A breeze, tugged by that frail thread of Mana, answered Qianchun like a tamed sparrow. Her Mana was scant; it couldn’t birth a killing art. She could only shepherd the wind, guiding it down the cave mouth like a pale waterfall. The wind drummed in their ears like a quiet war drum. To Qianchun, its currents lit up—lines of silver running through the dark.

Void Wanderers had bodies, in the end. When the wind brushed them, their forms split the flow like stones in a stream; the nimble gusts folded back in and wrapped them from both sides. By that embrace, Qianchun marked where they drifted, as if stitching outlines into empty air.

She raised her T-series gun. Fear pricked first, then steadied into grit. She couldn’t promise a kill on a Wanderer swimming in wind. But there was no room left to hesitate. Hemmed in by so many First Symphony and bottom-tier Monsters, an almost ordinary girl could only pull the trigger.

The round leapt from the chamber, tearing through the handmade breeze with a hiss. It carved its own arc in the wind, a hawk’s dive, and drilled into a Void Wanderer’s body.

Its near-transparent torso flashed into view, a ghost snagged by wire. Through the bullet hole, Qianchun’s gaze met several cold gazes in the void—eyes like pinpricks in a midnight veil.

The slain Wanderer crumpled and writhed, a torn net on rock. The pack “looked without looking,” then shrieked and rushed her, razor voices scraping the walls. She had used a method they couldn’t fathom to find them, and that made her a threat, a torch in their night.

They wandered the void; she could read their tracks like ripples. But their quick, twisting bodies made her hits drop, turning the fight from still targets to a flock of startled birds. Earlier, quiet and crouched, they were sitting ducks. Now they were moving targets, darting shadows.

Her gun-hand felt rusty; the muscle memory came back in splinters. Too long without firearms—every trigger press felt like pushing through wet clay.

They were fast, fast as shooting stars. Fangs were almost at her skin when two shots cracked behind her, the sound snapping like dry bamboo.

The two behind her weren’t sharpshooters. One bullet grazed Qianchun’s skin, then smacked a Wanderer’s hard skull. Luck held like a thin thread. In the end, both wounds were only skin-deep, red lines drawn by chance.

Xia Qingqing carefully slid her gun behind her back, breath small. That near-miss was hers. She’d never scored well at the Order Keeper branch’s firearm drills. Training had added a little polish, but not enough to shine.

She ran to Qianchun, cheeks hot, asking if she was okay. Qianchun shook her head, calm as a pond. She pressed a palm to the scrape; blood welled up, a crimson spring she couldn’t stop.

The swarm flinched at the gunshots, then grew bolder when they tasted Zhang Jialu and Xia Qingqing’s shaky aim. Solve Qianchun, and the other two would be their supper—a table set in stone.

They’d starved in this place for so long their hunger felt like sand in the veins. Today looked like a feast. No lamb escapes, they hissed inside the silence.

Void Wanderers gathered, more and more, until they sealed the fallen stones tight as a dam. Then, as one, they erased their forms, slipping into a hush. Xia Qingqing and Zhang Jialu trembled, guns lifted like thin shields. Qianchun drew a long breath; the wind in her palm answered, a tame creature bucking. Before it faded, it would spend its last strength, a candle flaring at dawn.

Lu Jin and Lu Shi tangled with a thing between catfish and ribbonfish, a long-bodied lord of the dark. Its tendrils cut like Blades, thin and cruel. Its scales were harder than alloy, a carapace of moonlight. It stood like an armored general, weapon raised high; the smaller Lu Jin and Lu Shi were soldiers charging uphill.

Bullets bloomed fire, stinging the black. The farther dark grew even darker against that brief flame, ink deepening where light touched.

Lu Shi pressed her hands together; the surrounding dark clung to her palms like living shadow. The stretched shadow at her feet seemed to wake, lengthening like nightfall.

Shadow claws raked the hard scales, leaving three, four white scars—chalk on obsidian. Lu Shi’s pistol could punch through the scales, yet the fat beneath was thick, swallowing harm like wet earth.

Their roles sharpened. Lu Shi cracked scales. Lu Jin dealt with the fat, carving paths in meat. They switched to night vision; in that false dusk, the Void Wanderer had nowhere to hide. Just as they were ready to peel its fish-skin, to cut meat like winter harvest, it vanished.

A five-meter fish disappeared in an instant, a banner torn off the wind. The sting in Lu Jin’s senses went silent, a gong cut mid-strike. The First Symphony and the lower-tier Wanderers hid by erasing their bodies; this one felt like it left the space entirely, slipping through a seam in the world.

Out of this space, Lu Shi’s sensing failed, a compass spinning. The tilted board of the fight began to lean toward the Void Wanderer. Unless they cracked its spatial skill, victory would slide away like oil.

Lu Jin finally understood the name—Void Wanderer. Its hidden form and air-swimming were born of space. As juveniles, that hiding was unripe, more chameleon’s shade, mirroring the world.

The principle seemed simple and cruel: tuck parts of the body into a shallow void, a second skin. That layer could still be touched; reality could bruise it. Mana and bullets could land.

But upon Cantata Two, the ability matured. They tore the void and slipped into deeper space, a trench under the sea. There, reality couldn’t reach—light itself drowned.

The skill felt familiar and not, a mirror with fog. In their Twelfth District branch, one ability was much the same: the Moon Owl, promoted to Chapter Three.

Lu Shi’s mind slid back to their duels. That eerie space skill meant that at equal level, she seldom beat the Moon Owl; victories were few, like bright days in rain season.

The Void Wanderer didn’t leave room for thought. Its maddening tendrils ripped the void and coiled around the slightly weaker Lu Jin, a rope twisting tight. Lu Shi’s thought snapped. She moved at once; darkness gathered on her dagger, thick as tar, and she cut at those swarming, tentacle-like feelers.

Pain bit Lu Jin’s ribs. Shame pricked before words; she gripped her Rosefire Pistol and apologized. She hadn’t noticed it was hunting her.

Lu Shi didn’t blame her. Space was a ghost’s hand. If it weren’t godlike and uncanny, how could space be called a top-tier power?

“You need to watch my movements.”

A Blade brushed Lu Shi’s neck, cold wind in steel. A dagger sank partly into the void; its tip broke out from nothing and laid a line of winter across her throat.

The Moon Owl, standing not far, drew the dagger back. Red beads fell from Lu Shi’s neck, rain on a white stone.

Moon Owl could split the void easily, swim in it like a silent eel, and find Lu Shi’s blind spots. So Lu Shi had to watch her dead angles. But guard one, and a garden of new angles bloomed. You protect a speck and lose the whole field.

Ignore your blind spots, and you’ll be struck—an old truth written into bone.

“Honestly, lost again. Space is a cheating ability. Even with the same mindset, the same moves, beating you is hard.”

Lu Shi dropped to the floor, sweat-drenched after three bouts and three losses. Every time Moon Owl hid in space, Lu Shi lost all sense of her. Moon Owl had time to find a weakness, then end it with one clean strike.

“Let your sister join you? She just entered the team, right? Strong enough. Some flaws, but nothing fatal.”

Lu Shi shook her head. If possible, she didn’t want her sister to be an Order Keeper. She was better suited as a manager; her mind outstripped her body by far.

On a battlefield, her mind could shine… truthfully, Lu Shi didn’t want Lu Jin in harm’s mouth. Being an Order Keeper isn’t a path paved with flowers.

“She’s set on it. You can’t stop her. If you want to teach her well, isn’t this a good chance? Let her see how dangerous an Order Keeper’s life is.”

At times like this, Moon Owl’s words came surprisingly warm. To outsiders, she was a cold judge; perhaps this warmth was her true face, hidden under frost.

Lu Shi brought Lu Jin. Lu Jin hugged her brand-new Rosefire Pistol, a shy fawn in bright metal. Moon Owl stood before her, an unseen pressure draping like a cloak.

Fear rose in Lu Jin’s chest; she edged back. A warm hand pressed against her back, a hearth’s quiet blessing.

“You want to be an Order Keeper, right? This is a good chance—learn what it is, show yourself. Don’t worry, she’s strong; she can block bullets.”

“Really?” she asked, voice small as a reed.

“Really. And I’m with you.”

Lu Jin drew in a breath, steadying like a lake at dusk. She lifted the Rosefire Pistol; the white Magic Stone flickered pure white, a star cupped in metal.

The training room opened again. Moon Owl slipped into the void as usual, a ribbon of night. This time, she lurked longer. Just as Lu Jin scanned the room, Moon Owl split space, a crack running through air.

Lu Shi reacted, but Moon Owl was a step faster. Lu Jin was taken, a fish speared mid-turn.

“If it’s too much, you can—”

Lu Shi tried to comfort her, but halfway through saw refusal burning in Lu Jin’s eyes, a coal that wouldn’t go out.

“Again!”

No one knew how many times she failed. Moon Owl grew tired, lids heavy. Yet Lu Jin, sprawled on the ground, still asked for another round through grit-stained teeth.

“Last one. It’s getting late.”

Lu Jin forced herself up, body shaking like a bowstring. Lu Shi’s heart ached. The three reset the training room. This time Lu Jin and Lu Shi stood back-to-back, shoulders touching. It was their best plan: give your blind spots to someone you trust, and the places to watch shrink like a drawn circle.

Space finally cracked, a white seam. The Rosefire Pistol barked once, thunder in a box. Lu Shi unleashed the Magic Spell she’d held and fed with darkness.

A tired Moon Owl was a fraction slow. Lu Shi’s spell was already within reach, a wave cresting.

Moon Owl was slammed aside by shadow, a black ram shouldering her from the void.