“No way—that thing crawled out of the Abyss.”

A prickle of unease ran cold; Night Frost shook her head and flung the strange thoughts away like cobwebs in wind. Her aim tonight was simple—shut down these border crews stirring trouble.

Two crews massed by the river, close to a hundred bodies. Two cyborgs at [Cantata Two]. By plan, barring accidents, Night Frost would face one herself.

They likely couldn’t take her, yet danger still pooled like black water. She only had to hold until Chen Xiaoyin’s team seized the other camp. Just in case, she called Qianchun.

Mana topped off, timing ripe, body steady as a drawn bow.

The sun bled out at the rim of the world, afterglow red as Blood. The moon climbed from the east, a hooked blade, carrying a thin killing chill.

Tonight would be thick with slaughter and Blood. Thinking so, Night Frost moved.

Before she left, Chen Xiaoyin wove her Mana over Night Frost’s skin—a liquid shield that gleamed like mercury—and wrapped her safe.

Night Frost didn’t refuse. The instant the fluid film sealed around her, she leapt into motion, light as mist.

The liquid shield added no drag, no grit under the skin. It felt like a weightless membrane, fused tight to her Magic Layer, as if her Mana had sprouted a second skin.

The fire inside her wouldn’t scorch the film; it slipped through clean, its bite untouched. Like a co‑op party with friendly fire off—you just couldn’t target your ally.

Chen Xiaoyin had stepped into [Cantata Two] barely a month, yet her Mana already shaped like water and glass. That was raw talent.

Night Frost had tried full‑body Mana coats before, but they drank her dry. Back in [First Symphony], that cost was brutal, so she shelved it.

Now she stood in [Cantata Two]. Time to pick up old bones and prod them. Maybe she’d shake loose a strange new trick.

Last night’s blaze had gutted the camp. Tents charred to ribs. Gravel went sooty black, like cinders under frost. Those without canvas curled up on leveled roadway, padding stacked under their backs for a thin peace.

Mosquitoes rose like a petty army, vicious for Blood. Most hadn’t fallen asleep; they muttered to each other, slapping at the whining swarm.

Complaints buzzed with the bugs. Why did Kaneko get a tent and not them? Why did Night Frost haunt their nights like a hungry fox? Two nights running without proper sleep, and their spirits frayed like old rope. Some even whispered against their leader.

Compared to Night Frost, they were just people. A [Cantata Two] could shave sleep and stay sharp; ordinary bodies coughed and sagged without it.

Numbers doubled from yesterday, but minds were damp kindling. Night Frost slipped in easy, a shadow under wavering torchlight.

Mana seeped through the film. Ambient motes drifted to her palm like iron to a lodestone. Her crimson‑gold eyes glimmered in the dark.

“Give flame to the dragon, give blaze to my hand. Shatter the fetters of life. All burns. Every cut kills. Inferno burns here! … Καύση στη φυλακή!”

Fire surged from under her soles like a geyser. Crimson Gold Flame rolled over half the camp, sudden as a stormfront. Fire and Spear fell together, and the exhausted border men—slow to wake—went to ash.

The sea of fire broke in waves, racing out to all sides, stealing breath and names. In that bright field, night peeled back and noon returned.

In the central tent, the leader froze. Night Frost had come a dozen times; he’d filed her under harassment, a fox tugging the fence. He’d planned to stall her with help from the next camp. He hadn’t expected a killing stroke right off the mark.

One sweep erased a third of his camp. Counting the neighbor’s boys, near thirty lay dead. That loss was a canyon.

The burly man understood she wasn’t here to play the long game. The earlier pokes had dulled their edge; this swing was the scythe.

Night Frost threaded the blaze like a dancer in lantern‑smoke, reaping the stunned. At this pace, she could drown half the camp alone.

But fire thins as fuel dies. As the flames eased, more men found their feet, yanked pistols from their belts, and pressed in by the book, putting rounds into the fire with panicked rhythm.

The leader used eye‑mounted optics to find her heat. He hefted a heavy shotgun, bent his knees. Metal tubes and springs compressed; steam hissed from leg‑pipes; his body thrummed like a furnace.

He whipped his arm. The shotgun whooshed, the cut of air raking the blaze so it flickered like candles in a draft.

Night Frost stood fully bared in the hot air. Gunfire cracked in layers, big and small, but common bullets pinged uselessly off Chen Xiaoyin’s ward like rain on lacquered eaves.

Only real threats were the four at [First Symphony], and the cyborg leader at [Cantata Two].

Why only four? Bad luck; two had crisped into charcoal in the earlier surge. Their augmentation was clad in fireproof, so the parts hadn’t melted; sift the ash and you’d find them.

Five ringed Night Frost. The heavy shotgun halted a breath from her brow. From far off, boots drummed like rain on tiles—the other [Cantata Two] hustling in with his pack. Layered circles closed around her, yet no fear rose in her chest.

She planted her feet and held like a stake in riverbed silt.

From that spot, a late dodge meant a hole in her skull. She didn’t twitch. She waited for the click in the wheel of fate.

The leader squeezed the trigger. The round spat from the barrel with a ripping whistle, arrowing for her brow. Two at her flanks surged—one crackled with sparks, the other’s palm gleamed silver like a forged blade.

At the knifepoint instant, Night Frost drove her right fist forward. Crimson Gold Flame beaded along her fingers. The bullet kissed the flame and vanished into it like a moth into torchlight.

She tugged the fire and nudged the round a hair off. Fire at her soles bore her body forward, and she burst toward the [First Symphony] on her right.

The Crimson Gold Spear bloomed from nothing and plunged into his belly. In the same beat, she twisted her line and heaved him with all her strength, slamming him into the one behind.

She dropped the flame around the bullet. The round spun on toward the tumbling pair. She’d bled much of its bite, but a heavy shotgun still hits like a hammer. It didn’t kill, yet the blast sheared an arm from one [First Symphony], meat and metal spraying like sparks.

Night Frost slammed a fist at the burly man. He reacted fast, slipping the hit and bracing the shotgun to block her fire‑wreathed knuckles. Metal rang like a struck bell.

A few passes traded, and his left shoulder took a shot—sparks spat bright. Night Frost paid for every inch; five‑on‑one carved new lines in her skin.

Metal boots bit the ground behind her. With a half‑glance, she marked the newcomer—the other camp’s leader, a dozen goons in his wake. He’d seen the pillar of fire and moved at once; under ten minutes, and here he was.

Holding one alone already felt like gripping a tiger’s tail. With another [Cantata Two], she’d have to gamble blood. The only blessing—he’d brought lots of lightly augmented fodder.

“Five of you plus the boss, and you still can’t bag a [Cantata Two]?”

The newcomer was small beside the burly one, but from neck down his fists were metal. Deep‑blue Mana tracery crawled his legs, like the new boss from Qianchun’s old outfit.

One arm alone could wrestle a weak [Cantata Two]. With his own tier and those legs, he was likely the sharpest blade here.

“Misjudged…” Night Frost drew a Spear out of the fire itself. Her crimson‑gold eyes fixed on him, wary. The instant he twitched, she’d chant a Magic Spell and cut a path.

“Leave her to me, brother. Just throw in more cash.”

Blue lines on his legs flooded with Mana, glowing like a deep‑sea lantern. His shins compressed, muscle showing in cable‑hard ropes.

He hopped, and the earth shivered. Two deep footprints sank into the mud, and the concrete beneath ground down to powder.

He was quick—like a hawk stooping. Two, three strides, and he was in her face. Night Frost was a hair late. His arms shot out and clamped her shoulders, lifting her like a hooked fish.

A Mana‑etched knee crashed into her gut. The Mechanical Arm inside her locked her core tight, and she didn’t go skidding back.

“I hate hitting girls, especially a Magic Maiden this pretty. But you don’t look like you’ll surrender.”

She could take a beating, he saw, and decided to give her more. He raised his knee again, night air tight as a drum.

Night Frost wouldn’t have it. Her wrist snapped, and the Crimson Gold Spear in her palm detonated with a boom.

Smoke rolled heavy. She and the small leader slid back, slipping out of the gray veil together.