The body was pierced in a blink; beads of Blood spattered like rubies, then winked into nothing, as if space swallowed them whole. She stepped through the air as through a doorway, untouched.

Moon Owl felt no bite of impact. The Blood wasn’t Blood; a shadow twin wore it like paint. Her Blade found only a mirage, a stain that lied.

A black-robed woman moved with Mana honed to steel and silk; her true form surfaced from the scenery like ink rising through water, her method lost to sight.

Calm first, then resolve. Moon Owl’s eyes held a hollow sky; her dagger breathed a dim pearl sheen. She brought her heart to stillness, gauging the black robe, hunting for one clean edge in the next exchange.

The black-robed woman walked the void like a paved courtyard, each step firm, each breath heavy. She felt like an ancient demon-god striding out of dawn mist, a pressure that soaked the bones.

Doubt pricked, then settled. Moon Owl knew she wasn’t on the same rung. Even if she stood beside her, the other was the vault of the heavens; she was the new earth, only months into this realm.

People differ; between Cantata Three, the gulf endures.

She’d thought her spatial Mana would let her fight even. Now it felt six–four, maybe three–seven, maybe worse.

The black robe saw Moon Owl hold. She moved first. Under the black folds, sky-blue Array Patterns glowed, faint halos rippling outward. The robe drank the light, letting only a mist seep through.

For a breath, her outline matched Moon Owl’s unsealed state. Moon Owl read the signs: she was about to unseal. The Mana roiling in that body beat like storm surf.

Boom!

One casual sweep of her hand drove shockwaves from her core. Anything touched cracked apart; nearby cairns shattered into a spray of dozens.

The gust rolled through the sky. Shards fell like cast ash, sketching pale contrails, each stroke singing with a sharp whoosh.

Watching from afar, Night Frost faced the gale. Gray-white hair lifted like winter grass, exposing a too-high hairline. Her Magic Layer flared and held, catching hurtling dirt and stone like a net.

She glanced up at the woman hanging in midair. The robe hid the face, but the aura rolling off her pressed like mountains; Night Frost’s breath went thin.

If anyone could match that black robe at range, Night Frost thought of one—only the white-clad woman who beat the unsealed Black Dragon. She raised a Holy Lance with one hand; even the memory froze Night Frost’s spine.

The black robe felt Night Frost’s gaze and looked back. Frost met that cold stare from afar, and her body locked, as if her marrow had been read.

The woman broke the glance fast. Moon Owl’s attack demanded respect. A gap stood between them, but it wasn’t a chasm; a single misstep could still mean death by Moon Owl’s hand.

Spatial force is a thorn to grasp. At Cantata Two, opening a space rift needs time, a wind-up like a game cast. At Cantata Three, rifts open like a flick—no leash, no lag.

Moon Owl wove space to bind the woman’s motion and carve a line to strike. The black robe weighed it and chose not to drag this out. Half-unsealed wouldn’t clinch it. She decided to unseal. Fast fight, clean finish.

“Mercy of the gods, let Magic Armor be sanctified.”

“Oh great god, grant your oracle. Let the star-river forge a hall. Let long lamps pave the stairs. Let desire bow at the altar. Blood of the earth… at this very moment, unseal.”

Wind hit like a sudden squall, flipping the robe. Beneath the cloak, Mana markings ran blue so deep they neared black. Symbols that should live on a Magic Tool crawled across human skin. Moon Owl’s breath caught.

The markings owned her flesh, then spilled outward, wrapping curves and angles, becoming a black bodysuit tight as night.

Moon Owl’s brow sharpened. In the Twelfth District they say face springs from heart; natural Magic Armor does, too. This one’s heart wasn’t noble. Stack the armors, and she wore shamelessness like lace.

This Magic Armor wasn’t added gear; it was her skin’s Mana markings. When stacked, blue-black lines became this bodysuit. Moon Owl felt Mana flowing in it like heat under glass.

She’d never seen an Armor like this. Night Frost had whispered about secret prosthetics recently, with similar markings. The workings differed, though. The thought snagged; Moon Owl set it aside.

Before, Mana ran through markings like channels. Now her entire body carried Mana freely, each nerve a river, each bone a bridge.

The unseal words felt odd—unlike Moon Owl’s own. Each pointed to something, but hers pointed sharper. To the thing behind her?

The birth of Magic Maidens wears a fog too thick; even Cantata Three can’t see through it.

Back to now. The black robe—no, the bodysuit maniac—completed her Magic Armor unseal. A heavy Mana mask covered her face; Moon Owl couldn’t read a single feature.

“You won’t show your real face even now? Fine. I’ll help you take it off.”

Moon Owl reached through space and clamped the mask. She pulled hard. It didn’t move. It was stone welded to storm.

The bodysuit maniac flicked her hand. Mana gathered and became true wind Blades. They hurled Moon Owl back like driftwood. Then she wove Mana into a massive book. Its arrival spiked the pressure; Moon Owl felt the air go tight.

They’d been trading long enough for the woman to know Moon Owl’s tricks. Moon Owl had yet to see hers.

Truth tasted like iron. The woman hadn’t used “an ability” at all—only pure mastery of Mana, edged and perfect. Her control was a kiln; her craft was fire and glaze.

This special book looked like her ability. She cast one look down and tore out a page.

In that instant, a near-solid will surged like a spear and stabbed Moon Owl’s mind. Moon Owl held, barely, teeth ringing. The attack didn’t end. The bodysuit maniac moved. A palm-born gale swept. Moon Owl flew before she could even blink.

Using an ability meant showing her name. Moon Owl had seen this brand of obscene augmentation before. Cantata Three ceiling-level power… she’d seen it, far away in time.

If Yuan Dai stood here, he’d likely name her. Moon Owl had only just arrived at this step; what she’d heard and learned was thin.

One page burned out. The bodysuit woman’s brow creased. She hadn’t expected the newborn Cantata Three to be this stubborn. She’d shown her hand and still hadn’t closed it.

The booster pages she’d stuck on before leaving were nearly ash. Even burned, in a war of attrition she’d still win—just slower.

Moon Owl’s unseal window was closing. With that thought, the bodysuit woman tore three pages at once and drove herself back to peak.

“Getting old… those folks should be here soon, right?”

The line fell like a stone in a pond, odd ripples waking. She didn’t move, yet Moon Owl saw several of her, duplicates flickering like heat mirages. Moon Owl ripped a space rift up for defense. A fist beat the crack by a heartbeat.

Spatial wielders slip through worlds like slick eels in dark water. The bodysuit woman had seen it again today. She had no interest in grinding against a fish made of void.

Better to find Illusory Glass. Detonate a fragment of spirit. Stitch her soul to Illusory Glass. Rewind time. Let a shard peel free, let the past self act.

So she palmed Moon Owl once more and vanished, reappearing before Night Frost.

Night Frost met doom like winter shore meets tide. She dropped the concern for clothes, for poise. She grabbed her Crimson Gold Spear. A long dress unfurled from her body like blooming silk.

Night Frost wanted to curse the street.

Folks, who even gets this? I’m out shopping, babysitting for a big-shot. Big-shot fights another down-bad big-shot. Down-bad charges over to snatch the kid and smack me for good measure. Folks, who even gets this!

She raised the Spear—and got launched. She flew a hundred meters and hit dirt, then pushed up, coughing a mouthful of black Blood. It licked into black flames and burned cold.

That pull almost knocked the long-silent Black Dragon awake. Since the war, it hadn’t come out. Not even in dreams.

She waited. No ripple. Night Frost couldn’t tell if relief or dread won.

Relief: the Black Dragon slept. Dread: the foe was Cantata Three. Without the dragon, this raid doesn’t even start.

The bodysuit woman’s fingers slid through the space barrier. Moon Owl slashed the dagger, shaving only a corner of her hem.

The patched space tore open. Moon Owl was finally gambling. She warped the woman off the field. Moving someone stronger takes a weighty chunk of power.

Too late. The moment that finger thrust forward, the booster pages became her purest spirit. This body was only a “clone.”

Here, the starfield lay deepest. Silent void drifted with meteor shards. No life breathed, only stone and cold.

A heartbeat later, a face woke in the dark—a fish thing uglier than nightmare, with rot in its grin. It yawned wide and swallowed the bodysuit woman whole.