Keep these on you. They’ll fog mana detection like mist over a lake, a kind of signal shield. Blade took this mission to heart, and brought out the family’s bottom-of-the-chest stash.

One each, five in total, beads on a string. Since they’d ditched Sun Xiao, his unit rolled into the Old Woman’s palm.

I really want to know what Blade’s family does, to have kit like this, rare as moonlight steel.

Night Frost toyed with the shield device, teasing with a smile like a cat under eaves. She didn’t know the exact price, but the weight felt heavy as silver.

Zhao Qingsnow shook her head, cool as winter rain. Blade never said. Everyone just knew Blade’s house had coin, because part of the Twelfth District’s operations ran on Blade’s funds.

A rich lady right beside me, a hidden patron behind paper screens.

No wonder Blade sits at the top of the Twelfth District, fingers on every thread of intel. Not just strong; she’s the branch’s biggest shareholder, a lantern at the highest beam.

The Old Woman skimmed along the overpass edge like a swallow. Night Frost, carrying Kaneko, and Zhao Qingsnow sprinted on damp soil, rain-dark as ink. The last storm had been heavy, and the earth under the girders hadn’t dried.

A sly curve tugged Night Frost’s lips, a crescent-moon grin. She could already see Sun Xiao clutching that note, roaring like a kettle. She even pictured him storming off to District Thirteen out of stubborn fire. Him? Trying to drop revenge on Night Frost like frost on stone?

Zhao Qingsnow and Night Frost were cut from the same cloth, yet woven differently. Zhao Qingsnow once wanted to protect Dawnlight, blade-bright and extreme. Now she offered help at times, calm as dew. In her eyes, Dawnlight still outweighed all. She had to make it back alive.

Sun Xiao, she judged with a flint-hard gaze, had ideals and a pinch of cunning, but only a pinch—like salt in thin soup. Night Frost told him straight: he had teamed with an overseas group to bleed the Twelfth District. Zhao Qingsnow had wanted to pound him then, thunder over dry plains.

The Twelfth is already a brazier of embers, and he still pours oil. Does he think the Twelfth hasn’t burned long enough?

Right then Zhao Qingsnow proposed ditching the car and heading for District Twenty One. Sun Xiao was a normal man, a stranger met by chance on the road. She wouldn’t carry him like a sack; she wouldn’t grant him soft doors.

Also right then, Night Frost laid out a bait plan, sharp as a hook. Sun Xiao would be the bait; he wouldn’t die, and he’d buy them time, a pocket of dusk. Zhao Qingsnow agreed gladly, and sent him driving a foodless car toward District Nineteen or District Thirteen, a hollow gourd rolling.

The Old Woman had a simple reason not to stop Night Frost. She wasn’t of their team; she’d hopped on midway like a heron to a boat. She knew Night Frost, but had no right to steer her oar. Besides, Night Frost and that man had old thorns.

The Old Woman knew Night Frost’s temper, winter-straight. She wouldn’t step in for Sun Xiao. The key point: bait wouldn’t die. These days interrogation tech glittered cold as scalpel steel; they’d learn he knew nothing and hand him a beating at most, like rain on bark.

Kaneko had no fondness for Sun Xiao, a leaf in her clear stream. The captain had entrusted her to the youth group, not to him. She’d stayed with him because of the monster tide, a wave with teeth. He brought more trouble than she’d imagined, knots she untied for a long while.

Night Frost said, give him a lesson that won’t kill, like frost that stings. Kaneko agreed without a blink, eyes like bright glass.

So the four on the move found a tacit rhythm, wind-borne and wordless—Sun Xiao would drive as bait. They’d slip into District Twenty One during that window, each to their own business, like shadows crossing a wall.

From the overpass near District Thirteen to District Twenty One was about four hundred kilometers, a horizon’s stretch. At full speed, a day if you cut rest to the bone. With rest, within three days, sure as sunrise.

Three days fits the pace of those Magic Maidens. By then they’d finish grilling Sun Xiao, smoke rising from cold tea.

If we had displacement magic or a teleport array, we wouldn’t be sprinting hundreds of kilometers, chasing wind across fields.

Dawn thinned the night like rice paper, and their Mana ran low, a stream to pebbles. By the overpass, each found a corner, released Magic Armor, and washed the grit away, water whispering.

Magic Maidens had a dedicated Magic Spell for cleansing, a tide in a word. Night Frost didn’t know it. So in a tucked corner, the Old Woman cast it again and again, washing Night Frost’s grime like rain over clay. If this were a manga, it’d carry tags: outdoor, group, exposure—wild grass fluttering.

Night Frost changed with cheeks rosy as apples. The Old Woman quipped, dry as old wood; she’d seen it all in her youth. Whether Night Frost tried to block or not, it made no difference, like clouds over a full moon. Also, Night Frost’s nutrition lagged; she needed more fuel, meat on her bones.

Clearly, our protagonist still believes he’s a boy, clinging to the wish to change back like clutching a mirror in fog. He hasn’t sensed the beauty of being a girl. In this weather, that blindness is normal.

After all, the Old Woman has one foot in the grave, a willow in winter. Zhao Qingsnow is a forty-year-old wife with a loli face, a paradox in silk. Kaneko is so young, a sparrow barely fledged. Night Frost has no thoughts for them, mind like a locked box.

Because Monsters roam by night like wolves in ink, the three pushed hard in daylight, boots a drumbeat. By dusk, they fell into their second rest, breath like cooling tea.

The setting sun slid down, staining half the earth red like spilled cinnabar. Night fell, and the distant city bloomed with lights, jeweled and bright. The night was ink thick as pitch, pressing over the land like a black tide.

Monsters poked out their heads, eyes like coals. Night Frost’s group felt their hearts rise, hawks taking wing. They bounded onto the overpass, rested by the road’s edge, and Night Frost rationed water and dry food, bread like stones. Zhao Qingsnow scouted the rim, gaze sharp as ice.

Within Night Vision and Hawk Eye range, Monsters were countless, ants under the moon. Most were weak, straw in rain, but strong ones crouched in the dark, knives in velvet.

Not far in the night stood signal towers, spears of steel. Thick cables coiled around them like serpents, and birds made them roosts, feathers against wire.

Here, the barren overpass gained traffic, headlights like fireflies. Cars drove straight through, eyes forward as plow horses. They didn’t spare a glance for scenery, so they missed the team, hidden as moss in stone.

Cables ran off toward a round base station, a drum on the plain. A man-made camp sat a little beyond, fires like the eyes of cats. The Old Woman said those were overseas groups or wanderers, maybe native folk. All humans, but their creeds, faiths, and tongues differed, a patchwork quilt in dusk.

This was a miniature Abyss, a teacup holding a storm.

Night Frost wanted to see how they lived, curiosity like a lantern. In a wasteland like this, finding water was a trial, a well from bone.

This area is fairly safe, Zhao Qingsnow reported, voice low as rain. Nearby sits an overseas power station. The outer ring is native folk, ordinary people without strength. The station might be tricky; a Cantata Two may be stationed inside. Not far, several border teams patrol; their power is decent, iron under cloth.

Zhao Qingsnow returned and shared the local news with the Old Woman and Night Frost, words like pebbles on a map. It felt safe here, likely thanks to the power station, a lighthouse in fog.

Don’t worry too much about the Cantata Two inside. We have three here; in numbers we outmatch her, three flames to one wick.

A few hours later, they left, footprints fading like ripples.

The next morning after they moved on, flames roared in the native territory near the station, banners of fire. A native village vanished without a trace, smoke a mourning veil.

Ahead is District Twenty One’s outpost, a gate in scrub. District Twenty One is neutral, but in recent years it leans New Faction, a reed bending. We need to circle in, a kite on a longer string.

We’re here to stir trouble, to knock a gong. Going around is normal, like rain seeking a gutter.

Night Frost didn’t understand Magic Maiden factions—New, Old—names like dust. Whatever. Apple pie, my foot, crumbs in the wind.

No Magic Maiden guarded the outpost. Night Frost’s group slipped in quick and safe, shadows under a fence, into District Twenty One’s land.

Once inside, things felt smoother, a stone turned to water. A cool wind slapped their faces, mint on the tongue. The fatigue of two or three days blew clean, like clouds torn apart. Their spirits rose, banners in sunlight.

Night Frost looked far across the empty field, a sea of grass. She saw District Twenty One’s walls and architecture unlike the Twelfth’s, bones of a different beast.

District Twenty One isn’t a coastal city. The sea lies a ways off, a blue line on dreams. Rain is neither too much nor too little, a balanced scale. The temperature is mild, spring in a cup. It’s livable, a place to retire, cranes over a pond. Whether it welcomes them is another matter, fate behind a curtain.

Past the warning line—the border—they stood for real on District Twenty One’s city soil, concrete cold as slate.

The outer ring was lined with small villas, shells for the rich, unlike the Twelfth’s ragged rim. A tall tower rose in the distance, its style apart, a lone pine among poplars.

Zhao Qingsnow split off, a falcon to her task. Priority: find the Seeker branch, and a way to wake Illusory Glass, a dream trapped in crystal.

Night Frost planned to go with the Old Woman first. The Key she carried held clues about her father, thread through a labyrinth. Kaneko said nothing, aim like mist, and chose to follow Night Frost’s pair.

They split into two pairs, two threads parted, agreeing to meet here at night, stars as witnesses.

Before that, they needed a public lodging, a face on the street, a temporary base, a rock under a stream.

The street had few people, shadows long. Night Frost glanced around. Prices were a third higher than in the Twelfth, scales tipped. Even with a Twelfth District paycheck, living here would need careful counting, coins like dry leaves.

Night Frost and Kaneko pulled out Blade’s forged papers, snow-white on the table, and searched. They compared three places, apples to apples. They found a room with decent value, and rented it, keys like fish scales in the hand.

The room was small, a nest. Two beds. The middle could fit one or two, sardines in a tin. The table and chairs were complete, wood smells warm. The landlord was a white-collar’s wife, home with a child, a little dumpling. She rented to earn milk money, a stream filling a cup.

With only one earner, it was hard to keep life afloat; a boat on a shallow tide. Renting to those in need brought in a trickle, dew on grass.

Night Frost read the contract carefully, eyes like ink brushes. The landlady held her child and nursed, milk-white and quiet. Since Night Frost and Kaneko were women, she didn’t hide, calm as moonlight through gauze.

But inside Night Frost lived a man, a hidden ember. His earlobes flushed; his cheeks went rosy, peach-soft. It was, embarrassingly, cute.