Night Frost agreed, cold anger rising like frost on glass. They waved banners of revenge and injustice, faces lacquered in virtue, hearts steeped in rot and blood.

She set her jaw, a vow cutting clean as ice. The Aklatia the Eye Orb had entrusted to her would not sink into that mire.

This was the Twelfth District’s turf, a border marked like ink on parchment. These frontier crews had already broken the rules, and they dared threaten the District under a false banner.

Night Frost and Chen Xiaoyin had the right to drive them out, as a broom sweeps dust from a threshold. If they dug in their heels, the blade of judgment could fall.

It wasn’t easy. The District was thin on hands, a winter field lacking plowmen. If not, these border crews would never have slipped in or camped on the edge.

Their strength and gear were solid, steel and smoke. Together, they had three Cantata Two. Uprooting them might take half the District’s Cantata Two, marched to a far horizon.

If the headquarters or the team stumbled, there’d be no swift backline, no lifeline tossed across the wind. The Twelfth District was rebuilding, a charred city lifting beams.

Manpower and raw force were scarce, like water in a cracked cistern. A rash strike would open gaps, and vermin would flow through.

Yet letting them rampage here would be weeds choking a garden. Chen Xiaoyin decided to move them out. Blade likely foresaw it and called Night Frost in.

Using Aklatia’s banner to recruit Kaneko’s crew was smoke without fire. It wasn’t realistic, just paper talk.

Chen Xiaoyin had progressed fast, a young pine hardening in snow. She was strong, yet she couldn’t bring herself to kill. The Mutual Aid Society had shaped her.

Night Frost was different, a fighter tempered in life-and-death clamor. Her mercy was a knife sheathed, not broken.

The three leaders were Cantata Two tier, but they were modified, bodies patched with steel. Flaws shone like seams under rain.

Night Frost’s Crimson Gold Flame burned hotter than common fire, a kiln under a desert sun. Intel said they hadn’t added anti-fire mods. She could handle two.

Hands were few, like candles in a long night. Counting Night Frost, the strike team had five: Chen Xiaoyin, Night Frost, Xia Qingqing, Zhang Jialu, and Qiu Sheng.

Aside from Chen and Qiu Sheng, the others still fumbled, like new archers in wind. Night Frost worried for Xia Qingqing and Zhang Jialu.

During the Monster tide, they hadn’t shone. Zhang least of all, a lamp flickering in a draft.

The lackeys numbered around fifty, a swarm with rifles gleaming like cold rain. While Night Frost and Chen faced the leaders, Qiu Sheng’s trio would meet the fifty.

Even as First Symphony, with tight shooting and clean Mana, they still couldn’t handle that many armored men at once, a net too thick.

Another thorn: Night Frost knew Chen Xiaoyin, the way Chen knew Lingchen Yao. Kindness lived in her, a spring. Sometimes springs drown a field.

If they used Kaneko as a lever, hearts might bend like reeds. Night Frost doubted Kaneko was simple, though; there was iron in that silk.

Better to pull Kaneko out first, before some dark turn. A storm warns with a flicker; you don’t wait for the lightning.

So the plan shaped itself like clay on a wheel: rescue Kaneko, thin their numbers, then take chances to crack the three leaders.

Their three camps sat close, like watchfires in a line. Maybe to keep each other honest, maybe to cover each other fast.

At that distance, a spark in one camp would draw the other two like crows to a shout. Speed would be their river.

Night Frost had an idea, a match struck in dusk. Hit first. Put one camp to flame. Drag most fighters from the other two into the blaze.

Then Chen Xiaoyin would sweep the camp left nearly empty, a broomstroke at dawn.

Best to strike Kaneko’s camp. Kaneko was valuable, a jewel on the table. That would pull more of their people like moths.

But Kaneko had to be saved before the door slammed. You don’t light the pyre with the hostage still tied.

“Any ideas?” Qiu Sheng’s gaze skimmed the team, measuring heights like a tailor’s tape. A thought lit up behind his eyes.

They’d seen Kaneko and knew her height, a shadow drawn on a wall. Zhang Jialu was petite, half a head taller. She might wear that silhouette.

Let Zhang play Kaneko, and they could swap the real one out, a lantern traded in the crowd. The biggest snag was the young man.

He’d stayed with Kaneko long enough to spot a change, the way a craftsman knows his tools. And Night Frost might not slip in again.

Someone in that camp had sensed her, like a spider feeling a tremor. They’d likely mounted sensing gear, cold eyes in steel.

Night Frost would try once more. If she got caught, then one squad would force through, one would rescue, and the last would strip the camp bare.

“I’ll be back soon.” She moved along a safer path, shadow to shadow, skirting guards like reeds skirting a stream.

Before her fingers brushed the tent curtain, she twisted hard. A bullet skimmed past and clipped several gray strands, leaving charred tips like burnt grass.

The round buried in a concrete block and burst. Chips flew and scraped her Magic Layer, tracing pale lines like chalk. The bite of it was real.

If not for her quick turn, that near-silent round would’ve drilled her skull, a cold star punched into night.

A hulking man stepped out of the dark, a statue come alive. His legs, arms, and parts of his face gleamed metal; his eyes held red light.

He was fully armed, a hunter wrapped in iron. A heavy rifle lay on his shoulder, and dull Array Patterns crawled along the barrel.

No doubt he was the boss of this slice of border, one of three crowned in smoke. His body sank into a crouch, spring coiled.

His stance spoke of long wars, a wolf ready to break into a run.

“You crossed the line. This isn’t your place, Magic Maiden.” His voice rolled out like gravel.

He slid the heavy rifle off his shoulder. Night Frost kindled her Mana. Crimson Gold Flame danced on her palms like sunrise.

Heat rolled forward, a desert wind. Air around her steamed dry, shimmering like water on stone.

The brute’s pupils shrank, pinpricks in firelight. He didn’t hesitate. His arm snapped up, and his finger pulled the trigger.

Four rounds ripped at Night Frost. Each whistled like a hawk. Each flew fast. Their angles wove a net that tried to close.

Night Frost tapped a toe on crushed stone and sprang. Flame swept the overhead shots aside, a fan cutting sparks.

Fire wrapped her, a comet’s tail. She twisted midair, and the blaze condensed into a Crimson Gold Spear.

She thrust. The spear met his metal forearm, and sparks spat, bright insects in night.

Heat bit deep. His metal softened, butter under a blade. He felt the scorch and drove a vicious kick like a piston.

Night Frost pulled the spear back and slid past his leg, a shadow stepping off wind.

She didn’t stop. Her fist hammered his metal shin and left a charred knuckle print, a black flower.

He lacked fireproofing; she felt it. Her spear or fists could melt that plating like ice in sun. The edge was hers.

But tonight was a probe, not a duel to the last ash. She was alone inside their camp, a swallow in a wolf den.

If the rest woke and ringed her in like iron shutters, advantage would melt to puddles.

The brute smashed a punch, and metal blocks inside his arm surged forward. White steam vented, ghost breath howling.

Wind rushed at her face. Night Frost slid back, and her burning hands slapped his metal palm aside, sparks trailing.

She whipped a kick at his chest. He guarded with both forearms, steel crossing steel. She took the rebound and vaulted away.

She landed on another tent, canvas bowing like a wave. She wouldn’t mire in this. She pivoted and snuffed the flame.

Embers clung to the hem of her black high-waisted dress, then drifted down like stardust shaken from a sleeve.

Against night, they sparkled like a fall of stars, bright and brief before they died.

The brute didn’t chase. He fired twice into the dark, listened for the hit, heard none, then shouldered the heavy rifle.

He barked at the rushing lackeys to scatter like crows. His gaze slid to Kaneko’s tent, and his guess sharpened like a knife.

“You want to snatch from me? That’s my cash flow.” His chuckle was a cold saw.

He posted more men by Kaneko’s tent, bodies like stakes. Hostages were bargaining chips, polished stones on a scale.

Soft-hearted magic women, moral leverage, perfect timing—compensation would pour like silver rain into his pocket.

Still, that magic woman’s flame was rare, a sun in a forge. That heat could melt his alloy steel. Over a thousand, easy. She was a thorn.

Thinking of Kaneko and that young man cooled his worry, a patch of shade under noon.

Night Frost ran across open ground, feet whispering dust. Moonlight broke the clouds and laid silver over her, a misty veil.

She returned to the tent and helped Chen Xiaoyin lay tomorrow’s plan, pieces set like chess under lamplight.

She’d stirred one of the border leaders. He would tighten watch on Kaneko, a noose drawn slow. The parley sat at dawn.

Night Frost would ask Blade to delay it, best push to three days hence, time carved like steps.

As the saying goes, first the drum roars, then the echo fades, then the sound runs dry.

For three days, at steady hours, they’d strike like guerrillas, pretending to pry Kaneko free, smoke before fire.

The raids fell to Night Frost. She was the nimblest here, a hawk that rides thermals.

On the third strike, everyone moved. Chen Xiaoyin led. They’d blitz the other camps, lightning on a ridge.

“Understood?” The word hung like a bell.

They nodded. Once they saw the true faces, Aklatia began to move, banners pinned to half the team.

Night Frost laid the plan before Blade. Blade told her to go bold; he’d stall the parley, a dam in a stream.

Against that crowd, Night Frost wouldn’t hold back unless necessity pressed like iron.