“After nearly a month of study, anyone below [First Symphony] parasitized by this bug is dead the moment it latches on, like a bell tolling at first touch. Also, the bug steals a slice of memory and wit, like pinching a flame from the host’s lantern. Which means the thing will grow… sharp, like a knife honed on our minds.”
“And this brood can rip open an [Abyssal Rift], or at least hurry it, like prying at a scab so it breaks early, ferrying in [Cantata Two] and even [Cantata Three] Monsters ahead of time.”
The researchers reported to the mature woman, their voices like rain on tin, each detail a drumbeat of omen. Every sign said the [Swarm] was about to flood Earth, like ants boiling from a cracked mound, from the bug-shaped Monsters everywhere to space walls thinning like spring ice.
“Be careful,” the woman said, her tone steady as a lantern in wind. “The [Swarm] aren’t simple prey. You’re key researchers, so tread like foxes on snow.”
They cut the call, and the woman slumped onto her desk, her face as wan as paper in dawn light. To seal the Twelfth District, she’d worked a month straight, like a candle eating itself. Before the [Swarm]’s orbit meshed with their world like grinding gears, she had everything set like stones in a river.
“A troubled season,” she murmured, tasting soot and silence. “The Twelfth District can’t weather Monsters tossing it like waves… Abyssal Rifts keep blooming like mold. I wonder if HQ sees the same sky. No backing down… we can’t let the [Swarm] look down on us.”
The Moon Owl moved like night wind through alleys and markets, her steps quick as brushstrokes. In half a month, she found an old man slurping wontons at a street stall, steam curling like ghosts. She named a price he couldn’t refuse, like placing warm tea in frost-stiff hands.
The elder “volunteered” to ride the [Order Keeper] transport, like a leaf caught by the current, and came to the Twelfth District sub-branch to refine the sealing array, lines and sigils like constellations on stone.
After a month of work, the elder freed two [Cantata Two] slots, like cutting ballast from a ship. Now six [Cantata Two] could uphold the whole Twelfth District’s array, a bright ember in a cold night.
But it wasn’t enough, like a single oar on a rough river. One more [Cantata Two] couldn’t steer the battle. This invasion felt calculated, like chess laid ten moves ahead, and [Cantata Three] might descend wearing stormlight. Most [Cantata Two] wouldn’t even brush the hem of [Cantata Three]’s robe.
“A season of troubles…”
She sighed, the papers in her hand rustling like dry leaves, and her face darkened like sky before rain.
This year was strange, a second crossing in over a decade, with [Beast], [Swarm], and their world touching like three shadows on one wall. Records hinted the [Swarm] had already burrowed into the [Beast], like ivy through old brick.
Those parasitized beasts might charge this world together, like wolves and locusts running the same field.
“They can turn Mana to pry open rifts, and they parasitize… the [Swarm] tossed us a knot of thorns,” she said, rubbing her messy hair like combing a wind-tangled net. She yawned, the sound a soft hinge in the quiet. Bugs were hard enough, and beast-type Monsters smashed like falling trees. All she could do was pray no [Cantata Three] landed in the Twelfth District, like praying the storm skirts the village.
“Seems it’s Xiao Li’s birthday tonight. I should ping Xiao,” she said, lifting the phone like lifting a paper crane. The Moon Owl was streaking through streets like a swallow, heat still on her heels. A month of work had burned the gift from her mind like dew in sun. The Old Woman’s gifts were hit-or-miss, and Yun Mengmeng’s ‘vibes’ felt like fog over a cliff.
She bought a boxed set of children’s hardcovers from a big mall, the covers glinting like fish scales, hoping… Illusory Glass wouldn’t mind.
“I’m back!”
The Moon Owl tore space like silk and stepped into the mentor’s dorm, readjusting her clothes like smoothing ripples. She ripped space again and entered the family quarters beside the dorm, a slip of night through a slit in the world.
The lights were out, and candles cast red-gold flicker in the living room, like ember-fire in a cave. The Old Woman and a little girl sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, waiting like cranes in snow.
“Sister Xiao won’t forget my birthday, right?” the girl asked, legs swinging like pendulums, cheeks puffed like buns, watching the candle melt like a small sun.
“Don’t worry. She won’t forget. See, she’s here,” the Old Woman said, smiling like a hearth as footsteps rushed like rain outside.
“Mom! Seriously, you knew I was back and didn’t tell Xiao Li,” the Moon Owl said, half-laughing like water over stone.
She turned to Illusory Glass, apology flooding her face like blush. “Xiao Li, I’m sorry. I’m late. Forgive me, okay? Oh—this is your present.”
She fumbled out the reader set, hands clumsy like mittens, and set it on the table corner like placing an egg. Anyone who knew the Moon Owl would’ve dropped their jaw like a fan, because she was frost outside, and now she tripped like spring deer.
“Since there’s a gift, I’ll forgive you! Hmph. But as punishment, you’ll tell me a story tonight,” the girl declared, chin up like a sprout.
“Deal,” the Moon Owl said, relief blooming like tea.
“Made your wish?” she asked, ruffling Xiao Li’s silver hair, soft as moon-thread.
“Made it,” the girl murmured, eyes dimming like stars behind cloud.
The Moon Owl understood, the ache landing like a leaf on water. Xiao Li wished for her real sister to come home, like a boat returning to harbor.
“Come on… cake. Birthdays should be bright, right?” the Old Woman cut in, shifting the mood like turning a fan, and slid the cake to Illusory Glass like passing a small moon.
“Yes, cake,” the Moon Owl echoed, exhaling like a tide. Xiao Li was only ten, easy to soothe like a cat.
After this night, she’d be eleven. Time ran like a river, and the child had grown taller without a sound.
Time, always a cold blade.
That night, the Moon Owl sat by Xiao Li’s bed, telling stories from the readers, words falling like petals.
“Sister Xiao, when will my sister come back?” Illusory Glass asked, gazing at the curtain breathing with wind and at the clear, cold moonlight spilling like water. A thin sadness clung like mist.
“She’ll come back. She will,” the Moon Owl said, voice steady as a stone.
…
Four days later.
“Rift imminent, rift imminent… locations: Nine, Eleven, Twelve,” the alarms cried, their sirens like iron throats.
A month of peace vanished like frost under sun. Night split in twenty-four districts, alarms tolling like red drums, with Nine, Eleven, Twelve first.
Sleepers jolted awake, their fear sweeping drowsiness away like wind through reeds. They rushed for safe zones like fish darting for deep water, because this wasn’t a drill. Fall behind and death would stalk like a shadow.
“Rift: [Beast] Level Two, [Swarm] Level One,” the boards flashed, lines bright as lightning.
Lingchen Yao and his dormmates woke to the howl, hearts knocking like sticks. Ren Changxiao cracked a window, and Jiuqiong was wrapped in a gray shield, a dome like clouded glass. It smothered moon and stars like a heavy lid. No one knew the outside sky.
Xun Xun sighed at the troubled season, the taste bitter as tea dregs, and texted his team: My alarm’s blaring. I’m out. Whoever takes the win can have it.
They’d just cheered him on, their words like sparklers, saying they’d win for sure. Then their alarms screamed too, and both teams went AFK in the fountain like statues in mist.
He called his dad, voice low as a wire at night, asking if he could snag some self-defense gear, like a knife in a boot.
Wang Qipeng was calmer, his breath slow as tide. Hugging a lewd anime body pillow like a shield, he slipped things out and hid them under the pillow like burying seeds. He slid off the bed, booted his PC, and began deleting files like cutting weeds.
Lingchen Yao squinted, calm laid on panic like paper on fire. He’d expected a large-scale invasion, but not so soon, like thunder before clouds. He hadn’t stepped into [Cantata Two]. His self-preservation was thin as paper.
He’d learned a formation this month. It could tank a few [Cantata Two] hits, like an umbrella in a squall.
And ever since he learned the carved wood with a formation could awaken his own carvings, he’d made a clutch of Dreadwolves, wood grain like frozen waves. In a pinch, he could throw one out to catch a blade, like a log catching a flood.
Why not use them as fighters? Because each Dreadwolf weakened, like tea after the third steeping. The first two could pass for [First Symphony], hot as fresh steel. The last ones were worse than common wolves, puppets whose strings still showed.
He tried tigers too. The first tiger was strong, like a mountain wind. Then they faltered, and he and the Eye Orb agreed: only the earliest carvings kept true strength, like first fruits on a branch.
Also, the more Mana he poured, the longer they moved, like oil feeding a lamp.
“Attention, students. Jiuqiong is sealed. You can leave, not enter. Don’t wander, walk like cranes,” the speakers crackled, voices layered like drums. “Faculty and Magic Maidens, gather at the central point. All certified agents, to your stations!”
Xun Xun pressed his panic down like flattening a wrinkle. He’d forgotten Jiuqiong was safe, fenced by top-grade Obsidian Stone, a wall never cracked, like night around a star. He hung up, eyed his avatar standing in the fountain, and rested fingers on mouse and keys like a musician to strings.
“Woohoo. Free win,” he said, smiling thin as a blade. Solo play bred stubborn faith, like a lone pine in snow.
Compared to Xun Xun and Wang Qipeng’s calm, Ren Changxiao and Lingchen Yao were rattled, their nerves like bowstrings. They’d met Monsters and knew their teeth, like men who’d seen wolves at dusk.
Lingchen Yao stared outside, worry knotting like twine. He feared for Granny Hao. Last time, someone found her in a hospital corner, untouched by bugs, like a sparrow spared by hawks. But this felt like a flood.
She’d raised him for decades, warmth stacked like quilts. She was family, solid as earth. He wanted to bolt through the door like a colt, but teachers had sealed it like wax. The only way out was down, like a stone from a roof.
“Hao Wenqian… give me strength…” he whispered, prayer thin as smoke. Hao Wenqian was a Magic Maiden. She was [First Symphony], but he believed she’d guard her kin like a tigress.
“Panic’s useless,” he told himself, the words a small anchor.
He palmed Xun Xun’s phone, called his own WeChat, and strapped the phone to a Dreadwolf’s head, the mount tight as a bridle. He sent it loping outside for a circuit, to scout like a hawk, because the dorm hid the world like a blindfold.
Touched by Mana, he felt the air press down like a stormfront, the pressure shoving toward earth. Without the Obsidian Stone wall, a few jumps outside would drain him like sun on frost.
