A spike forged from shadow punched through Zhao Qingsnow’s belly; mad laughter whipped the wind, then the wind smothered it.

Trees around them twisted like ghosts, bark writhing until they mirrored the shadow’s body.

They opened gaping, blood-red maws, eager to shred Zhao Qingsnow’s soul and keep the tatters.

Cold dread first: she felt her blood ebbing away, life siphoned piece by piece by the spike lodged in her gut.

Endless night crept toward her pupils, so close it pressed against her gaze, a final step from swallowing her whole—

One inch higher, and the shadow’s spike would pierce her heart cleanly; a pillar of Cantata Two would vanish from the world.

And the one to fell that pillar would be her—unregistered, a newcomer just raised to Cantata Two.

She savored Zhao Qingsnow’s struggle; Cantata Two bodies brim with vitality, so the dance of pain lasts longer.

But only for a while; soon she’d be soil, rich feed for the roots clawing underfoot.

Zhao Qingsnow clamped both hands around the shadow-forged spike, knuckles white, trying to wrench free the nail pinning her down.

The shadow denied her any opening; more spikes pinned her wrists.

All four limbs were nailed into the mud, her body a moth impaled on a thorn.

Hazy moonlight couldn’t pierce the thick leaves; only sluggish darkness draped her face like wet cloth.

Her breath came pale and thin; her eyes held no fear, only a despair fixed on the sky.

She knew her life was tipping toward its end, like a lamp guttering in wind.

Panic first, then math: even at full tilt, the Old Woman would need an hour or two to reach her.

Zhao hadn’t even bought half an hour; by then her body would be cold as river stones.

As life leaked out, her mana’s circuit slowed, a sluggish current in thinning blood.

The all-around domain of Frostbite Fang cracked; Purple Lightning and the Tang Saber Girl smashed it.

The two linked up with the shadow, a storm-front closing ranks.

Purple Lightning saw Zhao sprawled on the ground, and fury flared like sparks across dry leaves.

Purple arcs surged into her body, aiming to churn her organs into mince.

The Tang Saber Girl cut them off; the District Twenty One branch wanted a friendly talk.

Kill her now, and you spark war between the Twelfth District and District Twenty One.

She still had value, like a coin unspent.

The Twelfth District was baptised twice in war; its surface holds little worth.

Yet the most precious thing remains—territory, lines on a map that decide futures.

Two wars have blurred its borders with its claims—hazy lines like fog on fields.

If District Twenty One steps in, scoops up those unclear tracts, and seeds money for rebuilding, a year yields fat profit.

Take the uncertain lands around the Twelfth first, and District Twenty One gains rightful, early claim to occupy the core.

Secure the periphery, keep other forces at bay, and the Twelfth will fall in time, like a ripe fruit.

Then take back District Twenty One’s Key, unseal the treasure chained in the Abyss.

District Twenty One will stand at the front of every district—leader, voice, law.

Anyone who came from the Twelfth into Twenty One could be a precious pawn; Zhao was the unlucky fish in the net.

She would serve as that piece on the board.

They hoped the Twelfth’s negotiator would weigh things clearly—hazy land, one Cantata Two, and the Twelfth’s reputation.

Know which tips the scales.

So Zhao can’t die. A corpse has no value; without value, she’s nothing.

The Tang Saber Girl’s terms were clear: torment her, but within bounds. Leave her a breath.

Resolve first, then action: Zhao caught every word like nails driven into wood.

For the Twelfth, and for her niece within its walls, she refused to fall here.

A life with few grave mistakes would not end on one fatal error.

She grit her teeth; ice spines drilled into the soil, threading along her wound and the spike’s tip.

Reverse the path through the wound, and the nails pinning her would be driven back out.

That split second would be her chance to slip free.

Face serene, Zhao closed her eyes, as if life and death had grown light as dust.

She seemed to watch her life touch its far shore.

To them, she looked like someone who had abandoned all hope.

After all, taking her was a done deal.

However mighty she was, she couldn’t escape three hunters.

Besides, she was a spent arrow.

How could she possibly—

Then the cold caged under the earth erupted.

The five deadly, solid spikes were shoved out together.

Five ice spines rose from the holes the spikes had made and raced toward the three.

The trio raised guards, but the lances exploded, blooming into banks of ice fog.

Their sight turned to blur, the world a white veil.

Zhao had no plan to tangle. She meant to run.

The odds were cruelly low; she was badly hurt.

Even at full burn, she couldn’t outrun Purple Lightning, who was wounded too.

Still, this was the last window—use Frostbite Fang once more.

Ice walls surged up from the ground like white cliffs.

Dizziness rolled through her; blood loss slowed mana in her veins.

The burst wasn’t enough; Frostbite Fang would be a feint, a ghost blade.

She scattered blood from the wound, and Frostbite Fang sealed tight.

Dozens of ice spikes streaked at the trio, draining every drop of mana she had.

Her body felt like a stone sinking under black water; strength gone, limbs hollow.

All she could do was pray she wouldn’t be found.

Frostbite Fang took on a faint blood tint—ice forged from mana in her blood.

The range was tighter, yet its hardness rivaled her first casting.

That blood sheen slowed the dark-aspect Magic Maiden.

Even she would need time to crack Zhao’s pure mana and project her shadow inside.

The Old Woman pushed herself near her limit as she traveled, like a runner over burning sand.

She’d seen Zhao’s Magic Spell before; Frostbite Fang was vast and obvious.

From far off, she caught the moment it shattered.

Hurrying burned her mana down to scraps; she had to rest by the roadside, pulling breath back into her.

If only the Spatial Box held a Magic Stone, would she be suffering this?

Worry gnawed at her for Zhao’s safety; Zhao was her junior, and this danger sprang from her own misstep.

If that Moon Owl girl heard, how could she face anyone back home?

Frostbite Fang rose a second time; the ring was smaller, but relief washed her—Zhao was alive.

With a sliver of strength back, the Old Woman burrowed through earth again.

Ten-odd minutes later, she reached Zhao’s location.

Outside the Fang, Purple Lightning and the Tang Saber Girl had opened a hole.

Clots of shadow were weaving inside, yet Zhao’s presence wasn’t there.

A lifetime with soil made the Old Woman’s eyes keen; she spotted Zhao’s hide at once—deep below.

Her life-thread was thin, a spent arrow; any ordinary person could end her now.

She’d buried herself again, using the hard shell of Frostbite Fang to buy a precious dozen minutes.

The shadow seemed to catch on, hunting for ice spikes underground.

This time Zhao had buried them deep, and the mouth lay beneath the Fang’s ice.

They’d have to break the outer shell, or they’d never find her.

Her scattered blood misled the trio, like false breadcrumbs along a wolf trail.

They believed Zhao was inside the Fang, so they attacked it first, not noticing she’d used the same ruse to vanish below.

The shadow seemed to locate her burrow; the three prepared to dig Zhao out.

The Old Woman beat them by a step, shaping earth to draw Zhao to her side.

They sank deeper, then angled toward the landlady’s place, like fish sliding through mud.

The three felt that familiar magic— the escaped Old Woman.

She meant to carry Zhao off the same way.

They’d wasted too much time on Zhao, minutes bleeding away like sand from a fist.

The moon was slipping toward the horizon; the east was going fish-belly white.

Now was the darkest slice before dawn, and then would come the blaze.

Zhao hadn’t died. Her will hooked one last breath and showed her a door wrapped in heavy chains.

Night Frost had already found an underground hospital—black market, money-first, treat anyone.

It sat at District Twenty One’s center, inside that rotten heart tree.

When the moon stood high, Night Frost waited for Zhou Jiaxin to get off work.

She received the Old Woman’s and Kaneko’s messages, and learned Zhao had been ambushed.

She told Zhou to take tomorrow off, and had her detail tasks, speech, and kin ties—threads on a loom, stricter than a census.

Night Frost jotted it all down, took Zhou Jiaxin’s address, and handed over the fee—a Magic Stone.

Zhou’s eyes went bright, like lamps flaring; even a poor-grade Magic Stone runs tens of thousands. This Magic Maiden was generous.

Night Frost worried about Zhao’s wounds, and asked Zhou about hospitals that take anyone—underground, black-market preferred.

Zhou knew one. The Modification Center had partnered with a black market before; there’s a hospital there.

If Night Frost can pay, they’ll treat anyone, even criminals; coin sings louder than names.

That was exactly what Night Frost needed, a key cut for this lock.