The wind seems to answer Qianchun’s will, carrying her dwindling mana like a cloud of verdant butterflies. They circle her, shove the Void Wanderers aside, and open a path.

Heart tight, Qianchun parts the swarm with her palms until she sees a sphere woven of Void Wanderers. Golden arcs flicker in its seams—that’s Qiu Sheng struggling inside.

The scent of blood and roast clings to this cramped space. Azure wind and golden thunder knit like two frail cords, thin yet bound tight.

Fingers trembling, Qianchun thrusts her slender arm into the living sphere, reaching for Qiu Sheng’s arm before the dark closes.

The Void Wanderers sense her intent and wheel as one. Her wind can’t bear that storm—impacts slam like rain on a woven screen. Emerald butterflies fall, dulling as they drop.

The butterflies on her arm scatter first. The clever ones bite down; tendon and flesh tear under their teeth. Wounds open to bone; blood threads down, riling the pack.

“Qiu Sheng—your hand!”

Her shout slices the layers, finds Qiu Sheng’s ear through the churning dark.

She wants to save her; she dives in, reckless as a spark in tinder.

Qiu Sheng stands wrapped in arcs. In her hands is her mentor’s ward, a cage of pure lightning. It can shield her for a while. But Qianchun—without a Magic Stone—how long can she last?

Fear presses; Qiu Sheng glances at her slashed legs. She cracks a fresh vial, downs it in one breath. As the wounds knit, she looks to Qianchun and tries to turn the ward’s mana into a blade.

It won’t budge. Her mentor’s mana is too heavy. As the First Symphony, she has no right to seize power beyond her weight. Yet if she doesn’t, Qianchun will be shredded by fangs.

The blood-scent thickens. Through the crawling swarm, Qiu Sheng sees a thread of light, and a slender arm chewed ragged.

Back then, Qianchun stood in front of her too. No Magic Stone. Weaker than her. A stranger. She could’ve let an Order Keeper protect her—duty and all.

Later, Qiu Sheng learned Qianchun’s past—childhood grief, years underground, a life on the Order Keeper’s opposite side. She could’ve let Qiu Sheng die. She didn’t.

Now it’s the same. They barely know each other, a mission or two at most. She owes nothing, yet walks into a foe she can’t beat. With her mana spent, death feels carved in wood.

“Your hand…”

The Void Wanderers around Qiu Sheng thin. Almost all flood toward Qianchun. One arm, white to bone, reaches toward her bit by bit.

“Why did you come…”

Qiu Sheng strains to wake the ward’s mana, but the lightning doesn’t stir. Sweat or tears blur her eyes like rain.

“I just think people like you… shouldn’t die here.”

Qianchun’s voice is weak, a soft thread through the storm. It lands clear in Qiu Sheng’s heart.

Silence grips her; she nudges her mentor’s lightning again. No miracle answers. The heavy light stays shut like stone.

“Damn you, Master!”

Despair flares; she stomps, fists tapping the lightning curtain, a tiny ant trying to shake an ancient tree.

“If she dies before me, I’ll hate myself for life. Please… I’ll give up everything, so long as she lives.”

“Move… move, you bastard!”

Chains finally whisper awake. A buried door rises from the deep, surfaces, and stands not far from Qianchun like a moonlit gate.

It’s a road wrapped in lightning. Thunder falls, leaving scorched marks on a single-file path. To pass, she must take the storm head-on.

Her teacher once told her: when all ripens, you’ll see a door. Everyone’s looks different. Words fail. But when you meet it, you’ll know—it’s the door.

When the door appears, you’ve been recognized. Walk the last road, pass beyond the First Symphony, and reach Cantata Two.

Qiu Sheng has no choice. To save Qianchun, she must cross this squall and open the sleeping gate.

It’s her only hope, a silver thread in night.

Lightning is proud but not arrogant. Pressed to the limit, it sheds vanity and hatches clean life—joy in harvest, pride in craft, peace in giving.

When she lays down her last pride for another, the proud lightning answers her rebirth. The chained door slides to her feet.

In the instant she decides and steps onto the road, the storm peels away. It becomes pure lightning and mana, circling and cheering like festival drums.

Chains ring sharp; links snap like dry branches. The sealed gate opens. Qiu Sheng doesn’t hesitate. Scrubbed of vanity, she takes the final step.

Cantata Two.

It’s the realm she’s chased since childhood, her mentor’s peak. Pride and calm bloom, then she sets them aside—Qianchun is still fading.

Gold arcs flicker in her eyes. The heavy bulwark ahead feels thin as paper.

She lifts a finger; lightning reads her intent and coils her arm. She points again; lightning sharpens into her keenest Blade.

In a heartbeat, the sky darkens. Black cloud presses low, ink rolling like a tide. Bolts thick as buckets churn and rumble.

“Place of Purification, thunder crowns the heavens; stray dust of strife, chaos reborn. In rain-dark cloud, let guidance fall; in sealed night, let echo return; upon troubled earth, let judgment descend! Να είσαι περήφανος γι' αυτή τη ζωή!”

Thunder answers at last. Surging gold floods the cramped dark, drowning the Void Wanderers. Their shrieks shred the air like torn silk.

Qianchun sinks within the glow; the lightning skirts her like a careful river. Blood pools under her, and her palm is near white bone.

Through the veils of light, Qiu Sheng stands wrapped in arcs, wearing new Magic Armor. Black base, golden trim. Cloud-shoulders flare down her sides.

The front cloud-piece covers her chest; threads of lightning cinch her waist. Those fine lines weave into golden adornments, and a skirt drapes over her thighs.

She wears pure white stockings and short boots in an English cut, crisp as winter frost.

Part of her hair is pinned with a useless-looking clasp. The rest falls straight to her waist. Under even bangs, her gold eyes spark with arcs.

She drives the thunder, borrows the lightning her mentor left, and sweeps the Void Wanderers clean. The rolling peals drown every cry.

Crack.

White light flares; the hot sky opens to rain. Golden bolts grow wilder, yet the lightning in her palm softens like embers.

She drops to ground, gathers the fallen Qianchun, and tips two vials to her lips. Life steadies like a flickering lamp.

Two figures arrive, one black, one white, both spattered in blood. They heard the thunder and sprinted. In under two minutes, the battle’s done.

They look toward Qiu Sheng, kneeling in Magic Armor, cradling Qianchun’s arm gnawed near to bone. Qiu Sheng’s tears fall, bead by bead, onto hair and cheek.

“Why cry…”

Qianchun narrows her eyes and touches Qiu Sheng’s cheek with the hand that still works, a feather-light brush.

“No… I just want to cry.”

Qiu Sheng turns her face away. Crying or not, Lu Shi doesn’t care—Qianchun is this weak, and treatment comes first.

Qiu Sheng agrees and volunteers. Lightning gathers under her feet, and in a blink she vaults ten meters like a leaping carp.

It feels strange, but she catches on fast. She carries Qianchun, rides the tailwind, and soon returns to the Order Keeper branch.

Blade sees Qianchun’s wounds and orders treatment at once. Not long after, Lu Jin and Lu Shi bring back the unconscious Zhang Jialu and Xia Qingqing.

Lu Shi tosses the Void Wanderer corpses to Blade to handle and reports on the old Aklatia site.

This Cantata Two Void Wanderer can be sold for cash, or boiled into soup to feed the branch. Either way, Lu Shi doesn’t lose.

Qiu Sheng sits by Qianchun’s bed and sets her hand gently beside her, quiet as falling snow.

“Qianchun, you’re a gentle soul.”

Qianchun shakes her head and looks at the ceiling. The pure white seems ready to bloom a picture.

“My old, old, old boss and Lingchen Yao gave me gentleness, saved me. I want to save others. That’s all.”

“Thank you.”

Qiu Sheng whispers thanks. After a little talk, Qianchun slips into sleep.

Qiu Sheng leaves softly and closes the door.