A quick disclaimer, like a paper talisman pinned to the door: this is pure fiction—don’t take it as real.

On this land, many creeds were worshiped, like banners flapping in a changing wind: the four elements, the five phases, yin and yang, divinity.

At their root, all those theories leaned on Mana and Abyssal Aura, two currents like river and undertow, birthing and restraining each other while carrying their own colors.

Yet those creeds couldn’t fully explain a Magic Maiden’s gift, like mist that hid a mountain peak.

Some Magic Maidens held Mana with no attribute at all, yet their powers pointed inward, deeper, toward spirit, like a lantern lit in a sealed chamber.

To common eyes, that felt cut away from Mana, like two paths diverging at dusk.

Through trials and study, their handlers found a hard truth, like iron under silk: spirit power tied to Mana in a tight braid.

Better to say Mana was the material root of spirit, like grain to bread, like oil to flame.

Set aside how spirit is born, a question like moonlight caught in water.

Spirit and soul are so arcane it’s hard to grasp their bones, yet we can trace the link between Mana and spirit, like footprints across frost.

Mana dwelled in the blood, like fireflies adrift in a red stream.

A Magic Maiden triggered a Magic Stone; the Stone granted, amplified, and guided the Mana within, like a tide urging the current.

Blood ran faster, Mana circled quicker, and that speeding loop strengthened the body, like steel quenched, while it also drove the brain into a fast burn, a forge already named before.

Some Mana would pile in the brain, like snow on a temple eave.

Night Frost could draw it there on purpose, then ignite a spirit-flame as a match-head, and see her spirit-self, like a shadow stepping out of the mirror.

Most Magic Maidens who saw their spirit-self did it only after the brain’s Mana heap crossed a threshold, like water breaching a sluice.

A few born gifted held spirit-type Magic Stones; once triggered, they opened inner sight faster, like doors blown wide by a sudden gale.

That was Jiang Xiu, a talent cut clean as jade.

The price was harsh: her Magic Stone held no attribute; she couldn’t learn attribute Magic Spells, nor use related Magic Tools, like a key that fit no lock.

But her Magic Stone granted a skill that hushed all spirits, like snow blanketing a forest at dawn.

While that skill lasted, she could slice the link between Mana and the spirit-self, like a thread cut with a blade.

She could wall off Night Frost’s brain Mana, drive it out like smoke, and press part of the spirit so Night Frost’s thoughts stalled, like gears jammed with grit.

In that span, Night Frost became a lamb led to the block, breath clouding in cold air.

Night Frost, halfway through her dash, took the blow; even with spirit power steady as bedrock, she had no Mana to guide it.

In that instant, her spirit power and her body slipped apart, like a kite whose string snapped, and her mind went dark.

Her planted leg wobbled, like a reed in wind; her body pitched sideways, like a boat tipping.

The Tang blade flicked aside Night Frost’s last burst of crimson-gold sparks and stabbed straight for her back, like a silver carp lunging upstream.

It was almost a death-board set solid as granite.

On the phone watching the surveillance feed, the woman felt anger like stormlight and admiration like a fine blade; she hoped Night Frost would rise, yet hoped those hunters would take her head, like wolves circling a stag.

Night Frost lurched and hit the ground hard, like thunder underfoot.

The girl with the Tang blade missed her kill-stroke by a hair, but Night Frost’s back was still split open, the Magic Layer with cloth and skin carved into a thin line, like a quill scratch on parchment.

The next strike would be fatal, bearing down like winter.

The blade gathered Mana, a chill silver glow under the night, like frost on a sword-edge.

The cold felt sharp enough to freeze a lake, glassing it smooth.

The girl clenched her hilt, and the Blade chopped down from above, like a falling star.

Just then, a scream tore out from the lab, keening like a bird struck mid-flight.

The Tang blade paused by a breath, yet still swung for Night Frost’s skull in a clean line, like a plumb drop.

That heartbeat let Night Frost break free; flame blasted from her core, like a bellows kicked alive.

The heat burned off the blade’s cold Mana, chased it like night from a lantern, and the fire bolted toward a corner of the sky like a comet.

Night Frost seized the moment and rolled hard to the side, like thunder rolling along hills.

Her arm still got caught; a gash opened deep to bone, like a red canyon, but it didn’t slow her spirit.

Her Dragon Heart’s recovery surged, knitting the wound quick as lichen across stone; blood hadn’t even pooled when skin sealed.

Unless the enemy’s Mana carried some special edge, a simple blade wound couldn’t take Night Frost down, like rain on lacquer.

Dusk thickened, ink washing over the street.

Night Frost was only a few steps from the Modification Center’s gate, but those steps were razor peril, like stones across a torrent.

The Crimson Gold Spear cut the night and left a blood-red streak, with a harsh shrrip like torn silk.

Her eyes flickered in the dim light, swapping scarlet and gold like embers breathing.

Her Spear moved faster, a blur like a leopard weaving through shadow, and carved new lines across the Tang-blade girl’s skin, like claw-marks on bark.

Lamps burned under the gate, warm as rice lanterns, but the darkness around grew heavier, a cloak of ink.

Night Frost felt a sting of fear like ice in the gut; the third attacker could leap from that dark any second, like a jackal from scrub.

Even her shadow could hide the strike, a trap like a pool under leaves.

Once the bow’s drawn, there’s no turning back; lingering here would feed the wolf.

To keep that one from closing in, there was one clean way—like a brazier lit against winter.

A wall of fire rose from beneath Night Frost’s feet, a wave like a sunrise coming up fast.

Flame painted her eyes bright, glassy as molten gold.

Everywhere she looked blazed, like banners of light.

The Magic Maiden in the dark, ready to attack through Night Frost’s shadow, cursed Night Frost’s slyness under her breath, a hiss like steam.

Fire chased the darkness back, left only a small patch of shade under her soles, like a coin of night.

If she chased Night Frost now in such bright ground, she’d only feed herself to a counter, like a moth to the lamp.

Night Frost already knew her ability.

For an assassin who lived in shade, once the power and position were known, she couldn’t threaten Night Frost at all, like a snake dragged into open field.

The gate was close enough to touch.

Only the Tang-blade girl still pressed against Night Frost’s fire wall, like surf battering a cliff.

Night Frost gripped her Spear; the Magic Spell bound to the Magic Stone had reached its final syllable, like a drumbeat about to drop.

A sharp Spear burst out of the flame, a dart like lightning, and punched through the Tang-blade girl’s shoulder, red blooming like a camellia.

Night Frost didn’t follow with a killing stroke.

If she killed a District Twenty One Order Keeper, the Twelfth District would face District Twenty One’s wrath, like thunder rolling back down the valley.

It went well enough.

Night Frost shook off District Twenty One’s chase and stepped back into the Modification Center, expecting rest like cool tea, but meeting Senior Wang’s cold eyes instead, sharp as sleet.

She had smashed nearby surveillance in the gap between fire walls, like stones through glass.

Now no one could see their fight, save Zhou Jiaxin hiding in the dark, like a cat behind curtains.

That scream just now had been Zhou Jiaxin’s; without that beat in the rhythm, Night Frost’s head would have rolled, like a gourd under the blade.

Night Frost felt a flash of gratitude, warm as coals, but first she had to settle Senior Wang in front of her, cool as jade.

Senior Wang was the culprit for tonight’s siege, like a spider who spun the web.

She had reported Night Frost’s info to the Order Keeper, drew their attention like gulls to bread, and sent Night Frost to brush past the ghost gate, like a traveler at the brink.

Those three were no weaklings, strength taut as bowstrings.

If Night Frost hadn’t known the shadow-type Magic Maiden’s nature, it would’ve been a grinding fight; one against two was already a cliff; one against three was death, like a candle in the storm.

“I thought we could keep the peace,” Night Frost said, voice low as embers.

“But I don’t like what you did.”

She pulled the Spear from flame; the tip sliced the air with a keen whistle, a hawk’s cry through a narrow lane.

Night Frost dashed hard toward one side, legs coiling like springs; the Spear traced arcs of crimson-gold light mid-run, like crescents cut from dawn.

Senior Wang didn’t hide.

She lifted her long calf sheathed in thigh-highs, like a reed wrapped in silk.

Teal liquid wrapped her lower leg, shimmering like river glass, and hardened into a greave, solid as stone.

Greave met Spear; water struck fire, steam blooming like ghosts.

The greave knocked Night Frost’s Spear aside; Senior Wang rocked her body back with a smooth lean, willow-light.

Her hand, also wrapped in teal liquid, grabbed and hauled the Spear backward, a wrench like pulling anchor.

Night Frost’s balance tilted, a falter like a skater on thin ice; she released the Spear first to reset, breath sharp.

Senior Wang gave no room to breathe; the jade pendant at her waist glowed with firefly light, a little swarm.

Teal liquid rose under her feet and lifted her whole body, buoyant as a lotus; she spun in midair and cracked a heavy strike down on Night Frost’s forehead, like a cudgel falling.

Night Frost crossed her palms in time, stone on stone, but the shock left her dizzy, stars popping like sparks.

She shook her head, a dog shedding rain, until the world sharpened at the edges.

She coughed blood from her throat, dark as wine, and clarity came back cold as river water.

She had seen it: the jade pendant shining when Senior Wang pushed Mana, an answer bright as a torch.

No doubt, it was a Magic Tool tuned against Night Frost’s attribute, a lock made for this key.

The summoned liquid was tougher than Night Frost’s Spear, like iron against bamboo.

A few spear constructs had snapped, splinters like shattered antlers, while the liquid shield lost only half its mass, stubborn as clay.

Senior Wang wanted Night Frost dead, simple as a blade.

She attacked without pause and drove Night Frost toward the gate, like sheep toward the fence.

An undercover’s worst fear is a tongue spilling truth; the surest way to silence is to bury secrets in the grave—death, cold as earth.

Senior Wang leaned toward body enhancement, a Magic Maiden of the water element, like a river sharpening stone.

She could draw on the waist-worn Magic Tool and turn its power into armor hard as turtle shell.

But she didn’t; she let the pendant’s liquid cover only her hands, feet, and vital spots, like lacquer on strike-points.

Those coated parts grew denser and meaner, wrecking more with each hit, like hammers forged for war.

Night Frost didn’t know Senior Wang had been a military medic; her close combat was cleaner than most, like a scalpel’s line.

In strength, speed, technique, tools, and reading weaknesses, Senior Wang was above Night Frost, a peak looming over a pass.

But Night Frost wasn’t empty-handed.

She pulled a silver cube and a simple amplification array plate from storage, like coins from a sleeve.

She palmed the plate, felt its hum like bees in a jar, and aimed the cube at Senior Wang, steady as sight over a bow.

At two meters, a sudden pull, not overwhelming but firm, dragged at Senior Wang, rhythm broken like a drumstick snapping.

Instinct made her back away, yet within the cube’s field, retreat only strengthened the pull, like tide sucking out the shore.

Array Patterns crawled up from Night Frost’s palm, lines like vines climbing a trellis.

After days of careful study, her patterns now resembled those on the Mechanical Arm, cousins carved by steady hands.

There was still resistance while carving; she couldn’t perfectly mirror them in mana-lines, like a stencil smudged.

Even so, the boost was enough, a lift like wind at the back.

Meanwhile, the amplification plate kept charging her next strike, a storm coiling in a fist.

Once Senior Wang spotted the cube’s weak point and came close, that blow would be bitter medicine, a draught she’d be forced to drink.