Back at the dorm, Lingchen Yao slid the curtain shut, a strip of night falling.

He eased open the crushed paper in his palm, like a crumpled moth, and Illusory Glass’s neat script surfaced: meet under the library lake lamp tonight.

Eye Orb muttered under its breath, like a pebble skittering in a cup: Is this really a confession?

She’s eleven or twelve—are little girls this early now? And what virtues does Lingchen Yao even have?

A shout cracked behind him like a snapped branch; Lingchen’s broad hand swept down, and the Eye Orb thudded into the back of the cabinet.

He turned; a finger stabbed at the note on the desk, stray thoughts threading into a line, then condensing into one sentence that rang in the tight four-man room.

Holy crap—some little girl confessed to Brother Yao!

The quiet dorm burst like a kettle; Ren Changxiao jerked up from his nap, core flexed, and Wang Qipeng slid off his headphones, anime glow fading from his eyes.

He stared at Lingchen, eyes brimming with rage and sorrow, like storm and rain bottled behind glass.

Lingchen crumpled the note and tossed it aside, a spent leaf, trying to say he was innocent; she came to him, and that ignited the crowd’s ire.

As dorm head, Ren Changxiao huddled with Xun Xun and Wang Qipeng for a few minutes, then decreed like a gavel: exile Lingchen tonight; entry forbidden.

After shooing the idlers, Lingchen sprawled back on his chair, fished the Eye Orb from the cabinet’s shadow, and they shared a look, a weary tide.

You can’t even slack in a dorm, he thought, like a cat on a hot roof.

Good thing you didn’t get seen, like a fish slipping under reeds.

He poked the Eye Orb, lay there a while, then headed to class; the path to being a proper agent was long, like a road through fog.

By the time the library streets lit up orange, Lingchen stepped out of the teaching building, his mind worn thin like paper in the wind.

He dropped his bag, savoring one of the day’s few quiet moments, a warm pocket of dusk—but tonight, he had an appointment.

Jokes aside, neither he nor the Eye Orb believed a girl who held a grudge against him would confess under moon and lamp.

Orange lamps washed the bench and shrubs; under crisp moonlight, couples cooed like doves—common fauna of a campus night.

He ignored them and walked to the bench, facing Illusory Glass, her hair tinted amber by the lamp, a fairy-tale reader cradled like a shell.

She read so deeply she didn’t notice him; he dropped beside her, the bench sighing, and glanced at the page.

The warrior’s sword unfurled into a handsome griffin, bearing a princess through wind and cloud, yet the demon king’s curse shortened her span like frost on grass.

So the warrior on the griffin vowed to hunt the evil king, like a falcon stooping on prey.

She closed the book only when a blank page appeared, like snow at the trail’s end.

Sorry.

Lingchen reclined with eyes shut, then cracked one open, measuring the girl eight, nine years younger than him, as if weighing a pebble in the palm.

Ordinary at a glance, yet Illusory Glass always felt not simple, like a stream hiding a whirlpool.

I’m glad you came on time, and didn’t disturb my reading; I don’t think you’re bad, but some things drag us, like tides—right?

Her glassy eyes narrowed, silver light pooled inside; while he measured her, she measured him, like mirrors facing mirrors.

Reading at night hurts your eyes, like sand in the lens.

You play on your phone after lights-out; you don’t get to lecture me, she shot back, words sharp as icicles.

He hadn’t expected that from such a small figure; her tongue had a blade, like a hidden knife in silk.

Illusory Glass rose, glanced at the shadowed shrubs, and gripped his sleeve.

He traced her look to the trio crouched there, then went with her, leaving a sigh like smoke.

Xun Xun, Wang Qipeng, and Ren Changxiao poked their heads out, watching the two recede, embarrassed to trail further, like cats caught under a porch.

They traded looks—were they hiding that badly?—faces like masks slipping.

Illusory Glass led Lingchen to the lakeside; the moon poured down, and their long shadows rippled with the water’s skin.

I won’t waste words; straight to it—Magic Maiden Night Frost and the Doctor of Aklatia.

At her words, Mana in Lingchen surged, coalescing into Crimson flame; the Eye Orb slid out of his hood, a blue beam lancing from its pupil onto her.

That earlier prickle of unease melted, replaced by a deeper cold; second meeting, yet she pinned his secrets like needles.

He weighed whether to move, to keep her here, like netting a bright fish under night water.

No fear showed in her eyes; she stepped closer, cold Mana spilling from her like winter mist, as if time itself would freeze.

I mean no harm; I only want to talk. Otherwise, you’d already be dead.

She bluffed a little; she could wound him now, but not kill—his Myth would haul him back from the gate, like a hand from the abyss.

The breath of Cantata Two spilled without restraint, the long rhyme of time curling around her; in Lingchen’s eyes, everything sped up—the girl, the Eye Orb, the scene, even sound.

The world sped up? No—I’m slower, he felt, like sinking into syrup.

A heartbeat later, it all slowed; leaves fell in near-still frames, moonlight lay evenly on each droplet, and splashes broke from the lake like glass flowers.

He stared at his own body, unbelieving; if he guessed right, this power was—

Time?

If that’s her constant skill, he has no chance against her; even as a burst, this lag could have killed him ten times.

The Eye Orb widened, remembering a tome from years ago—compiled by the Seeker’s forerunner, now only fragments—cataloging some Magic Maiden powers, a corner note whispering of time.

Across history, Magic Maiden abilities keep blooming; modern Seekers classify them as Mystic, Physical, Hybrid, and Natural.

Natural and Physical are common; Hybrid and Mystic rose in recent years, yet time and space, the crowns, are rare as comets.

Once a century, a Mystic seedling appears; without exception, they become top figures—Cantata Two shaking Cantata Three, Cantata Three striking the Abyss’s peak.

Space has an unbroken record, lines intact; time’s record sank into the river of time, washed thin, leaving only a few shabby books whispering of them.

Is it truly time?

Illusory Glass waved; the green blades by the path lived and died in a blink, then slumped, soft as wet paper.

The real deal.

The Eye Orb recorded her Mana’s frequency—unseen before—no doubt: Illusory Glass was a time Magic Maiden, the secret within the Mystic.

The shock passed for both of them; calming, Lingchen spoke, even if he couldn’t win, he wouldn’t wilt.

So, your goal?

Let me join you. Make me your ally—I can offer assets, and people for your group, if you take me in.

My power is my letter of hire. Miss Night Frost, are you satisfied?

Lingchen narrowed his eyes; sweet terms aside, Illusory Glass wasn’t someone to trust—a ticking bomb wrapped like candy.

I need your reasons, your aim. Aklatia is a hollow shell right now—why approach me, or the Eye Orb?

She didn’t plan to hide things from him, but she didn’t trust the Eye Orb, a second sun staring.

You will die. I came to twist your fate. I can tell you everything, but only to you alone.

Lingchen flung the Eye Orb from his shoulder, and the world slowed again, like thick ink spreading; the two faced each other, her voice light as feathers at his ear.

Three days from now, Cantata Three descends; a tide of Monsters besieges the city; Chen Xiaoyin dies.

You sign a pact with a dragon, become nonhuman, and an unknown Cantata Three kills you.

If anyone else said it, he’d scoff; but this eleven or twelve-year-old knew him to the bone, a time wielder from the future—he felt belief stir like sap.

So, your decision?

I need time. I still doubt you. I’ll watch what you said; if everyone survives this disaster, I’ll agree.

He didn’t promise outright, but her aim was met; to avoid Chen Xiaoyin’s death, he would strive to bend the future, like a smith hammering fate.

Time around them settled; Lingchen grabbed the Eye Orb by its nerve-like tail and slipped into the ink-dark night.

Illusory Glass watched him once, her hope for this cycle landing on him like a moth to a lantern.

But she wouldn’t stake it all on Lingchen; Myth can strain against fate, yet the Myth in him is limited, and outside force is needed—a wind behind the sail.

And that wind—she would have to claim herself.

Illusory Glass tightened her pale, pink-white fist, like a blossom clenched against frost.