The vehicle rolled along a concrete viaduct over empty wilds, a gray river above a sea of weeds. Up here, land Monsters came like distant thunder, rare and far between. Night Frost’s team got lucky. Half the night slid by, and not a single Monster crossed their path.

Zhao Qingsnow pulled to the rail and parked, a still rock in the wind. She closed her eyes and let her breath settle like falling ash. Night Frost and Kaneko fussed with midnight ingredients, fireflies around a tiny hearth. Sun Xiao and the Old Woman kept watch, eyes like lanterns sweeping the dark.

A camp stove hummed, its gas canister cold as moonstone. A silver-white new pot sat dewy on top, a mirror to stray stars. Inside, instant sauces swirled like red clouds, with green vegetables crisp as river reeds. Night Frost sparked the flame. She tossed in hotpot meatballs and greens, and the broth bloomed crimson like a sunset lake.

Kaneko crouched beside, a sparrow by a brook, slim hands hugging a bag of flatbreads. At Night Frost’s word, she slid in six, like pale sails on a red tide.

The boiling broth embraced a whole slab of flatbread, steam wrapping it like mist over fields. Frozen meatballs thawed and tumbled, bubbling like stones in a hot spring. The stuffing turned tender as fallen leaves in rain. The flatbread grew soft and sticky, a cloud caught by chopsticks.

Egg, scallion oil, and tofu whisked into a silky sauce, a pale stream gliding over meatballs. It seeped into the cooked greens, a warm wind sinking into pine.

When the lid lifted, the aroma unfurled like a banner in the night. Kaneko swallowed hard, her small nose drinking the steam like a kitten at milk. She wanted in.

Across from them, the Old Woman watched the two girls busy as swallows. Kindness softened her gaze like late sun on snow. She couldn’t help thinking of Moon Owl’s absences, a gentle ache. Moon Owl had almost never cooked for her.

Patrolling, Sun Xiao glanced over, pulled by scent like a fish by a glittering lure. He ate hotpot often in the city’s lantern glow. The perfume from Night Frost’s little pot? It matched any shop’s storm of spice. With her delicate air, he hadn’t expected her hands to know fire and knife.

Hotpot seasonings are mostly ready-made, flavors braided like ropes at a market stall. Mix the right bases, and you get this exact river of taste. If Night Frost heard that thought, she’d laugh sharp as flint and roast him without mercy.

She fished out noodles and split them, pale eels coiled in bowls. Let the night air cool them like frost on steel. Then she slipped more greens and thin meat in, small birds into a red nest. She covered the pot and turned the fire to a lazy breath. After a glance at her watch, she leaned on the rail, a reed by a dark stream, and watched black clouds creep like slow beasts.

She peered down from the viaduct. Scarlet and swamp-green eyes winked under the bridge, falling stars in tall grass. They flashed and vanished, Monsters hunting, clashing, and feeding like winter wolves. Night Frost sighed. The borderlands were the borderlands indeed, raw as stone and true as iron.

She’d heard the talk: Monsters outside the walls were sea-thick. Tonight’s view tore the curtain. One sweep of her gaze, and she counted dozens, a river of motion in shadow.

The largest was a black bear, four meters at the shoulder, a boulder carved from night. Its fur gleamed like wet ink. Its eyes blazed with a butcher’s hunger, twin coals. Drool hung in strings, a spider’s web at its lip. It wrestled a Dreadwolf, fur and fangs knotting like roots.

Roar...

The bear rumbled low, thunder rolling out of a hollow mountain. It lunged, a landslide in motion. Its huge fist whooshed and hammered down on the Dreadwolf’s skull. The Dreadwolf shrieked and pinwheeled away, a rag of shadow, and crashed into distant grass.

The bear strode over in one long step, a falling pillar. Its paw stamped down, and the grass sank, a pit punched into the earth.

Again it surged, great paws slicing air like scythes. This time the Dreadwolf didn’t dodge. It stood rigid, a black spear, eyes flickering red like dying coals.

Thud.

The heavy blow landed. The Dreadwolf howled, a torn note, pain braided with a thin wire of fear. That tremor nicked the bear’s stride, a heartbeat’s pause.

Anger flared, a torch thrown in dry brush. The bear roared and smashed a second time, louder than drums, louder than gates. The Dreadwolf broke, sobbed like a split reed, and ran for the dark.

The bear chased, big but not clumsy, a boulder bounding down a streambed. Each stride ate distance, and it caught up quick. The paw fell like a falling star.

The Dreadwolf fought, claws scrabbling, a drowning dog in flood. It didn’t matter. The bear’s hooked claws punched into its belly. Blood sprayed, a red fan in moonlight. The body convulsed on the ground, a fish in a net. Life leaked away with Blood, a slow river running dry. Supper, in the end, for the bear.

The bear lifted the carcass as if plucking a reed. It tugged, and the hind leg tore free with a wet whisper. It pushed that juicy, iron-scented leg into its mouth. One bite, and Blood jetted, a dark fountain.

Oh my. That’d go down with rice.

Night Frost never looked away, eyes steady as winter lamps. The bear ate with gusto, blind to Blood soaking its glossy fur, a cloak stained red.

Watching that, Night Frost thought her appetite might slip, a candle guttering.

She didn’t know when Zhao Qingsnow had woken. Zhao followed her gaze, shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes on a bridge. She spoke softly, wind on glass.

“First time at the border?”

Night Frost nodded. From childhood to now, this was her first step on these knife-edges. The Monsters’ way of life felt quaintly honest in its brutality, clear as ice and just as cold.

“This bear’s strong. Even a few from [Cantata Two] might need to work together to hunt it. But do you think it’s already won?”

Night Frost didn’t nod. She’d seen the thing coiled beneath the bear’s feet, a shadow under soil, a giant spider pressed flat as a buried moon. Unfolded, it looked even larger than the bear. She guessed it waited for the bear to drown in taste, then strike like lightning.

The bear didn’t notice the mountain under its toes. It kept eating, patient as winter. It cracked the leg bone and tossed it aside, a twig. Both hands reached for the carcass again, greedy as tides. At the instant its claws bit fur, the dirt behind its back swelled, a molehill blooming. The spider burst out, unfolded higher than the bear, a night umbrella rippling with legs.

The bear jolted, quick as a whip. It twisted hard and slipped the worst of it. Its left arm didn’t escape. Fangs drove in, pale needles under fur. Blood streamed, a red ribbon down rough hair.

Zhao Qingsnow shook her head, snow shaken from a branch.

“That bear’s dead. This one’s a giant Six-Eyed Sand Spider, native to the border. In the spider world, its venom ranks near the top, a crown of fangs. It lives in deserts, mean places where wind flays stone. It can go a whole year without food or water, hard as bone.”

When she was young, Zhao had gone down into the Abyss, a sand sea under the world. She’d met this kind of Monster out there. The instructor warned them under blazing sky: unless you hold absolute power, don’t provoke the assassins buried in sand.

“At this size, a single dose of venom can kill a [First Symphony] Monster outright. A [First Symphony] Magic Maiden who’s bitten needs immediate amputation, no time to whisper.”

Night Frost nodded. She’d seen it in encyclopedia ink, dry facts like pressed leaves. Zhao’s field scars and the raw scene were thunder to that paper rain. Knowledge felt nailed down.

Then again, how many classes had she skipped? She was supposed to be in the agent program. It felt like she’d barely warmed a classroom chair.

A bear can’t cut off its own limb. The venom backflowed into heart and lung, a black tide in red rivers. In the clinch with the spider, you could hear its breath thin, a bellows sagging. Its presence dwindled, a wick burning low.

In the end, it lay there, all Blood and breathless, heart ruined by poison. Four meters of night dwindled to a meal for a six-eyed fiend. Ten minutes. No more.

By mid-bout, Night Frost had lost interest, a shutter drawn. She crouched with Zhao by the stove, two crickets by a brick, waiting for the fresh batch to boil.

Night Frost lifted the lid. Hotpot aroma streamed out like a warm wind across a field. No need to speak, no need to wave. Everyone smelled it, and everyone knew: time to eat.

Zhao Qingsnow and Night Frost filled their bowls and drifted away, quiet boats. The Old Woman, Kaneko, and Sun Xiao sat together, a small hearth-fire circle. The Old Woman spoke of her bright days, glory like old banners in a chest.

Zhao stood outside by the car with her food, a sentinel with a warm bowl. She watched nearby Monsters, eyes skimming the dark like swallows. Up on a viaduct, you dodged land-bound trouble. The skies still held fools with wings.

Night Frost stayed inside and studied the wood carving the Old Woman had given her after their talk. Truthfully, this piece matched the ones her parents left, echoes in wood grain. It might be the same hand, the same knife singing.

The Daoist figurine wasn’t large, but it came up to Night Frost’s calf, a small priest of timber. She opened it the way she had before, careful as a surgeon, shaving away scraps to reveal a hollow belly. This time felt different, a drum with a new skin.

Inside that hollow sat a Formation, not flat but raised like a hill. Three-dimensional, like stepping from plane geometry to solid all at once. The difficulty jumped, a cliff, not a stair.

Night Frost didn’t dare damage it. Bad luck hummed under her skin, a wasp in a jar. She shaved down the outer wood bit by bit, dust like dry snow. The Formation showed itself as a sphere, a small moon cupped in air.

It wasn’t built on a plate. The Array Patterns hovered, runes suspended like fireflies, knitting a ball in empty space. They linked to each other, a spiderweb of light, forming a transparent shell that faced outward and wrapped what lay within.

This thing leaped past her understanding. She’d only learned planar Formations, ink on paper and chalk on board. Breaking one meant touching the Array Patterns, fingers on threads. This sphere laughed at that plan, a glass with no rim to grip.

Through the Array Patterns, she barely made out a Key floating inside, plain as a rusty nail. It didn’t look remotely like “the energy inside exceeds [Cantata Three] Mana combined,” not even a flicker.

She told the Old Woman. The Old Woman said it must be Night Frost’s father’s handiwork, crafty as a fox. He’d sealed the Mana, stopped its scent from leaking. Only resonance with the Key could find it. A neat trick.

For safety, Night Frost suggested a split. Keep the two Keys apart, like twins in different towns. The true Key mattered more. Night Frost handed it to the Old Woman. The Old Woman returned the false Key to Night Frost, a decoy feather in her pocket.