After a full week of rest, Night Frost could walk this land without her Magic Armor, like dawn melting frost on stone. Her recovery was ridiculous.

Nothing big happened; the water stayed mirror‑still. Time slipped by like a quiet stream, and Chen Xiaoyin’s “school day” drew near.

One thing worth a note: the gravel road outside got skimmed with packed earth, a thin brown skin turning bumps into a flat.

Weariness first, then resolve—she’d burned years in high school and lost the taste for study. But for her parents, she kept climbing that cliff.

Joining the Order Keeper brought more gain than loss. Through the Twelfth District branch, she could dig twelve‑year records and find her birth parents—and their killer.

Her dream memories lived in fog; brief clearings vanished like mist under sun. On her own, hunting facts was fishing a needle from the sea.

She wouldn’t obey the Order Keeper in all things. The contract felt loose as smoke. She and the Eye Orb had a pact. Aklatia needed pulling up, its own force and hidden cards, to counter the one behind the curtain.

Chen Xiaoyin fetched the textbooks from the rental flat, edges still crisp as winter leaves.

Back in the Lingchen Yao days, she’d barely cracked them, not even signed her name. You could list them online as “girl‑used, ninety‑nine percent new.”

To match Night Frost’s look, Chen Xiaoyin conjured a clutch of pink little bags, cotton‑candy bright. Night Frost hated pink, wanted the old ones, but got vetoed hard.

Annoyance first—there were threats, not bribes. She stuffed everything into a bubble‑gum shoulder bag, sugary and small, a heart‑on‑sleeve kind of pack.

Qianchun’s clothes, at least, fit her eye, though the bag clashed like thunder with moonlight. A black shell jacket, loose knee‑shorts for movement, and snug black trainers.

No one knew where Qianchun had found them, like good gear pulled from a shadowed creek.

Black hair spilled over her shoulders like night water. The wind brushed pale thigh. Her copper‑gold eyes hid behind Order Keeper black contacts; to the world, she looked normal at last.

Stiff first, then motion—she worked a body that felt a bit rusted, joints aching like old hinges. Doctors warned against intense movement, but choice wasn’t hers.

In the past few days, her control and precision with Mana jumped like a flame finding clean air. Bone bonding had taught thrift—stable frame, minimal burn.

She greeted nurse and attending, then followed the dirt‑skinned path to the modular cabin’s corner. Moon Owl reached out and hauled her into the Order Keeper’s inner hall.

Blade sat with a chair and a small sip of coffee, cool as steel in shade, eyes locked on a screen.

A file lay before her. Seeing Night Frost, Blade slid it over. Night Frost took it, brows tilting; it listed new Magic Maidens and agents by name.

“This is?”

“New students’ profiles. Get familiar. Some intentions are foggy. The Twelfth District can’t stop these rats—but you can.”

The border here was a paper gate. Underground crews and neighboring Magic Maidens all wanted a slice. The District was an unfunded wasteland, ripe to develop.

Drive out local forces, wedge into the incoming, and you could grip the Twelfth District tight. The only real obstacle left was the Order Keeper of the District.

Night Frost skimmed and stored. Her memory held like dry clay taking print. School was still a bit away; time pooled calm and enough.

“Hmm?” A contract hid inside. It named the Order Keeper as Party B, Night Frost as Party A. It tasked one Magic Maiden from Cantata Two to join Aklatia.

Suspicion first, then clarity—Blade wanted a tighter watch on her, and an extra hidden card.

“Your heart’s big. Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with your girl?”

The terms held no snares for her. The Order Keeper would even pay. She signed with a firm hand and pressed a finger stained with her Blood.

Blade called in Zhao Qingsnow, had her sign the other side.

Impression first—Zhao Qingsnow had crushed her breath once. Those cutting strikes and bone‑deep cold stayed like scars in snow. Night Frost had nearly died in her hands.

Zhao Qingsnow’s eyes carried a clear dislike, a lingering grudge like ice under ash. Yet she signed, per Blade’s design.

“Relax. You two will get along. You’re more alike than you think.”

A hollow chime shivered the air, and Zhao Qingsnow left with Blade. She might serve under Aklatia’s banner, but Blade kept the leash. Night Frost didn’t mind the ropes.

She read a bit more, then returned the files to the desk. She took the Order Keeper’s little path, careful as a cat crossing rain, and stepped onto the street.

Day streets beat louder than night. People camped outside wore hardhats and moved gear hand to hand, mortar dust flying. In this Twelfth District, seven out of ten were slinging gray.

Because of that, rebuilding raced like bamboo after rain. In half a year, a rough skyline could rise again.

Word said Blade’s silver tongue pulled funds from Order Keeper HQ. The sum was lower than reported, but she’d padded the ledger like mud over stones. In the end, that was the chalked number; she’d cover the rest herself.

If someone stirred chaos, half a year would stretch like bad dough. For normal life, everyone pushed like oars in current. Night Frost would row too—for her people, Chen Xiaoyin, and the old dean grandma.

Embarrassment first—the pink bag felt like a sugar stain on her back.

It was her first time walking the street like this. She felt eyes land on her like drifting leaves. She’d instinctively shield the bag, and creep careful toward a junior high next to her apartment.

It gave her the odd feeling she was going to middle school, not university, as if years folded like paper cranes.

Replacement schools were in the works, scaffolds rising like ribs. Two or three months, maybe, if quick. Earth‑type Magic Maidens had it rough—working mortar before graduation.

The future for Magic Maidens looked shaky, sad as rain on a paper lantern.

Night Frost wasn’t earth‑type. At most, she could bake bricks or tend a boiler. No, scratch that—she was on the payroll now; slacking sounded tempting.

Joke first, then duty—some things still needed doing, for the shared interests of the Order Keeper and Aklatia.

The temporary junior high had taken a missile hit, but the shot was off and the quality poor—a dud, cold as dead iron.

Lucky, the school survived, like a reed bending past the storm.

She counted roughly a dozen classes, about thirty per. Agents to Magic Maidens ran seven to three. Competition cut sharp. Night Frost didn’t care; she cared about screening five hundred heads.

She held the tiny pink single‑strap close like a shield and followed the secure address from her Order Keeper phone to the corner classroom.

Just inside, she spotted the teacher by the podium, shuffling papers like leaves.

Well now—guess what?

It was the same teacher who’d taught her before. Jiuqiong University had decent resources. This one had a decade or two in chalk, lively lectures, solid craft.

Not the type to drone through a PPT like stale bread.

The seasoned teacher noticed Night Frost at the door. He quieted the students like wind pressed flat, then waved her in.

The room’s breezy mood sank heavy. Students stared at the teacher, some sharp, some dull; the dull got a pass.

Night Frost stepped in, and that long, lightly muscled leg triggered most boys’ eyes like a pulled switch, and drew a pinch of quiet malice.

“Waaah—” A strange sound rolled through the class like a bent flute.

Her foot hovered, unsure where to land; embarrassment flushed like heat under snow.

The teacher sensed it, pressed the room quiet again. Night Frost stepped in, wrote her name on the board, face calm in a very Japanese‑style intro, then took a seat by the window, second from the back.

She’d barely sat when a boy leaned in, fishing for her number. She turned away, mood flat as slate. In her head, she was a straight‑up guy; she couldn’t stand that.

Then it hit funny—she used to be the one doing the chasing. Now the tide chased her.

Illusory Glass watched near the classroom, ignoring Night Frost’s changed look. In her mind, Night Frost was still Lingchen Yao.

She glanced at the “Dawn” sign overhead. First loop, this place was barren as bone. Now—maybe a far‑off butterfly beat its wings, and everything shifted. Whether that was good or ill, she couldn’t tell.

She wasn’t going to sit and study obediently. A list of things remained undone. The Twelfth District dodged one crisis; that meant many would follow. Her power was the hinge of it all—so long as she could return…