’t gape at the towers like a villager staring at city lights. He had already scouted the grounds, quiet as dusk.

Otherwise he’d be pegged as a bumpkin walking into a village. And besides, his goal ran deeper, like a river under stone.

Jiuqiong University sprawled like a small city. With bags in tow, he found his college shuttle, a Mana‑driven bus, a Magic Tool where gears meet runes.

He greeted the counselor, signed in under the dorm, and received his Key, cold as a coin from a well. He asked about roommates.

High school had been thirty minutes from his rented room. He’d lived alone, a quiet pond undisturbed by stones. Sharing would feel strange.

“Ren Changxiao, Wang Qipeng, Gou Xun…” He frowned, the paper blurring like heat haze. Something didn’t sit right.

“That character’s pronounced Xun! Xun, got it? Xun Yu—the one who sheds Blood so teammates draw cards.” The voice snapped like a twig.

He checked the roster again. No wonder his eye had snagged; the stroke’s music spelled “xun.”

“So are you Ren Changxiao, Wang Qipeng, or Lingchen Yao?”

“Lingchen Yao. You’re Xun Xun?”

He realized the kid in front of him was a future roommate. Hard to handle, like a cat with raised back.

The guy flicked hair off his brow, eyes cutting upward like a winged blade. His tone tapped lightly, mischievous as rain on tin.

“Ah~ ah~ that would be yours truly.”

Lingchen ignored Xun Xun and took the stairwell, shadowed cool like a bamboo shaft. He made his bed, neat as folded paper cranes.

Time for lunch. College cafeterias beat high school by a long street. His eating spirit, a little stove, crackled and burned bright.

September’s better than the blistering dog days. But summer’s tail still flicked. Ten minutes in and sweat slicked his back like rain.

A faint fragrance pooled in the air. A breeze combed leaves into a hush. Birds chimed from branches, and the heat thinned like mist.

For opening week, the cafeteria pushed limited menus, priced sharp as fishbones. Even in college, hunger marketing blew like a dry wind.

The line snaked long, a dragon of trays. Students’ money was ripe fruit on low branches. Easy pickings.

He slid past the queue, ordered two quick dishes, and found a quiet corner. He scrolled messages like skipping stones across a pond.

He opened the freshly minted WeChat group: Room 514. The dots winked like little stars. Looked like everyone had arrived.

“Hey, kid, you didn’t talk to me half the day! Like I got tossed into the trash.” The Eye Orb muttered, dull as a cloud.

“Are we that close?” He ate, and typed cautiously, like walking on thin ice, hoping not to crack anyone’s mood.

“What? You—traitor! New flame, old flame dumped! I did so much for you, even gave my body. Heartless, trying to ditch me?”

The Eye Orb yammered at his ear, a sparrow pecking at grain. He ignored it, patience thick as bark.

He set down his phone and looked around. In a shadowed corner sat Moon Owl, her eyelids heavy, drifting like a boat in fog.

He meant to warn her. In the next heartbeat, she snapped up like a spring, checked her things, swept her plate clean, and grabbed her shawl.

She leapt from the third floor, light as a swallow cutting wind, and teleported between buildings. Her speed shot through the gaps like lightning.

No one noticed; a bird lost in sun glare. He was turning away when a familiar voice tugged him back like a thread.

“This child, always in a rush…” An Old Woman arrived with a plastic bag, rustling like dry leaves.

It was the same one from last time. Memory opened like a fan.

“Don’t be nervous, child.” She sat opposite, her smile warm as tea. “I brought food, thought Xiao’er would pass through here. And here you are. New students today.”

“Chosen a direction yet?” Her eyes were soft lanterns. “Your grades were good.”

Lingchen had been busy drilling magic, rains of syllables and sparks of Mana. As for major or campus life, his thoughts were scattered like seeds.

If he could, he’d rather be an agent. That path touched more currents flowing from Magic Maidens.

“Interested in being an agent?” The Old Woman’s question drifted like incense. “Xiao’er doesn’t have one. I think you two would fit.”

He flinched, remembering a face blank as ice, aura cold as moonlight. Moon Owl was the hard‑to‑handle type. Wait—

Was the Old Woman tying a red string across fate?

No way. What did he have to tie? No power, no money. She was a Magic Maiden. He wasn’t one to be kept.

He wanted to earn under his own sky.

“Well… we’ll see,” he said, words standing like cautious reeds. “If I pass the agent exam. Even then, your daughter’s a mentor. I’m not confident enough.”

“It’s fine, just talk.” She chuckled, light as wind on water. “Young man, be confident. You made it to Jiuqiong University. You have edges that shine.”

She coughed twice, the sound small as tapping porcelain, and headed toward family housing. He finished his meal, cleared the tray, and returned to the dorm.

On the way, he sent Qianchun a quick “all safe,” like a pinecone dropped in her hand.

Room 514 had gathered. Ren Changxiao matched his name—big‑hearted, open as a courtyard, though such openness sometimes invites rain. His intro broke the stale air.

Wang Qipeng wore glasses, gentle as spring water, bookish and bright. He seemed to carry many maps in his head.

Xun Xun was a rich narcissist, a peacock under neon. Aside from that, no big cracks to see.

Lingchen weighed them all and let out a long breath, like steam from a kettle. Looked like they’d get along.

“Kid, you know how dangerous that was?” The Eye Orb buzzed, a wasp near the ear. “Your Mana scent got swept back and forth.”

“I was scared stiff. If they found us, we’d be done, like ants under a boot.”

“Didn’t you promise we wouldn’t be discovered?” Lingchen frowned, lines shallow as ripples, arranging his things neat as stacked tiles.

He’d brought his woodcarvings too, each grain a quiet coil.

“They didn’t find us. Cantata Three are big shots, busy as storm clouds. Cantata Two are idle and scan in lines that chill the spine.”

“Think Thunder Slash can find Thunder Mountain in half a month?” He meant the woman burning to rise to Cantata Three, the one from last time.

She’d given him a number. He just didn’t know how to call without baring himself like a fish in clear water.

“Simple,” the Eye Orb said, proud as a rooster. “Open your phone. I’ll install our anonymous call, and shield a few monitors.”

“Phones these days? I don’t trust them farther than a thrown pebble.”

The Eye Orb quietly stretched a tendril, a thread of ink, and sank it into his phone.

“That fast?”

“My tech. My patent! Few can crack it. Don’t underestimate me.”

“Yet you’re down to an Eye Orb.” Lingchen’s words dropped like cold rain. Silence fell, a curtained room.

He dialed. The line clicked open, like a door unlatching. A strange girl’s voice drifted in, clear as glass.

He double‑checked the number. No mistake.

“Hello, who are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for the Order Keeper who wields lightning. She gave me this number. I’d like to ask about a delivery.”

His number spoke in a synthesized tone, an electronic hush with a little static, like sand in wind.

He tossed a clumsy cover story. The black market had been a helpful current. Its boss was strong as ironwood. He wouldn’t expose it to strangers.

“You mean the black market exchange?” The reply was brisk, a clean blade. “I’m Thunder Slash’s agent. Thunder Slash says they’ve found Thunder Mountain.”

“Your intel was useful. We’ve prepared what you asked: four low‑grade Magic Stones, two mid‑grade Magic Stones, and a Basic Magic Chant Book.”

“Plus the woodcarving Thunder Slash promised.”

Lingchen steadied his heartbeat, a drum under cloth. She’d really sent the woodcarving—and so many stones.

“Saturday, seven p.m.?”

“No problem.”

He hung up. The room hummed with separate lives—keyboard clicks, page turns—none of them noticing his river stirring.

His tight face finally cracked into a wide grin, bright as a crescent moon. He’d never seen so much money flow his way.

“Kid, those Magic Stones—especially the mid‑grade—give me my share,” the Eye Orb crowed, chest puffed like a sparrow. “No my intel, no your haul.”

“Fair. But two mid‑grades feels heavy.” Lingchen’s tone cooled, smooth as slate. “One mid‑grade, two low‑grade. Fifty‑fifty?”

“Huh—”

A razor glinted, cold as a winter stream, pressed against his bracelet. The room stilled like a held breath.

“Shame,” Lingchen said softly, a leaf turning. “I wasn’t planning to swallow it all.”

“Fifty‑fifty! Fine, fifty‑fifty!” The Eye Orb folded at once, small as a pebble.

He remembered what Xiao once said: rivers trade banks every thirty years. What Lingchen owed would be reclaimed, like a debt carried by the current.