An afternoon on the range gave Lingchen Yao a feel for steel, like fingertips learning a river’s current; even the Eye Orb praised a spark of talent, though not much.

A training round slipped from the chamber like a darting fish, clipped the target’s rim, and the crack of the shot broke under a thunderclap outside.

The floor shivered like a struck drum, and from the seams of space came a dry chittering, like teeth on ice.

This club was decent, a hive of weekend shooters like starlings, until a broadcast said the Twelfth District was under Monster attack, and the hall turned to churned water.

Feet hammered like rain on tin, screams spiked like shattered glass, and panic spread through the shooting club like brushfire running uphill.

The air thickened with Abyssal Aura, metallic as stormwind, and Lingchen Yao knew at once the Abyssal Rift had opened, like a wound in the sky.

He set the gun down like laying a blade to rest, took a magitek handgun from the Eye Orb, and thumbed rounds in like seeds into soil.

He checked his phone; a little after six, with sunset a single thread of orange, a horizon ember swallowed by night and a violet seam.

“Four hours early!” The words fell like a stone, and his breath caught like a snagged kite.

Illusory Glass had said the remnant moon at zenith marked the peak stench of the Abyss, and that was when a Rift would unlace like a torn veil.

But it came early, four hours shaved off like bark, and every sense rang hollow as a bell.

The Abyssal Aura hadn’t reached the room’s limits, like water not yet at the lip, so the Rift shouldn’t have opened by any right.

Luckily it was the first stage, a door on its chain, so the nastier things wouldn’t crawl out yet, like wolves held by ice.

He could still make Yunyang Orphanage in that window, the thought a live coal in his chest.

He feared Qianchun and the others hadn’t finished the move, like a caravan caught at dusk, because the plan had only just begun to roll.

The Rift was widening at a steady creep, like ink on paper, and the first wave would flood in after ten-odd minutes.

By car, Yunyang Orphanage was half an hour, a distance long as a winter road, and finding a driver now was smoke in wind.

Bikes and feet were too slow, like oars in tar, so he chose to suit up and go.

Mana stitched around him like invisible silk, and Crimson fire bit it alight, a sudden blaze that swallowed him like a falling sun.

A pale arm reached from the blaze, trailing ash like moth wings, and Crimson fire dressed that white form in a red-black high-waist dress like fresh lacquer.

Flame spun in pupils like fireflies, burning black eyes to amber, a dusk-colored gold.

Boot-heels struck from the blaze like drumbeats, and the body launched like an arrow from a full bow.

Fire fell away like peeled bark, and Night Frost landed steady on a third-floor balcony, then climbed like a cat up dark stone.

At Yunyang Orphanage, the plan had tangled like wet rope; Lingchen Yao had set Qianchun there to volunteer, a reed in the flood.

She was to move kids and elders to the underground shelter before the Rifts, but the early opening struck like a rogue wave.

They’d only just sent a few children and the old director down, like birds into a hollow tree.

“Sis Qianchun, what do we do?” Hao Wenqian’s voice shook like a leaf, though her stance held like a post.

She’d grown close to Qianchun, sister by choice like tea shared, and liked her quick hands and steady eyes.

She knew Qianchun hid things like a pearl under silt, knew she was a Magic Maiden, and chose not to pry like a closed door.

“In a short span, the space shouldn’t spit Monsters,” Qianchun said, voice thin as silk, “so we move the kids now and pray the hour holds.”

Wenqian agreed with a nod like a falling petal, and they hustled children with quick hands like sparrows.

Light wind hauled Qianchun forward like a skiff, and Wenqian’s body-strength kept pace like iron wheels.

They sprinted the streets like deer between trees, racing time as if the clock had teeth.

Two runs later, most kids were out, like grains already threshed, and one more batch would do it by their count.

But the wide Rift yawned like a whale’s mouth, and the Monsters peeking out told them time had already curdled.

From the deep-violet seam, slender tendrils reached like blind vines, and ugly, armored insect Monsters tested the ground like thieves tasting air.

They circled like dogs, found no threat, and grew bold, marching in files like ants, then splitting down alleys on the scent of a feast.

Qianchun and Wenqian wanted to bolt back, hearts thrumming like snared birds, but a press of insects corked the street like gravel in a pipe.

They were weak one by one, crushable like dried husks, but in number they were a tide and a wall.

Emerald wind blades swept the mouth of the street like a scythe, showing clean asphalt like skin, and in a blink black beetles filled it again like oil.

Wings rasped like paper, mandibles scraped like knives, and harsh chirrs pressed from all sides like a swarm of needles.

Wenqian wrenched an iron railing loose like uprooting a stake, and swung it through the swarm like a bat, popping dozens like berries.

It felt cathartic like rain after heat, but standing in that crawl was nausea, a bile wave under the tongue.

“No way to clear these bugs?” Her shout cracked like ice, and her arms didn’t stop, a windmill in a storm.

Qianchun held a tiny vortex before them like a spinning coin, but her Mana bled away like water through reed, and teeth waited beyond.

“No way back,” she hissed, jaw tight as a clamp, and she pinched a Magic Stone in her pocket like a prayer bead.

She drew Mana carefully like sips from a canteen; she’d brought one stone, the rest left at the orphanage like bread for later.

Without stored Mana, her weakness showed like rust, and the black-shelled tide rose like night tide over shoals.

The little vortex shrank like a dying whirl, almost gone, and Wenqian’s rod hissed under acid, snapping like a wet twig.

“Careful!” Wenqian grabbed Qianchun into her arms like a shield, and a bug lunged past like a thrown hook.

To these fearless insects, a First Symphony Magic Maiden was sweeter than a common human, like honey over bread.

The ring of bugs tightened like a noose, until one person’s space remained like a coffin’s measure.

Wenqian’s last bit of stick vanished in the swarm like driftwood in flood, and her hands were empty as rain.

A beetle landed on her shoulder like a cold coin, mandibles biting flesh like wire cutters, and a mouthful tore free.

Pain lagged like thunder after lightning, then drilled in like a red-hot nail, and blood ran like wine, calling more.

Just as despair drew tight like winter, an unseen shield cupped them like glass, and Crimson fire rolled out, swallowing the swarm like dry grass.

The leaping light was what the bugs feared, a sun in the gutter, and soon the street smelled of scorched shells like burnt hair.

“It’s… Sister Xiaoyin!” The name rose like a breath, and a thin blue veil curved over them like water.

Flames burned outside like a hedge of poppies, and bugs hurled in turned to char and ash like spent paper.

Fire opened a road like a red carpet, and while the swarm loosened like frayed rope, Chen Xiaoyin dropped from a railing like a kite.

Qianchun helped the wounded Wenqian out like a steady oar, and after linking with Chen Xiaoyin, she spent her last strength like a coin.

She fell into the arms of the girl in a red-black dress like falling into dusk, and that girl was Night Frost, cool as frost on slate.

Night Frost scooped Qianchun up like a child, and Chen Xiaoyin shouldered Wenqian like a pack.

Night Frost drew a fuel can from the Eye Orb like a magician’s prop, splashed the street like rain, and raised a wall of fire like a kiln.

They slipped past the swarm like shadows, and ran for Yunyang Orphanage like arrows.

No one spoke on the way, wind in their throats like sand, because time pressed like a vise.

Near the orphanage, the bugs were few, two or three heads peeking from green like pebbles in moss.

The iron fence was bent by some Monster like a kicked gate, but the inside held clean as a swept room.

Night Frost laid a Formation outside like a thin skin, and Chen Xiaoyin dug up meds like roots, bandaging Wenqian with careful hands.

Qianchun lay by the door like a resting cat, watching the edges for skitter and shine like a sentry.

“Sis Xiaoyin, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the Mutual Aid Society branch?” Wenqian’s voice was sanded but steady like a beam.

She cauterized her necrotic, bleeding wound with a flame like a cruel kiss, pain and alcohol spiking nerves like needles, and she held back tears like a dam.

Chen Xiaoyin said worry had pulled her like a string, because the Rift opened without warning like a trap, and plans to support Jiuqiong University were cut like rope.

She led people to nearby shelters like a shepherd, calming folk like smoothing fur, happened to be close, and heard their danger like a bell.

She tied a bow in the bandage like a butterfly, neat as script, and patted Wenqian’s shoulder like a promise.

“Just happened to hear?” The words carried weight like a stone, and Chen Xiaoyin glanced outside at Night Frost, a familiar edge like a remembered face.

“Yeah, happened to catch it,” she said, breath even as a pond. “I ran over like a shot and found you under a swarm.”

“Be careful,” she added, voice firm as oak. “Without me and her, you’d be in bug bellies, and I’d have no sister closer than you.”

She slid into lecture like rain into gutters, and Wenqian hummed and nodded like reeds in wind.

This wasn’t a sister so much as a mother or a grandma, the thought rose like steam.

“That Magic Maiden, I’ve seen her,” Wenqian said in the sip-break, words soft as cotton. “Back at the hospital, she saved me like a lantern in fog.”

“I feel she’s good, like warm hands, but my superior said she’s a Magic Maiden from the Abyss, an enemy like a fox at the coop.”

“But she saved me again,” she murmured, eyes steady as stones. “I don’t know her angle, but I’ll trust her for now like a truce.”

Chen Xiaoyin weighed it like grain, set down her cup like a seal, and nodded.

She’d walked with Night Frost under guard like swords half drawn, knowing Night Frost had strength to break them like reeds but didn’t.

Night Frost saved Wenqian, a coin bright as day, and that was enough for a while like a lantern’s hour.

Outside, Night Frost finished the Formation like a spider’s veil, then sat beside Qianchun, trading words like warm tea.

The Eye Orb hopped from her sleeve like a marble, gulping the thickening Abyssal Aura like spice on air.

“That was your sister, right? How’d you meet?” Qianchun hugged her knees like a small hill, pale face flushed like dawn, studying Night Frost’s fine lines like brushwork.

Night Frost nodded without fuss like a quiet bell, snuffed the flame in her palm like a candle, and watched the thin Formation sheen like dragonfly wings.

“We bumped into each other on the street,” she said, voice calm as ash. “She was heading here, and we recognized each other like mirrors.”

Chen Xiaoyin likely knew Night Frost’s transformation spilled Abyssal Aura like dye, speeding Rifts like rot, so to her and Wenqian’s superiors Night Frost was a human-shaped Monster, a blade from the Abyss.

When they met, Chen Xiaoyin raised her shield and stepped back dozens of paces like tides retreating, and it stung a little like salt.

“At least I can keep them safe, right?” Night Frost stretched like a cat and flopped on the ground like a fallen leaf, eyes catching a tiny Rift in the sky like a crack in glass.

She wanted to patch that tear like a seamstress, so her friends and family could live quiet days like rice in a bowl.

“Sorry to cut in—bad news…” The Eye Orb hopped back like a pebble, pointing at a shadowed corner where a small Abyssal Rift opened like a mouth in stone.

Lesser Monsters slipped out like roaches, and two smacked into Night Frost’s Formation like moths to a window, harmless against a Formation fed by a Cantata Two Magic Stone.

She flicked a few flames like fireflies, and ended them like snuffed wicks.

Above Jiuqiong University, a rift yawned open; two scythes thrust from it, bracing its lips like iron crescents.

From within, a colossal thing heaved, trying to wrench the tear wider.

Under the monster’s pulling, the rift spread faster, screeching like torn silk.

Then Yuan Dai, the Twelfth District’s guardian, arrived on the field.

Her gut tightened first; she measured its presence—no doubt, a Chapter Three.

Illusory Glass had said it earlier, and she knew it: one Chapter Three couldn't stop that thing.

Even if she bet her life, she’d be the first to fall, a candle in a storm.

She relayed the situation to Blade, told him to call headquarters for aid.

But the satellite links were smothered—someone’s hand over the sky—so Order Keeper HQ received nothing.

The Twelfth District stood alone, an island in black water, forced to kindle its own miracle.