The sky was a smeared slate, war-dust heaped under the Abyssal Rift above the Twelfth District like ash beneath a cracked kiln. The sun tried to pour down a blade of light, but thick grit and the yawning Rift turned it back like a shield.

Up there, the tear in the air slowly drew shut, pressed by the joint seal of other districts’ Cantata Three, like stitches tugging a wound together. Yet the gash was so wide, even healing crawled like winter sap.

If the Abyssal Rift wasn’t sealed in time, other Abysses would ride that wound down into the Twelfth District like wolves through a broken fence. They’d strike out from here, a dark tide rolling toward the human world. Sealing it wasn’t a task; it was a clock with a knife for a hand.

Qianchun and Hao Wenqian joined the city’s rebuilding crews, a stream of ant-like figures moving rubble into order. The Order Keeper branch cleared Qianchun’s charges, letting her move on the surface like a freed bird. She volunteered, wanting to push the ruins toward streets again.

No matter how sour the memories tasted, this dust-choked place was still Qianchun’s hometown, a field where her past had once been planted.

Before her, the city was a mosaic of broken teeth. Qianchun stood on the severed concrete arm of a toppled statue near the orphanage, and sent her scant Mana outward like a thin breeze feeling for thorns.

She didn’t find the Eye Orb, but she caught a faint smear of Abyssal Aura, like a cold fingerprint on glass. Maybe it was tied to the Eye Orb. Maybe it was just weak Monsters shedding shadows as they passed.

Either way, Qianchun, Qiu Sheng, and Hao Wenqian would go take a look, because a flicker in fog still promised a flame.

After they were saved last time, Qiu Sheng, Hao Wenqian, Zhang Jialu, and Xia Qingqing formed a new squad, footfalls in step on shattered streets. They invited Qianchun, but she declined with a soft shake, like a leaf refusing a river. She was Aklatia, and they were Order Keepers who kept the peace.

In private they could move together like shadows. In daylight, at most, they were “cooperating,” a bridge laid only when needed. More than that, Night Frost hadn’t woken. Without her, certain choices were a locked gate.

She’d heard Night Frost was inside a temporary ward the Order Keeper set up at Jiuqiong University, a steel cocoon in the city’s ribs. She even reached the door, but the guards stopped her with stiff faces, calling the inside “dangerous individuals,” a warning sign slapped on a closed road.

Night Frost could get a bit manic, sure, lightning bottled in a human shell. In raw power she could probably trade a couple blows with a Cantata Three. That didn’t sound like a “dangerous individual,” right… probably?

They followed the thread of Abyssal Aura to its frayed end. It led to what had been a convenience store, now a belly-up fish. Scattered soda bottles rolled like dull marbles, and flattened rice balls lay like stamped leaves.

Just in case, Qianchun sent wind magic ahead, a whispering scout through dust. Nothing stirred, so Hao Wenqian bent to lift a slab of concrete, muscles coiling like rope. The instant she raised it, the air snapped—change sprang like a snake.

A creature that clung to the slab’s underside darted forward with needle speed, lunging for Hao Wenqian’s exposed arms while her mind lagged a heartbeat behind.

Hao Wenqian froze, but Qiu Sheng stood behind her like a grounded rod. She snapped off a thunderclap—lightning cracked, and the worm-thing took the bolt head-on. Its body charred, then dropped straight down like a burnt twig.

“Is this a nest?”

Behind the stone lay a hive made of viscous white slurry, a sick honeycomb. Inside, pale eggs were set in neat rows, the brood of that insect Monster.

The Order Keeper handbook had been clear: for insect nests, fire and lightning were clean ways to end eggs, like frost sweeping a field. If you lacked those or missed a clutch, report up to Cantata Two for processing.

Qiu Sheng was a Magic Maiden of lightning. Against eggs like these, she was a storm with no mercy.

Qianchun felt a little hollow, like a cup with no refill. She still hadn’t found the Eye Orb.

“Ah. Were you looking for me?”

The familiar voice brushed her ear like a fingertip on water. Qianchun brightened and turned, but what stepped into her sight was a tall, thin man, a dark reed in a dead marsh. He wore a black trench coat, a brimmed hat casting a shadow, and a mask that hid his face like mist hides a mountain.

He opened his gloved palm. The Eye Orb stood there on the black leather like a small moon, its gaze fixed on Qianchun and the others.

The Eye Orb had tagged both Qianchun and Night Frost. Qianchun’s tag still pulsed like a faint lighthouse; Night Frost’s had gone dark, a star fallen from the map. So the Eye Orb could only come to Qianchun.

“I’m sorry… but I have to leave,” it said, voice calm as a closed book.

The Eye Orb poured out the contents of its storage space, a pocket of air turned inside out. Nothing there glittered with much value: a diary that smelled like an experiment notebook, some chipped Magic Stones, Night Frost’s clothes, and other small, quiet things.

Lin glanced through them, eyes sifting like a sieve. Nothing special. No core research. The notebook had only two pages, and even those said almost nothing.

Qianchun pinched a wind blade between her fingers, a thin crescent waiting. She could tell the Eye Orb had no real choice.

Odds were, this man had found it first. He knew what the Eye Orb was, and his strength sat above theirs like a hawk over field mice. Otherwise he wouldn’t stand here so brazenly with the Eye Orb, facing three First Symphony operatives without a ripple.

The Eye Orb’s return was mercy, a rare lantern set down so the night travelers could say goodbye.

Qianchun steadied her breath, a pond clearing after a tossed stone. The three of them couldn’t stop him. The way he’d slipped up on them without so much as a stir had already written his power in the dust. If he wanted to move, the three of them would end as names on a list.

She felt reluctant to let go. She hadn’t worked with the Eye Orb for long, but she’d learned it was a fine guide, bright with cleverness and heavy with knowledge. He—no, it—felt like a scholar-giant, with a mind ordinary people could barely climb.

He was approachable too, a tower with an open door. Because of that, Qianchun carried a small warmth for him.

“Help him well. I’m leaving… I’m entrusting Aklatia to you.”

The Eye Orb closed its lid like an eye refusing tears. He hated goodbyes most of all; they dragged up the memory of a dead boss and a last request that still weighed like an anchor.

“We’ll come find you!” Qianchun called, voice like a thrown rope.

The Eye Orb looked at her. With no mouth, it couldn’t smile; yet a glint at the corner of its eye hinted at sunlight.

Yes. The seed of Aklatia was already in the ground. Even without him, it could bloom and bear fruit in its own season. What complaint could he have?

Next came revenge, didn’t it?

Lin closed his fingers, veiling the Eye Orb’s sight like a curtain. He turned, flashed Qianchun a thumbs-up at the worst possible time like a boy at a funeral, then walked to the street’s end and vanished like smoke in wind.

Qianchun gathered the scattered items, each a pebble of a shared road. She asked the three for leave, then returned to her rented room near the District border, a lone house spared by the storm like a rock the river split around.

The landlady really did have luck, a green sprout in scorched earth.

She laid the things out on the table: Magic Stone fragments, clothes, the notebook. She sifted for use like a gleaner in a field.

The Magic Stone shards had some price, but not much. The clothes—Night Frost likely wouldn’t need them; the ruins had plenty of new outfits still in their wrappers. Pocketing a few wouldn’t stir a soul, and when Night Frost woke, surprise might be waiting like a ribboned box.

The notebook recorded an experiment from years ago, ink like faded veins. It cut off halfway, and a few pages had been burned out, edges curling like autumn leaves. Who knew what had been there.

Nothing here screamed a path. Maybe the most valuable pieces were just that one Magic Stone and the notebook, a pair of quiet keys with no lock in sight.

She folded the clothes neat and square and slid them into the cabinet, like storing snow. The Magic Stone and the notebook went into the drawer under the PC desk, a small vault under a wooden wave.

Moon Owl, who’d lain in bed two or three days, pushed herself up at last, like dawn pressing through blinds. This was the branch infirmary. Which meant they’d survived the two Magic Maidens’ hands somehow, though Moon Owl didn’t know how that coin had landed.

Her body moved like mismatched gears; she could barely feel her limbs. A nurse beside her said it was heavy Mana congestion pooling in her arms and legs, mud in the channels.

That was the price for multiple rapid unsealings, frostbite after too many winters in one night. It didn’t stop her work completely: if she couldn’t rely on limbs, she still had magic. Killing would be slower, but as a Cantata Three, she could still grind most foes like grain.

She just didn’t know how long it would take to return to full bloom.

The Twelfth District needed a strong figure to hold the stage like a pillar in a broken hall. Her power was fine, but until she healed, she shouldn’t spark conflicts with other groups. Blade would think that way; and so would she.

The satphone on her pillow buzzed like a trapped bee. The nurse hit the button and hurried out. Blade’s voice came through the wire like a steady flame.

“How’s your body?”

He’d heard Moon Owl was awake and called at once, concern rising like warm steam.

“I’m okay. Just that my limbs don’t move well for now. Probably the cost of all those releases?”

Her words left Blade silent for a breath, a pause like a held tide. He told her to rest more, then sketched a few strokes of recent events before hanging up.

Moon Owl was a space-type Magic Maiden. Stiff limbs wouldn’t blunt her magic much, but in close quarters she’d be a bird with folded wings. For days, she couldn’t show her face; she’d sit as a hidden card against outside knives.

Blade decided not to let news of Moon Owl’s promotion to Cantata Three spread, fog laid over a beacon. For a short while, those vultures shouldn’t fix their eyes on the Twelfth District.

Blade would be busy, a weaver at a smoking loom.

Illusory Glass, as Moon Owl’s family, was protected by the Order Keeper along with Moon Owl’s grandmother, kept like seeds in a cellar. These days she had nothing to do and nowhere to go, boredom dripping like a leaky tap.

Wearing black pajamas, a strand of white hair slipped from her hood like a comet tail. She sprawled on the bed and rolled twice, laziness seeping like warm tea. She knew rushing meant nothing now; winter doesn’t end faster because you glare at it.

Luckily, Blade knew kids her age. He’d prepared a stack of comic books, bright paper roofs in a dark town. She’d read most, though a few favorites still drew her back, page after page like stepping stones she loved.

Living long under the Order Keeper branch’s underground felt like breathing through cloth. She also didn’t know how Night Frost was, or her sister. If Moon Owl met an end, Illusory Glass would reincarnate without hesitation, starting life again like a spring reset.

Moon Owl’s grandmother vanished out at dawn and returned late each day, no one stopping the old river from finding its way. She came back with armfuls of groceries, baskets like small harvests. It was hard not to picture her at a fresh market, but outside there was no market, only rubble under a gray sky.

Illusory Glass wanted to go out with the grandmother, but those tactless First Symphony guards blocked her like brick walls.

She’d thought of slipping out with time magic, a clock turned sly. But the cameras would expose her as a Magic Maiden, a brand on a bare back. So after talking it through with Caris, she promised to bring any useful intel back instead of rushing the door.

She still doubted Caris, a thorn she didn’t pull. But Caris had followed Illusory Glass’s orders and rescued every Cantata Two at Jiuqiong University, Illusory Glass included. If Caris had meant to betray her, that battlefield was the place to sink the knife. Something had happened to twist the path; the betrayal, if any, wasn’t now.

Short-term, she could trust. Over time, even iron rusts.

The patrolling Magic Maiden just passed when a cloud of blood-mist swirled into the room, hanging like wine smoke. It gathered, and Caris took shape, small bat wings patting the air, silver hair falling like poured moonlight. Pride, fondness, and joy warmed her eyes as she spoke.

“I’ve got one good piece of news and one bad piece. Which do you want first?”

She wanted Illusory Glass to guess, to play a pebble game in the dust. Illusory Glass wasn’t having it. She wasn’t the child she’d been a few lives back, and she wouldn’t waste time on riddles dressed as gifts.

“Cut the fluff. Talk.”

“Your sister’s awake, but her limbs are a bit of a problem… too many releases, they say.”

Caris had no choice but to shrug. Since their first meeting, Illusory Glass hadn’t spared her a kind face. Who knew what storms this child had walked through these years.

Hearing Moon Owl lived, Illusory Glass sprang up three feet like a cork from deep water. Joy flooded her head, washing fatigue away like rain sweeping dust. Tears flashed at her eye corners, grief and delight mixing into one hot line.

She grabbed Caris with both hands and lifted her like a doll. Caris met those glassy eyes, blue like a clear pond. It was the first time she’d seen Illusory Glass wear such a lovely face, an expression that felt real as sunlight on skin.

“See? Still a kid at heart…”

A thread of silver, almost invisible, anchored itself in the room, a fisherman’s line tied to an unseen peg. After she finished burning bright, Illusory Glass sank into sleep, deep and heavy as a stone in a well.

She’d reincarnated who knew how many loops, and at last, her sister had survived a war that promised death like winter promises cold. The moment she heard it, the knots inside her loosened like thawed ropes, and the force propping her up slipped away like a spent tide.

She dropped onto the bed. Caris straightened her, then drew the quilt over her like a soft wing.

Illusory Glass slept deep, breath slow as tide. Caris watched it all, an ember behind glass.

“Mhm… that’s so good…”

These days, she’d been doing tasks for Illusory Glass, never at her side for long, until she finished the last order on the battlefield—shield every Cantata Two in the Twelfth District, like a cloak thrown over a shivering crowd.

On the broken-bone ruins of Jiuqiong University, Caris found Illusory Glass collapsed and carried her home, like lifting a fallen shard from ash.

She didn’t know what had cracked open inside her, but a rise to Cantata Two in days and a battlefield blackout speak volumes.

“You’ve grown up. But my time’s running thin... I don’t want to drag you in, yet I have no choice.”

Caris watched Illusory Glass sleep, closed those unwilling blood-red eyes, and shook her head.

She bled into mist and pressed through the thin air, slipping out of the branch.

Illusory Glass moved a finger on the bed, then opened her glassy, hazed eyes; in a heartbeat, that weariness blew clean.

She had heard everything.

Every word, like beads on a string, not a syllable off.