“The one in the back seat is also Cantata Two?”

The First Symphony girl’s face stiffened like ice on a pond. Their leader was just Cantata Two. The leader did have an older sister at the same realm. Yet the leader had said there were three Cantata Two on that jeep.

No matter how she spun it, three Cantata Two crush two, and the leader on the call sounded wounded. That taste in the air was bad.

Her hard mask cracked into a friendly smile, brittle as frost on glass. She slipped the ID back into Zhao Qingsnow’s hand with care, like placing a teacup on thin porcelain. Block them again, and she’d pay more than she could bear.

Three Cantata Two.

Give her ten thousand guts and she still wouldn’t poke that nest. This wasn’t a problem she could fix.

She and the soldier stood straight and watched Night Frost’s group roll toward District Twenty One, respectful as temple keepers. When the jeep’s taillights vanished into the dark, she dialed again—this time, not Purple Lightning.

“They’re heading to District Twenty One. My leader’s badly hurt. We should be able to take her down.”

A soft “mm” breathed through the line, then the call died like a wick pinched out.

The First Symphony girl sank onto the stool, weight gone like water poured. She stared at cloud-ink pooling along the horizon, storm scent rising from the mountains. She was a small piece on the board; she would live by not offending anyone.

Inside the jeep, Night Frost and the others slid back to their spots. The Old Woman returned; the cabin felt tighter, bodies like reeds bundled in a boat. Night Frost leaned toward the window without thinking, face brushed by night air.

Zhao Qingsnow pressed the accelerator. She’d seen the First Symphony calling upstairs; their trail felt exposed like footprints in fresh snow. They were heading for District Twenty One to find what could wake Illusory Glass, and to let Night Frost’s organization root there. That kind of work needed shadow.

Snatches of talk drifted between the Old Woman and Night Frost. Zhao Qingsnow picked pieces from the wind and stitched a picture. The Twelfth District had been erased to seek a Key that could open a Door to the unknown. Key and Door lay buried under the Twelfth District. So someone flattened the district with iron and fire, just to reach the Door and Key, to touch what sleeps under the Abyss.

Anger budded in her chest like a thorn rose, and she went cold to the bone. She wielded ice, yet couldn’t master this chill. Knowing the reason didn’t move the needle. The Twelfth District’s helplessness sat like a stone.

Who had that kind of nerve and reach to snuff out a district? You could count the answers on one hand. Everyone knew them anyway. Order Keeper. Seeker. The Underground Organization. Or all three joined like braided rope.

She kicked the gas. Headlights went dark, swallowed by night. Her ice-blue eyes glowed faintly, like moonlight on a glacier. Night Frost’s red-gold eyes caught a similar ember, and the Old Woman’s did too.

A Magic Maiden night-vision Magic Spell opened their sight, painting edges in the dark.

Everyone on the jeep except Sun Xiao knew the First Symphony had made two calls. One hundred percent, someone would try to block the road ahead. The navy qipao woman and those two lightning girls weren’t from the same pack. They didn’t know how many were out there. If both packs came at once, their odds looked bleak.

Headlights would only draw hunters like moths to a flame. Zhao Qingsnow killed every lamp. The jeep turned into a shadow arrow, cutting through night. A moment ago she was driving like still autumn water; now she was a wild stallion under a rogue rider.

The rough sway made Kaneko’s head spin, a boat in chop. Sun Xiao went pale and almost checked out. Night Frost, Zhao Qingsnow, and the Old Woman rode steady, bodies tuned like tempered steel.

Past the Twelfth District checkpoint, they hit a proper avenue. Back under that overpass, Zhao Qingsnow hadn’t been able to show her fifteen years behind the wheel.

The rear tires lifted a hair and climbed onto the elevated. The chassis settled like a breath. It didn’t last. A drone stamped with an Array Pattern knifed toward the rear wheel, aiming for a crippling kiss.

Night Frost wouldn’t let it. She popped the window. Wind clawed her hair, turning strands into wild grass. She flicked her fingers; flames shot out like comets, but speed spoiled the aim. Shots missed, burning holes into the night.

She raised a firewall out of nothing; at the instant before impact, firewall and the jeep’s defensive Formation met the drone. The bombs inside went off unchained, loud as a thunderclap—the wall and Formation shredded like paper blown apart.

Night Frost’s Blood churned, a wave surging up her ribs, but she held. The charge was vicious, one blast smashing both wall and Formation. If she’d raised the wall on still ground, it might have stood.

For blocking blasts, Zhao’s ice or the Old Woman’s earth fit better. Zhao Qingsnow was handling the wheel, hands full. So it fell to Night Frost and the Old Woman.

The Old Woman saw Night Frost wasn’t built to catch explosives mid-flight. She volunteered, voice steady as bedrock. Night Frost nodded and slid to the other window, eyes hunting for the hands moving in the dark.

The ones behind didn’t fire right away. They kept drones coming to drain Mana, then planned to close in and bag them alive. Smart—meeting force with force breaks both swords. Use tech, wear them down.

“Left!”

The drone curved toward the left tire like a hawk stooping.

Old Woman is Old Woman—grandma stays grandma, ginger gets hotter with age. Her Mana volume and flow lagged the young, but her control was art that opened Night Frost’s eyes.

Dust in the air gripped the rotors, like midges caught in syrup. With every second in flight, the dust layered thicker. Just before contact, all four rotors were bound by brown clots.

She flicked her hand. The four rotors snapped clean, a dry crack. The drone skidded, sparking like flint on stone. Bombs trembled inside; fire climbed the frame, dark-red flame veining out along Black Flame. Airborne dust muffled the spread, a sand curtain taking heat.

Through it all, the Old Woman spent little Mana. She opened her Mana like a warm brazier, drawing dust to nest and heed.

Only the last cut took Mana, driving the clotted dust to ruin the drone. The blast got damped by gathered dust and left the jeep’s run untouched.

This path didn’t fit Night Frost—there was no fire in the air to grip. If there were, she’d beg for a lesson in that uncanny control.

The Old Woman felt Night Frost’s gaze and smiled, a crescent gentle as willow. Wrinkles at her eyes deepened into river maps. “You want to learn? I’ll teach you.”

Night Frost neither agreed nor refused. Her eyes swept the dark rim of the world. Her ears sharpened; beyond the engine’s growl, she heard air being slit like silk.

“Drone swarm.”

A flock of metal birds with knife beaks tore across the black sky. Their rumble and shrill keens scattered nearby birds like leaves in a gust. Rotors scythed air and dove for the jeep. The riders wanted the road cleared of life.

Drones hit the Old Woman’s dust and bloomed around the jeep. Sparks flowered beneath the quiet night, fireworks bright and merciless.

As the Old Woman tasted a sip of pride, a Black Dragon patted the bulletproof glass before her. A slender handprint pressed there, cold as hoarfrost.

A shadow skimmed past the window, too fast for Night Frost or the Old Woman to catch a face. Zhao Qingsnow felt the wrongness rise like wolves in the brush. Cold mist curled over her skin, winter breath caught on flesh.

A bullet slipped its barrel with barely a whisper and bit into the front tire. Zhao Qingsnow felt the jeep lose center, weight sliding like ice on slate.

At speed, the jeep lurched, ready to roll like a capsizing skiff. She drew a deep breath. Ice poured over the chassis in a glassy flood and froze the vehicle in a rigid shell. The roll halted on a blade’s edge.

Night Frost’s trio spilled out and faced the distant silhouette. Night Frost’s pupils tightened like apertures. She knew that shadow.

A girl in a suit, white gloves gleaming, stood not far away, still as a statue at dusk. Night Frost had seen her at the welfare home—an enemy.

The suited girl saw Night Frost and jolted, the twitch of a string plucked. Exile-bitter hatred leaked across her eyes, a bruise of emotion. She exhaled long, said nothing, and turned pitch-black, a living shadow. She skimmed to their flank, swift as a knife. The Old Woman blocked.

The Old Woman got driven back, two steps sliding like pebbles on gravel, and shoved the shadow off her path. Then a girl in a puffed skirt dropped from above. A giant hammer fell like a meteor and crushed the breath out of the Old Woman.

Night Frost and Zhao Qingsnow didn’t sit and wait. Ice and fire clamped together, a twin bite, forcing the shadow back step by step.

The suited girl slipped free of the press and showed herself from the dark. No Mana hummed on her suit at all.

The Old Woman blinked in surprise. That suit wasn’t Magic Armor, yet it felt tougher. She took a solid hit, and cloth didn’t tear.

Night Frost, bracing the hammer, felt her forearms thrum and tingle. Those two matched their strength. This would be a straight-on clash.

And the drones kept coming, a tide that wouldn’t tire.