Weekend came like a quiet pond, and Night Frost didn’t have to step into a classroom; after days of grinding gears, she ached to rest, yet drifted aimless like a leaf.
The Twelfth District had rebuilt its signal towers, voice calls trickling like thin streams, but the net stayed dead; only a few computers tapped the Order Keeper’s inner web.
She couldn’t just march into the Twelfth District branch and swipe their rigs for games; that’d be obstruction, a red seal on her record, and the Seeker there rubbed her like sand.
Outside, there were no fun grounds left, only ribs of concrete and bitten steel; that damned bug and a sky of artillery had hammered everything into shattered cliffs.
Reconstruction moved like roots through soil; entertainment sprouts only after the pantry’s full, so joy held back like buds in late frost.
Night Frost thought a moment, and her mind lit like a lantern: her bargain master still squatted in the Twelfth District; she’d fallen behind on Formation practice, and wood carving gathered dust.
She remembered, a half-carved Dreadwolf once lounged in her dorm; now it slept under rubble, and worse, it was likely scorched into brittle charcoal.
Speaking of Formations, the Key her parents left had been snatched like a swallow’s egg from the eaves; it probably wouldn’t be returned like a lost kite.
She had to hunt that Key, but only after the Twelfth District steadied and Aklatia gathered strength like a coiling dragon.
Members of Aklatia should be met this weekend, faces like familiar constellations; most she’d seen already—Order Keeper staff, nodding every day in passing corridors.
Either way, she’d have to head for the Order Keeper branch, like a fish slipping toward deep water.
She tidied the rental with quick hands, dust spiraling like little ghosts; Qianchun slept next door, her sleep too thin, and worry gripped Night Frost like a cold ribbon.
She wished Qianchun would cherish her body, let work slide like late snow, or pass it to trusted hands like torches in a relay.
She opened the wardrobe, and a regiment of small dresses lined up like soldiers; Night Frost’s lips twitched—this closet ambushed her with surprises every time.
She, a proud manly man at heart, had fallen to wearing little skirts; facing a sea of hems, she sighed like wind through reeds.
But she had to wear them; Qianchun had stored away every neutral outfit, calling it a “trial,” when it was clearly a wish to see Night Frost bloom in lace.
She picked a knee-covering, light dress, fabric soft as mist; she slipped it on and zipped up smooth as a swan’s glide.
Please, her body was super flexible—cat-soft and ribbon-supple.
In the full-length mirror, her sleek black hair paired with beige like ink on sand; pale arms and back glimmered in air, and the lining held a gentle rise at her chest.
She stroked her smooth face, feeling vanity sprout like wildflowers after rain.
Tsk, tsk—Lingchen Yao, how could you slide so low; she’d find a way to change back, oath bright as a burning star.
Night Frost patted her cheeks, spirits braced like a drawn bow, and stepped out.
The street stayed quiet as a still river, but people had flowed in these days; buildings rose like fresh spears, promising homes returning like migrating birds.
Her rental’s lane seldom saw footsteps; maybe it was the few half-built, lightly damaged towers nearby—the place where she’d first met Yao Ting.
Who’s Yao Ting? Go look back and see, like turning a page in a wind.
Today, the sun was mischievous, bright as a coin yet hiding under sullen clouds; it poked its head like a child to warm Night Frost, and she hated swelter.
The muggy, dusty weather pressed like a damp quilt; moisture hung in the air like a veil, and Night Frost evaporated it with flame until steam ghosts fled.
She preferred dry heat—the kind that crackles like straw—over this heavy, wet blanket.
Stepping on fresh cement that shone like gray bread, Night Frost reached a hidden corner; she slid her hand in, and space rippled like pond rings.
She didn’t hesitate; she stepped through, like a bird diving into a cool cave.
Cold rushed up like a tide; the Order Keeper branch lay deep underground, where the naughty sun couldn’t pry, and the chill soothed her like mint.
Funny, really—she was deft with fire, yet hated days that smoldered like kilns.
Push the door, and a meeting hall sprawled like a hive; voices thrummed behind it, so Night Frost slipped through a side door into the staff warren.
Ahead stood three small doors like sentry stones; downstairs was the hospital, then the dorm one level below; straight ahead was Blade and the agents’ offices, and left, the cafeteria.
Night Frost knocked, rap-rap-rap like a woodpecker; after a breath, the door opened slow as dawn, and a young girl stepped out.
Night Frost knew her; she’d joined Aklatia days ago, a new shoot after fire.
The girl was a poor soul; her family hadn’t escaped the calamity, leaving her alone like a lone tree on a plain; Aklatia saved her, and she joined.
She worked well, steady as a clock, and Qianchun recommended her to the Twelfth District branch like placing a stone in a strong wall.
Her name was Yan Xin, if memory’s thread didn’t slip.
“Boss—no, Miss Night Frost,” she blurted, words fluttering like sparrows.
Yan Xin wore a simple T-shirt and loose shorts that hid mid-thigh, breezy as sails; freckles dotted her cheeks, round glasses perched, and papers in hand gave her scholar’s glow.
“Are you settling in here?” Night Frost asked, voice gentle as shade.
Yan Xin nodded, a neat bob like a reed in wind; people here treated her well, helped her with questions like lanterns in fog, and Blade cared for her like a mother.
Night Frost’s gut prickled, snow-fine; Blade felt like she was poaching her wall-brick, though the theft hadn’t landed yet.
“If you’re settling in, good,” Night Frost said, simple as a cup of tea.
Seeing Night Frost linger at the threshold like a cat, Yan Xin invited her in; half the room bent over work like plowmen, the other half probably dragged into Blade’s meeting hive.
Night Frost hated meetings—mountains of empty talk like husks; the real grain was always in the final summary.
Thinking of it made her head throb like a drum.
Yan Xin pulled a chair, wood scuffing like sand; she started to explain her recent work, but Night Frost understood none of it—just a useless college student nodding like a bobblehead.
Sensing her drifting mind like a kite, Yan Xin stopped and offered a tour; Night Frost refused, saying work shouldn’t be delayed, words neat as stitches.
She already knew the branch’s routes like veins; besides, Yan Xin was busy, and Night Frost wouldn’t disrupt the loom—Order Keeper’s troubles piled like ants, and her task screen dazzled like falling snow.
One level down, the hospital held injured Magic Maidens, rows of beds like waves; border riots had filled the ward, a flood of bandages and quiet breath.
Night Frost had called Chen Xiaoyin ahead of time; from the other end, Chen’s voice was steel wrapped in silk—no one at the border could touch her for now.
Further down were staff dorms, doors lined like chess pieces; Night Frost didn’t plan to enter.
She passed the long corridor, pale lights humming like bees, and reached a deeper lab where her bargain master worked like a mole in stone.
Knock, knock, knock—the sound tapped like rain.
Night Frost waited; no reply—though the sign said “at work,” maybe her old man was napping like a fox behind the door.
The studio was made of Obsidian Stone, black and dense like night ice, same as the branch’s outer ring, the black market’s Obsidian houses, and the gate of Jiuqiong University.
This Obsidian Stone blocked most Mana and Abyssal Aura like iron walls, and its soundproofing was first-rate, quiet as snow.
Night Frost pressed her ear to the Obsidian door; rustling crept out like mice, faint outside but inside it must be a storm of tools.
She knocked again, sharper, and her bargain master stirred; the Obsidian door parted a crack like a slit moon, and he peeked out like a wary cat.
Seeing his own apprentice, he undid the latches and pushed the door open, hinges breathing like old leather.
“Master, hello—” her greeting fluttered like a ribbon.
Night Frost stepped in, eyes sweeping like brushes.
First came a rich vinegar smell, sharp as rain on copper; her master still loved his sour snacks, habit rooted like ivy.
Next, a room messy yet ordered, items strewn like fallen leaves, each pile tagged with labels like little flags.
By the fire-aspect materials, Night Frost spotted Abyss plants she’d only read about—poisonous and harmless, Mana-boosters and fire-flux quickeners—a whole shelf like a dark garden.
The Formation cornerstone materials were even rarer, treasures bright as suns; each worth tens of millions, yet her bargain master tossed them among other base stones like pebbles.
Formations built with cornerstones stood steadier than normal, pillars against wind, but Night Frost never used them—too pricey for a mere ten-percent rise.
Her master’s notes said cornerstones could be forged into portable Formation disks; she loved the idea—on a battlefield, toss the disk, and with a Formation hand, a barrier blooms like a sudden wall.
These materials were rare as phoenix feathers, and the disk method incomplete; the Formation came out weaker than the original, yet instant bloom was gold in a fight.
On the small wooden desk lay fresh Formation blueprints, ink glistening like night rain that hadn’t dried.
Not far away, the floor was scorched black, a tile missing like a tooth, exposing tough Obsidian Stone—an accident mid-carving, no doubt.
“What brings you to your master today?” his voice rose like smoke.
He slid the Formations into a drawer and leaned closer, vinegar rolling off him like a sour fog.
“First, it’s been a while,” Night Frost said, smile gentle as tea steam. “Second, I’m here to learn from you, to sharpen my hands like blades.”
