The computer before Qianchun blazed like a lone lighthouse, pushing back the room’s ink-dark hush. As usual, she planned at night for newborn Aklatia. In trade and in management, her hands carved steady lines, small victories like lanterns across a river.
Aklatia’s reserve funds had climbed to a startling seven hundred ninety thousand, a reservoir fed by donations, Qianchun’s investments, and the Twelfth District Order Keeper’s aid. It was a puddle beside other giants’ oceans, yet a good beginning, since the new Aklatia rose from bare earth.
Its headcount grew from two sparks to over a thousand embers. Those fifty-odd who only wore the badge but worked at the Twelfth District branch weren’t counted. Aklatia now stood like a modest pavilion, small yet solid among middling organizations.
The growth pressed on her shoulders like wet cloth. People surged in fast, but income crawled. Paying standard wages to everyone felt like stretching a blanket too short.
After the Twelfth District’s disaster, nine in ten people drifted jobless like leaves after a storm. Even at one-third standard pay, Aklatia still drew many to its outer ring.
Core members earned more, but once inside the core, money became a shadow on the wall. Their shared banner was clear as dawn: revive Aklatia.
They were woven from those bound deep to Night Frost, a few sharp-eyed minds with real talent, and some remnants from Aklatia’s old roots.
The old Aklatia was erased by the Order Keeper. A few remnants slipped the net like silver fish. Qianchun hadn’t expected so many embers under the ash.
At first, no remnant stepped forward. Then one did, and the others followed like birds after the first wingbeat.
Qianchun’s selection was strict as winter. The old Aklatia lived underground, a night market of shadows, crowded with criminals and the cornered, much like Qianchun once was.
The new Aklatia stood under the Twelfth District branch’s roof. They refused to become a gutter clique, a smoke-huffing, corner-squatting crowd without line or conscience. That rot poisons image and air alike.
So Qianchun worked with the Twelfth District branch and pulled every remnant’s political file, panning for stones in muddy water. Light offenses went to the outer ring. Heavy ones were handed to the branch and locked away.
Even the light offenders and the ordinary had to pass one more sieve. If you carried goodwill, even without a single skill, Aklatia welcomed you like rain welcomes seed. If your morals were rotten, the door to the left was yours.
After the refining, barely a dozen from three hundred-plus remnants remained in the bowl. Nearly fifty, tied to major cases, were taken by the Twelfth District.
The wind carried the rumor like thistle fluff. Remnants who meant to join thought it a trap to catch them all. They hid in their burrows. Recruitment thinned to silence.
Night Frost had left the Twelfth District for District Twenty One over a month ago. Midway, they traded a few words by the Order Keeper’s comms. Then the line went still as a frozen stream.
Qianchun understood, though the understanding tasted bitter. Night Frost bore a heavy task, said to have slipped into a Modification Center, living each day on a knife’s edge. No time to reply was normal.
Saying she wasn’t disappointed would be a lie blooming cold in her chest.
She was grateful to Night Frost. Night Frost pulled her into Aklatia, washed her name clean, let her stand again on Twelfth District soil. Qianchun vowed to work for Aklatia, a coal of resolve warming her steps.
Night Frost’s circle was kind as spring rain—Chen Xiaoyin, Qiu Sheng, Lu Jin. They treated Qianchun well, so she answered with her hands, not words.
A few days ago, Monsters breached the lines. Lu Jin’s team bled in the fight. Qianchun rushed over and wrapped their wounds, white gauze like frost on red. It felt simply right, a small help to the Magic Maidens and Aklatia’s own.
Saying so, her chest dipped like a wave. She should’ve fought beside them. But her Magic Stone had shattered under the swell of her Mana.
It was rare as lightning striking twice. To keep its host from bursting, a Magic Stone bears the flood. Back then she was at First Symphony, the stone’s cup too small for the storm. The dam burst.
A throw of dice, yet the fall landed on Qianchun.
Without a Magic Stone, she could only barely touch First Symphony’s edge. She considered repairs, but the keys to that gate lay scattered by the wind, near impossible to gather.
Still, she stayed bright. If not a spearhead, she’d be a spine. She did logistics, ran finance. Beads of numbers slipped sure through her fingers, and money came like early fruit.
When the day’s grind finally eased, she shut the computer. The screen’s last glow faded like a dying ember. It was three in the morning. Time to sleep. She still lived in Night Frost’s old rented room.
She changed into pajamas and climbed the small, soft bed. Sleep took her quick, like a pebble sinking into a clear pond.
“No!” She bolted upright, sweat beading her brow like dew. Her breath stumbled, still laced to the dream.
Night Frost had been pierced by a sharp bullet, falling limp into a pool of blood. She reached toward Qianchun for help. Before Qianchun could answer, magic light rolled in like a devouring tide and swallowed Night Frost whole.
Qianchun woke then, heart pounding like a drum under her ribs. Dream or not, it felt too real. She patted her chest and waited for the storm inside to settle.
She parted the curtains. Dawn was a pale wash, the sky like damp paper. Her phone on the pillow read a little past six.
Six o’clock. Not enough sleep for her bones, but sleep had fled like a shy animal. She dressed and washed, unhurried as a stream.
She had to visit the Order Keeper branch today anyway. Earlier in, earlier back. A nap later would do.
Qianchun chose simple clothes, a mid-sleeve top and cropped pants. She stepped out the door.
Moon Owl had opened a spatial passage nearby. She only needed to walk through that rabbit hole to reach the Twelfth District branch.
At six a.m., the branch was quiet as a sealed jar. No one in sight. Even Blade wasn’t there. Only a mountain of coffee cans guarded her seat.
Qianchun was about to sneak to the cafeteria for breakfast when the can-mountain collapsed with a clatter. Blade crawled out from the rubble, dark circles heavy as bruises.
“Oh. Qianchun. Why’re you up so early?” Blade’s voice rasped like a worn hinge. She rubbed her eye bags, but the shadows wouldn’t hide.
No wonder. The last few days had been one storm after another—Monsters intruding, registered civilians vanishing. It ground Blade down like sand on stone.
Those tasks were meant for subordinates. Then Seeker Yun Ling arrived and upset the board. She tried to seize time itself, and with her mind’s grip, she puppeted most of the branch.
After Yun Ling died, she snapped those strings to kill. Minds detonated like glass under heat. Some died. Some were maimed. Some sank into vegetative stillness and now lay on cold beds in the underground ward.
Blade’s workload had been high; now it towered like a loaded cart. She used to do three people’s jobs. Now it was four or five, plus answering to superiors, plus playing agent to direct the Magic Maidens.
If Aklatia’s people hadn’t shouldered part of the weight, Blade might have died in that office, a candle burned to the wick.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came early. If I woke you, I’m really sorry.” Qianchun’s words were soft as rain.
Blade smiled, a tired crescent. “It’s fine. I wasn’t planning to sleep long anyway.” It was the cafeteria’s opening hour. She invited Qianchun to breakfast. Qianchun didn’t refuse.
Past six, the cafeteria was nearly empty, only cooks bustling in steam like low clouds. Blade and Qianchun were the first guests.
Blade was clearly familiar here. The cooks greeted her with warm fire. She answered with a small smile.
Without a word from her, they set Blade’s usual on a tray—a glass of iced coffee, two buns, and a bowl of hu-latang, that peppery breakfast soup.
Blade nodded and carried the tray to the nearest table. Qianchun ordered a small spread and sat across from her.
They ate in quiet spoons and sips. It wasn’t fine, but food in the mouth beat hunger’s wind. The Twelfth District survived on aid from other districts and the headquarters. Without that, it would’ve declared bankruptcy long ago.
Blade worked hard too, drawing funds from home and pouring them into the branch, then working herself thin. Everyone knew she slept less than four or five hours a night.
She could have sunk into a silk pillow on her family’s wealth. Instead, she chose the Order Keeper’s road, a blade over comfort, and paid in sweat. That, perhaps, is why people love and respect her from the heart.
