"Oh—forgot to remind you: you're an Order Keeper of the Twelfth District, not any other. Tomorrow I'll set up a meeting with Chen Xiaoyin. Relax—only I and the Moon Owl know who you are."

Blade gave Night Frost one last reminder, and the Moon Owl tore open space like a silk curtain, tossing her onto the hospital bed like a falling leaf.

The sheet hissed under a kiss of flame from her attire; the inner layer charred like toast, and sleeping on it felt like pebbles under snow.

She pulled the outer layer over herself, a little prayer rising like incense smoke, hoping the nurse wouldn’t fuss.

Of course, that hope was smoke on the wind.

Unease came first, thought second. If she dismissed her Magic Armor, she wouldn’t even have the strength to dress, and pain would bite like frost.

Keep it, and her Mana would drain like rain down a gutter; restoring the Armor later would be a steep climb on wet stone.

Two knives on the table: hurt all night and keep face, or lose face and hurt half the night.

A hero should be thus—pain is fine, pride must stand, like bamboo in a storm.

Then Night Frost dismissed the Magic Armor, the world suddenly cool as dawn.

Then Night Frost put the Magic Armor back on, flames wrapping her like a quick sunrise.

Yeah, she’s no “big man” now. The wise bow to the season—know the wind and bend like willow.

It really hurts—aaah! The cry flew like a sparrow.

Does dismissing count as sleeping naked? The thought drifted like a feather. The hospital blanket felt like dry paper under winter hands.

Wait—now isn’t the time for that, she scolded herself like thunder rumbling far away.

But there was nothing else to think, emptiness wide as a lake at night.

In the end, she hurt for half the night, a moon gnawing through clouds.

At dawn, the little nurse pushed the door. The scorched quilt filled her eyes like a burnt field at sunrise.

She panicked, thought a Monster had slipped into the ward, and reached for the phone like a bell rope for doctors and Order Keepers.

Night Frost stopped her before the alarm could ring, cutting the moment like a knife to string.

Using a sleepless night as kindling, she gathered a pinch of Mana, enough to sustain her Magic Armor like a candle shielded by two hands.

Not that she could sleep from the pain anyway; it gnawed like cold river water.

To re-equip without lighting the sheet, she had to be fast, precise, ruthless—like a hawk striking at dusk.

An elemental Magic Maiden is wrapped head to toe by her element when she transforms—full body flame, full body storm, a cocoon of power.

This time her fire was reined in just right, like a candle cupped in palms. She nearly burned through the sheet, and only a tight grip on the flames saved the mobile ward from becoming ash.

She handed the nurse the new papers Blade had arranged, promising the costs would be covered by the Order Keeper branch, like a steady tide paying the harbor.

The nurse dropped the blame; she wouldn’t have pressed anyway—Night Frost was bona fide Cantata Two, a title shining like a silver badge.

Money and Order Keepers—rumor says Order Keepers draw a fixed salary, a clockwork stipend like gears in a watch.

Who knows if that’s true. In the Twelfth District, even salaries for Magic Maidens and troops feel like drought in a dusty field.

“Thanks for the trouble,” Night Frost said, voice soft as mist.

Blade had warned her to be careful of Magic Maidens from other districts, thorns from other gardens.

Honestly, Night Frost knew little of their internal turf. She had just joined, so Blade kept her in the dark like a lantern without oil.

If the Eye Orb were around, it would explain, clear as spring water.

Speaking of the Eye Orb, the contract didn’t forbid her from growing Aklatia, a seed under stone.

Blade knew Night Frost had ties to Aklatia. If she wanted, she could have shackled it in ink, black on white like crows on snow.

No black and white ban meant tacit consent, a nod like moonlight.

So the Twelfth District Order Keepers might use a not-yet-built underground network as a hidden card, a blade under sleeve.

It fit Night Frost’s plan, a river finding its channel.

She needed hands, new branches for the tree.

If the Order Keepers were willing to help, she’d talk with Blade and steal some bricks from her wall, a quiet poach under night wind.

The nurse hauled the bedding out and dropped it into the big trash bin like a fallen leaf into a stream.

Night Frost sat quietly on the bare bedboard, chewing an apple from some unknown benefactor, crisp as autumn.

Blade had said she’d set up a meeting with Chen Xiaoyin. By the clock, it should be soon, second hand ticking like rain.

Night Frost polished off half a basket of fruit, but no Chen in sight, silence wide as a field.

Maybe Chen was busy, swallowed by tasks like ants swarming sugar.

The nurse did several laps, asking if Night Frost wanted a walk. Night Frost declined each time, refusal soft as fog.

She stared out the window, her eyes longing like a dry well for rain.

Busy. Everyone busy. Let them be busy, the thought drifting like clouds.

Just when she felt full to the throat, the door opened, a hinge sigh like wind through reed.

She expected the nurse. Instead, a girl walked in wearing a salt-blue uniform, the sea pressed into cloth.

Both arms were wrapped in two layers of heavy alloy bracers, metal like river stone.

Her black hair was pinned up, glossy as a raven’s wing.

Her face had grown delicate, with a faint steel in her brows like a drawn line. Youth clashed with maturity, giving her a quiet grace, dawn meeting dusk.

Seeing Chen Xiaoyin, Night Frost’s eyes stung; tears rose like tide.

No—since when was she this fragile? She clamped down on the rise, heart tight as a fist.

The beads that escaped were steamed away by a flicker of flame, and the room warmed like noon sun on slate.

“Excuse me—Blade said you wanted to see me. And I wanted to thank you for saving my life,” Chen said, words clean as a blade’s edge.

From that, Blade hadn’t told Chen her identity; truth lay folded like paper.

She dismissed the nurse, shut the door with a soft click, checked the corners like a cat in a storm, then spoke soft and slow, voice like rain.

“I know where Lingchen Yao is.”

At the first word, Chen stood, urgency rising like thunderheads. Her alloy-braced arms crashed onto Night Frost’s shoulder like an iron wave.

The jolt went straight to bone; the Mana holding her frame almost scattered like leaves on wind.

Seeing Night Frost’s face twitch, Chen realized she’d overdone it. She pulled back and apologized, voice like a cooling breeze.

Night Frost had the feeling she did it on purpose, mischief like a spark. She knew Night Frost was Lingchen Yao, so she hit harder, knowing Night Frost wouldn’t blame her, trust like rope.

“Sorry. I got excited. Do you know where my brother is? Lingchen Yao—the tall, skinny one…” Her face still showed worry, like rain hanging on the horizon.

“Mm. Your brother. That dashing, suave brother like wind through willows. Far away and right here. He’s me—” Night Frost pointed at herself, a quick peck like a sparrow.

Chen couldn’t accept it. Different gender, different sky. Night Frost was a girl. Lingchen Yao was a guy, two stars on separate paths.

How could a guy become a Magic Maiden? In history, no man ever did, a blank page.

“Please don’t joke,” she said, straight as an arrow.

Night Frost knew she wouldn’t buy it. So she pulled out her trump card, a satchel of secrets.

She recited every embarrassing past of Chen that she had pieced together over a long, sleepless night, threads woven like spider silk.

Yes, lying in a hospital bed leaves you plenty of idle knives, humor sharp as frost.

Take it. It’s all my secrets, and my last bullets, spent like sparks.

Tripping out the door and rolling into the sandpit; waking at midnight, missing the bathroom, wetting your pants; first time outside, crying from sheer fright… and more, memories like stones.

Chen knew that only Lingchen Yao and the old dean could know that much black history; belief cracked open like ice.

She also knew Lingchen Yao had no girlfriend, ruling out Night Frost as a girlfriend, logic clear as glass.

The only answer left was the right one, falling into place like a key in a lock.

“You’re Xiao Yao?!” Her voice leapt like a bird.

Night Frost nodded with relief. At last that long night of rummaging through memories paid off, dawn after vigil.

“How did you become like this? And you…” Chen’s words trailed like smoke.

Chen didn’t know what had happened. She had even attacked Night Frost before. The Abyssal Aura around Night Frost was too thick, like stormclouds over a sea.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you slowly—like pouring tea,” Night Frost began.

Before she could finish, weakness flowed through her like sand in an hourglass.

Her Mana hit the limit, a well gone dry.

Her Magic Armor dissolved into motes of light like fireflies, flicker by flicker.

Seeing the dispersing glow, Chen stripped off her alloy armguards, metal clacking like hail.

She caught the falling, bare Night Frost like a breeze catching a petal, gentle as shade.

“Cough, sorry. Looks like I’m out of Mana. Since I put on this bracelet, my sense for Mana’s been dull,” Night Frost said, breath thin as thread.

Warm sun poured over Night Frost’s smooth, slightly rounded belly—rounded by too much fruit—yet flawless like polished jade.

She was delicate as a doll, using clumsy hands, fighting pain, to cover what needed to be covered, modesty like a folded fan.

Eyes shut, cheeks burning, her long lashes curled like butterfly wings ready to rise.

Her skin was snow with a blush, soft enough to dent with a breath, spring peach on porcelain.

Chen held that flawless jade lightly. Night Frost’s small face, red as a peach, pulled at a person’s mercy like a tide.

Shame washed her, skin bare to open air like a lake at noon. She leaned into Chen’s arms like a fawn seeking shade.

Tense, afraid, she curled up, a startled rabbit hiding in reeds.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s just the two of us,” Chen soothed, voice like night rain.

Then the door swung open by accident, a gust through a paper screen.

The little nurse saw the scene and covered her eyes, a hand like a shutter. She grabbed Qianchun at the door and dragged her away, footsteps pattering like sparrows.

Qianchun didn’t see a thing, blink wide as ponds.

The nurse muttered like a sparrow. Qianchun stared, asked what was going on. She wouldn’t say, lips sealed like a jar.

“Times are falling… and she’s a patient. Better left unsaid. Better not imagined,” she whispered, words like leaves.

Inside, the air turned awkward, a breeze that lost its path.

Chen felt she’d jinxed it again, crow on the branch. She looked around like a cat in a new house.

She grabbed the outfit Qianchun had brought for Night Frost, cloth soft as sky. In a flurry, she put it on her without asking, fingers quick as rain.

“Could you get me a wheelchair?” Night Frost asked, voice thin as smoke.

The voice from inside spooked the nurse again. She ran out and pushed back a wheelchair from the hall, wheels humming like bees.

Qianchun slipped in with the chance, a fish through reeds. She saw Night Frost sitting oddly in a sky-blue dress and bit down on a laugh, smile bubbling like spring.

Then she greeted them, words bright as lanterns. “Hi, Sister Xiaoyin. Hi, Chen—Yao.”

Chen shot Qianchun a suspicious look, eyes narrow as slits. So that’s why Qianchun said no need to look for Lingchen Yao. She knew already, truth like a coin in palm.

Could it be… clouds thickening with questions.

The air went strange again, like a wind that forgets which way to blow.