The voice brushed Qianchun’s ear with a half-familiar sting, like wind over an old scar. She couldn’t place it—until a maimed hand bloomed pale-gold arcs of lightning, and memory snapped taut.

She recognized her old coworker—the climber who’d trade anything for favor, the one who’d almost shoved her through death’s gate. Her name… what was it?

Qianchun couldn’t pull it free.

It wasn’t the point—survival was. But Yao Ting’s dagger slit her skin, and silken numbness spilled in threads of current, riding her blood through every limb.

Qianchun pulled her Mana tight like a storm shutter, holding the outside current at bay, scraping the prickling haze from within. If she still had the Magic Stone, this’d be a breeze—she could’ve dropped the one behind her with a flick.

“Qin Qianchun! If it weren’t for you—if it weren’t for you, how would I end up like this? I should’ve risen smooth as a breeze, riches within reach. Why… it’s all your fault, all of it. Why don’t you just… die!”

Her mangled fingers wept tar-black blood, exposing pale bone; her pitch-black eyes swelled with fury, veins popping until the whites ran red.

“You know this, Qin Qianchun? You’re the one who severed my fingers! This is all on you!”

Disgust first, action after: Qianchun only shrugged. Yao Ting’s ruin wasn’t hers. Claw up by cutting others, skip the grind—she’d sown wind, now she reaped the storm.

Silence pooled around them; only Yao Ting’s heavy breathing dragged like a saw.

Ink-dark clouds sagging overhead shredded under the wild-plain wind; the moon whisked shadows off the earth. A gunshot cracked, rolling over the empty waste. A silver round punched Yao Ting’s cheek, baring jawbone; blood poured like a spilled pail.

Relief washed through; the tingling ebbed. An emerald wind blade slipped from Qianchun’s sleeve, thin as a cicada’s wing. It grazed Yao Ting’s neck; wine-dark blood fanned under silver moonlight, wickedly gorgeous.

White smoke breathed from the barrel in Lingchen Yao’s hands. He blew it away with a lazy puff, chuckled, and grinned at the Eye Orb and at Qianchun.

“So? Not bad, right? I can still shoot pretty straight!”

The Eye Orb shot him a look full of contempt but held its tongue. Five meters out, he’d aimed for her head and hit her mouth. That “skill”… worse than some rookies. Not just bad—abysmal.

Qianchun settled beside Lingchen Yao. She took the gun from the Eye Orb; load, rack, aim—all in one breath. The chamber spat sparks, starry and sharp. Rounds laced through Yao Ting’s left arm and calf, then one clean shot blew her skull apart.

No patience, no pity. Qianchun had nothing to say to her—four, five meetings at most, nothing but coworkers. But Yao Ting had set her heart on killing her. Even Qianchun’s mercy had run dry.

The corpse carried nothing worth a second glance. Figures—by the look of her, the new boss hadn’t invested a coin.

“Well, well—Qianchun. The former boss’s favorite pupil. Still sharp as ever. What a pity. I do wonder what price he dangled to make you this loyal.”

That oily, cloying voice stuck to her ears like syrup gone sour—unforgettable. The “new boss” wasn’t even one of them. No doubt about it: a backdoor ascension.

Mask or not, Qianchun could see the man beneath: a needle chin, a snub nose kicked skyward, eye corners squashed together. Ugly cheeks, a sickly grin, a leering gleam—patched into something inhuman, goblin-born.

His mind sparked, but only with petty lightning. Tricks he had; vision he didn’t. Useless for running an outfit—except for gutting his own people.

In less than a week, the house the old boss built had its beams yanked out. Most veterans walked. What stayed was a brittle shell—yet he strutted underground like a king with cardboard crown.

Like now: his gaze slid over Lingchen Yao and Qianchun with the chill sheen of contempt, as if people were stains on glass.

“I don’t get it. Why stick with him? Qianchun, the fruits of wealth hang low on my side. That busted gun? I could shovel you a heap of that trash.”

He raised a mechanized finger toward the gun in Lingchen Yao’s hand. His mouth tugged into a slit of a smile. Greed and spite broke surface in his eyes, a riptide pressing toward the two of them.

“If you want me back under you, I refuse. If you want to fight, I’ll oblige!”

No way back. Between this half-man, half-ghost and Lingchen Yao, she’d pick Lingchen Yao ten times over. He treated her well, and… heat climbed her cheeks as she felt the lingering warmth on her crown.

“Don’t play stupid! I’m giving you face here, Qin Qianchun!” His words cracked like a cheap whip.

Seeing the shy tilt of her head, even an idiot could read it—she wasn’t going with him.

Since Qianchun walked, the organization’s spine had softened to slurry. She’d held weight among the old guard. With her gone, the shell cracked, and every hidden fault line split at once.

He had no mortar to glue the bricks back.

So he hit the black market, ready to fence the old boss’s stash, cash up, and bolt before the rumor-storm broke.

Then luck—or folly—threw Qianchun into his line of sight. Something misfired in his skull; he decided the wreck might still be salvageable. Or maybe long-term profit finally rang a bell.

Whatever the reason, he hunted Qianchun down, hoping her name could breathe lungs back into a dying beast.

His abacus clicked loud. Offer a fat price, buy Qianchun back. The man she followed looked like a broke kid, no threat at all. Crook a finger, and she’d crawl back into his—sorry—the organization’s arms.

“Hold up, quick question—how should I address you?”

Lingchen Yao cut between them, the way a clean blade cuts rope. He’d sized the man up; his eyes set with wariness and open heat.

“You’re not qualified to know my name.”

Silence stretched; Lingchen Yao had no interest in chewing words with him. Then he said, frank as a hammer:

“Hey. Forgetting something? You’re poaching Qianchun in front of me. Did you ask me first?”

Lingchen Yao lifted the gun, black barrel leveled at that almost-comical mask. The round cracked free, a comet tail of flame, and slammed into the man’s shoulder. He rocked back and went down; blood ran from the center of his shoulder.

“Ahhh! I’m dying! You bastard!”

He clutched his shoulder and rolled, wailing. Lingchen Yao and the Eye Orb didn’t move; they just watched him like he’d tripped over his own shoelaces. When no one bit, he cut the act, stood, and brushed the dust flat-faced.

“Boring. Thought I could fool you. So you’ve got some eye.”

Lingchen Yao and the Eye Orb traded a look. Even a fool could see the shot missed anything vital. Through the torn fabric, a metallic gleam showed at the left chest and shoulder—obvious bodywork.

The air still stank of blood, but the stink belonged to the corpse behind Lingchen Yao. The “blood” on the ground around the man was likely some other fluid; unknown, and not worth stepping into.

“Give it up. From hand to shoulder I’m precision-modified. This arm catches bullets for breakfast.”

Lingchen Yao kept quiet, gun up, letting the man talk. Meanwhile his eyes searched for shadow to slip into and gear up.

“Still not giving up? With that clown aim—headshot called, shoulder hit delivered?”

Then he turned to Qianchun, painting fake sincerity across his eyes. He offered his mechanical arm; cold metal caught the moon’s silver, gray-white curves veined with thin electric blue.

“How about it? I’ve given you plenty of time. Qianchun, will you stay deluded? Follow him and you’ll get nothing, only—”

Bang!

A bullet stitched across his cheek, leaving a clean red line. Not Qianchun’s aim—his speed.

“Spare me your sugar rot. I’m not leaving. Here’s the truth on the table—you don’t measure up to him at all. Not one damn inch.”

Qianchun braced the gun with both hands. Emerald light sparked in her eyes. The wild air seemed to flow toward her, condensing into a keen blade.

Yet the man showed no fear. His modifications rated with a Cantata Two Magic Maiden, while Qianchun was still stalled at First Symphony.

“No problem. I’ll take you back and keep you till you bend to serve me. I’m very patient—only with women. Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

“Tsk. Not here.”

A man in a suit hefted a submachine gun etched with half an Array Pattern and tapped the sign by the stair:

Take it outside. If you don’t, you pay.

Lingchen Yao and the masked man shivered in sync. A few hundred bursts from that thing, and even a braced Cantata Two gets chewed into rags.

Out of “courtesy,” they moved the fight. The stair hatch clanged shut behind them; the suit salesman, his coworkers, and his boss wanted no part in what came next.

“So? Not coming?”

“You asked for it!”

The night wind rose howling, sweeping dust across the plain. The wind Qianchun had been nursing wrapped a bullet that was cold and burning all at once. Standoff shattered. Silence broke.