It was a short clip, shorter than the rest, a breath cut off mid-sigh.

For the newest Mechanical Arm, it was the briefest field test, a spark that died quick.

To the operator, the arm’s owner had barely taken two steps before dying.

At the computer, the operator grew curious, a moth circling a blue light.

Who dies within hours of installation?

She clicked on the clip, recorded for only a few hours.

The new model starts recording the instant it’s installed, like eyes snapping open.

The footage uploads through twin-imprint crystals made by Mo Shi, two-way echoes flowing into devices.

The view was first-person, eyes behind a visor.

Right after installation, Xun Xun bolted like a startled deer.

The operator understood: he’d angered the Modification Center.

Surviving hours in that storm meant he was capable.

Then the footage turned flat as stale water.

Still, as an operator, she had to watch and weigh the arm’s strengths and flaws.

She doubted assessment mattered; wounds raw, skin like torn paper, a Mechanical Arm barely counted as power.

Idle hands, idle mind; she kept watching, the blue glow thin as dawn.

In a dim room, only three monitors breathed blue light.

Absolute darkness stepped back under that cold glow.

Drips whispered without end, a faucet left ajar.

Each drop tapped glossy ceramic like beads of ice.

She watched Xun Xun seize hope with his life, grabbing a frayed lifeline.

He freed Jiujiu from a glass prison—a special container—and cut down a Modification Center lieutenant, slicing a knot in the net.

Then the two prepared to flee.

But flesh has limits; bones are ropes that fray.

They couldn’t beat two more from the Modification Center.

They dragged mangled bodies and fled from the lake bed, water pressing like stone.

It stunned the operator, a slap of cold; the arm’s owner was about to die, yet he clawed his way out.

At last, the two reached a heavy door, a slab like a vault.

A black-haired maiden opened it, features pure as spring water.

The operator felt plain in that mirror.

Inside, the first-person view settled on another black-haired girl.

Ice-blue kissed the tips of her dark hair.

Her face held no expression, carved ice—Zhao Qingsnow.

I don’t know what they said.

Night Frost led Xun Xun and Zhao Qingsnow outside, steps quiet as snow.

They seemed to notice the camera, a thorn of gaze pricking skin.

Night Frost cut the Mechanical Arm off the point-of-view—meat and all, blade cold as night.

Zhao Qingsnow moved fast; she froze the arm solid and threw it far, a shard of comet.

The feed ended there, a door slammed shut.

The operator remembered something, a thread tugged tight.

She glanced at another monitor’s photos, screens like twin windows.

The short girl with black hair tipped in ice-blue matched a picture on the other screen.

Zhao Qingsnow. She’s over forty? Still looks that young.

Ahem—focus, not that.

Lately, major Magic Maiden factions all wolfed after the Key, noses to the wind.

As a lab operator, she shouldn’t touch that intel, glass walls in the way.

But she had a friend, and whispers traveled like wind through wires.

A few days ago, those Magic Maidens guessed which district Night Frost’s group would head to.

If she submitted this video and pinned the fugitives’ location, that’d be a feather in her cap.

The Modification Center falls under the Seeker, chains linking names.

Her supervisor was tightly tied to the Seeker.

So she sent the footage up the chain.

It still felt off, grit under a tooth.

She called her friend; the line hummed in the dark.

She sent her the clip too, and asked for a good word with the Order Keeper.

Once faces and intel on Night Frost’s group spread, every Key-aware faction in District Twenty One started moving, gears turning.

They vowed to take back the Key hidden on Night Frost and the Old Woman, hunters reclaiming prey.

Days ago, an older fugitive—the Old Woman—found that person’s former home, dust thick as old breath.

She went searching for something inside.

Her situation differed from the wounded Magic Maiden Purple Lightning’s report.

No blue-glowing Key on her body.

It must be stashed in a Spatial Box, or resting on someone else, a seed hidden in loam.

The Seeker didn’t act immediately, patience like a net.

Not until the Old Woman turned up a book the Seeker had never cataloged.

She smiled at the cover, a fox’s curl, as if the book held some mystery.

Then the shadows moved—knives from the dark.

They struck to seize the book and wring out the Key’s trail.

But the Old Woman was tougher than Purple Lightning had said, a thorny root.

Old and unscrupulous, a thief who refuses to die—so the saying goes.

She escaped alive from three Cantata Two attackers, like smoke slipping through fingers.

Only a few pages were torn away, leaves ripped by wind.

Still, the lone Old Woman would surely join Night Frost’s people, streams seeking a river.

With this video, a one-swoop dragnet wasn’t just talk.

Then the Key would belong to District Twenty One, and the book too, locked in their vault.

Night Frost’s group rewrote their plan, ink drying under a quiet breath.

The Old Woman was being hunted, dogs on the trail.

Only the book was on her, a weight like stone.

If their faces hadn’t been captured, Night Frost and Zhao Qingsnow could support her safely.

Now, because of the Mechanical Arm’s recording, their faces—except Kaneko—were known to Magic Maiden groups in District Twenty One, eyes in metal watching.

They’d aim to net Night Frost’s team in one throw.

Night Frost carried two Keys, a cold metal weight.

She couldn’t move with the others.

The Keys were left by her father.

They tie to a seal on something unknown, a lid over a sleeping sea.

She would never hand them over, knuckles white.

Zhao Qingsnow was seasoned and strong, a blade calm as frost.

If she moved with Old Aunt, the two shouldn’t die—unless they ran into Cantata Three.

Jiujiu couldn’t show her face, her look too distinctive, a mask written in bone.

Xun Xun had a missing arm, a scar like a banner.

Only Night Frost could mask her face and walk the streets with some safety, a veil like night.

And Kaneko—she’d exposed nothing.

But she had moved with Night Frost; a Night Frost with a child isn’t easy to miss.

So Kaneko either acted alone, or stayed in a quiet nest.

Without Night Frost’s explanation, Xun Xun hadn’t known so many groups were on him.

Regret pricked like a thorn.

Seeking Night Frost might’ve been a mistake.

But he had nowhere else to go, walls tight as a fist.

Seeking Night Frost felt right.

They had boarded a pirate ship; the oars were already cast.

“Who are you, really?”

Night Frost wouldn’t reveal anything about the Twelfth District, lips sealed like stone.

She only said most here were remnants of Aklatia.

Aklatia—the name rang in Xun Xun’s memory like a bell.

On his first step into the Twelfth District, he’d heard the rumor: Aklatia had been uprooted, roots torn from earth.

They said it was a top-tier research organization.

Its fall stirred every district, a ripple through glass towers.

The plan wasn’t made by the Twelfth District, but the Twelfth District’s Order Keeper took part.

One hundred fifty-three combatants killed.

Nineteen researchers dead.

Over fifty captured.

The famed genetic engineer, codename Doctor, also died in that war.

He hadn’t expected Aklatia’s remnants in District Twenty One.

What were they plotting—taking root here, or chasing another aim?

“Do you want to join Aklatia? We have nothing now, but still.”

Xun Xun and Jiujiu blinked, storm at their heels.

Night Frost tossed them an olive branch while hunters still chased them.

Recruiting now looked reckless—maybe even crazy.

“Who says the Modification Center isn’t on our enemies’ list?”

The Modification Center and the Seeker were tangled; water muddy with silt.

Xun Xun’s family had ties there too.

It was a vast industrial chain.

Nothing in it was clean.

Joining Aklatia meant stepping into that vortex.

Xun Xun didn’t dare agree.

The Modification Center alone had shattered them.

Facing other factions too? No.

At least not now.

Jiujiu also thought joining Aklatia wasn’t wise.

She couldn’t live alone anyway; the walls were too high.

She could barely step out the door.

Only one choice remained for Xun Xun, a path lit by home.

Go home.

Take Jiujiu home.

But his family was a web of open wars and hidden knives.

He didn’t know if he could endure.

At least he wouldn’t be passive anymore.

He’d guard his freedom like a flame cupped in hands.

And the freedom Jiujiu helped him seize.

She seemed not to need protection, but he would change.

Seeing his set face, Night Frost drew two plastic vials that clinked like glass rain, and a parchment scroll.

“This is Aklatia’s contract parchment.

Carry it.

You can join anytime.

These two medicines match what you took before.

I wish you fortune in war.

This road isn’t easy.”

Xun Xun didn’t refuse.

He tucked them into his pocket, weight small but sure.

“You really give me a feeling—you’re like someone I know.

Your tone, your manner.

Especially just now—those were his words.”

He paused, light sparking in his eyes, freedom and joy budding there.

“You must be connected to him, right?

Otherwise you wouldn’t save a stranger.

Come on—even a fool can guess.”

Xun Xun looked at Night Frost, eyes full of hope.

He wanted her to respond, to confirm.

Night Frost nodded.

She offered just one line, no more.

“My surname is Ling.”

With that, Xun Xun filled in the rest, a picture completing itself.

He compared Night Frost’s face to the “missing” one.

There was a resemblance.

She might be his sister.

“It’s him, of course!”

His eyes turned cloyingly bright.

Night Frost couldn’t meet that gaze; it burned sweet as syrup.

So much ardor—was he… into men?

Night Frost nearly kicked him, a reflex like a spark.

She remembered his injuries and let it slide.

“Is he still alive?”

Xun Xun pulled out the parchment and studied it, eyes tracing lines like rivers.

“He’s alive.

You’ll meet him someday.

He’s in Aklatia now, fighting for his family.”

As the words fell, Xun Xun split his wound open again, pain sharp as a blade.

He cried out twice, then let his blood fall onto it, red sealing red.

“Then…the contract stands.”