Blood Clan.

Moon Owl lay on the bare, cold floor, a lone feather in frost.

Through the crystal skylight, the suspended moon hung like a silver lantern.

Its chill light fell over her like gauze, and her memory drifted, a tide returning to shores of battle.

Back then she was newly Cantata Two, heart green as spring shoots.

Headquarters named her to an Abyss expedition, paired with another Order Keeper from the Twelfth District.

On the train, an iron serpent cutting fields, she met her young senior for the first time.

Her name was Illusionary Mist, black hair like ink, city-bright clothes, not much older, yet steady as an old pine.

She was called senior because she entered Cantata Two two winters earlier.

In study and practice, she had walked farther, a lantern on the path ahead.

To join an Abyss expedition, you needed two keys.

First, be Cantata Two.

Second, be an official Magic Maiden with a real post.

Moon Owl fit both, and she signed up, hope beating like wings.

She wanted the Abyss to teach her, like water teaching stone.

Competition was fierce, slots few, a scarce rain in a long drought.

She was surprised to be chosen, and resolved to grip this chance like a lifeline.

On the train, the two spoke of magic without end, a river of talk.

They went from star lore in the sky, to spells for the kitchen flame.

Illusionary Mist couldn’t answer everything, yet she explained with patience, like dusk softening light.

“Sometimes theory runs slower than practice,” she said, voice calm as a pond.

“Some truths grow only in the field.

Of course, this isn’t the place to try.”

Moon Owl realized her zeal looked odd, a moth circling a lamp too close.

Heat flushed her cheeks; words tangled like vines.

“Not at all,” Illusionary Mist laughed, a bell in spring.

Moon Owl ducked into her bunk to meditate, breath sinking like a pebble in a well.

Illusionary Mist tasted a cupcake in a paper cup, sweetness like a warm ember.

She’d bought it at the station; good flavor, steep price, a little luxury in a long road.

In the following days, Moon Owl tucked her thirst for knowledge away, like folding a fan.

They spoke of home, simple as bread and tea.

Illusionary Mist had a younger sister; she loved and hated Illusory Glass, a thorned rose.

The story drew Moon Owl’s curiosity, a cat at a half-open door.

Their parents left early, wind snuffing lamps too soon.

Illusory Glass was six or seven, unable to live alone, a sapling in a storm.

Illusionary Mist took the weight, the beam of the house, carrying life like a yoke.

She worked hard, paid for kindergarten, fed and clothed the child, day after day like beads on a string.

Love, because Illusory Glass was her dear sister, a treasure left by their parents, a pearl in the palm.

Hate, because the strain was iron, sleep thin as paper, meals skipping like stones.

And Illusory Glass was special.

Born with snow-white hair and glass-blue eyes, winter and river in one glance.

The Twelfth District’s branch tested her; it was Mana overflow.

Vast Mana carved her looks from another world, a star among reeds, genius and calamity entwined.

That flood of Mana drew wandering Monsters like wolves to firelight.

She could rampage, hurting those nearby, a storm breaking fences.

As she aged, Mana might outgrow the vessel of her body, exceeding limits like flood over banks, ending in early death.

Being the elder sister alone was bitter work, winter long and wood scarce.

Moon Owl thought of her grandmother, a steady hearth that raised her when her parents split like a crack in ice.

Only they knew that weight, stone in the chest.

“Sometimes I want to toss it all, run far, a bird cutting the tether,” Illusionary Mist admitted, her voice clouded then clear.

“But she’s my dear sister.

When I see her clear gaze, the pain dissolves like mist in sun.”

Joy flickered in her eyes, a dawn spark.

Remembering Illusory Glass’s pure look gave her forward push, a wind at her back.

She was the child’s pillar, and, perhaps, the child was the pillar of her heart too.

Moon Owl shared pieces of her own home, simple truth laid like rice in a bowl.

Divorced parents, two houses like two shores.

Custody with her father, but she was given to grandparents, roots finding old soil.

A quiet kinship rose between them, two travelers warming hands over one fire.

They talked more, words flowing like tea.

When tired, each returned to her bunk and meditated, minds sinking like stones in clear water.

Soon the dull days on the train passed, clouds parting.

Three grand spires rose on the open land, spears gilded by sun.

Under light, they glowed soft gold, like leaf laid over marble, bright against the earth.

Between the towers, a corridor five meters wide ran straight as an arrow.

At its end, a flat ground opened, and a colossal pillar of Mana hovered there, a white waterfall piercing the clouds.

Outside the towers, Obsidian Stone obelisks stood in neat ranks, teeth of night.

Together they formed a Formation strong enough to resist a Cantata Three’s storm.

After their identity cards flashed green on the devices, Moon Owl and Illusionary Mist went their separate duties, paths branching like river forks.

They were on the same expedition, but held different roles, hence different departments, different rooms, different clocks.

Moon Owl joined Second Team, the substitute line, a shadow ready to step in.

Illusionary Mist was First Team, the spear tip.

Substitutes replace when the front line rests, similar work but less glory, and newspapers print First Team faces like heroes on stone.

Moon Owl didn’t care; coin wasn’t her hunger.

She came to learn, to drink from deep wells.

From their talks, Illusionary Mist came for the two-hundred-thousand bonus, a month out, money returning like a full net.

Danger existed, but recent years were calm, a lake without storms.

How many dangers could there be?

Moon Owl agreed.

Ten-plus Cantata Two set out together, a flock of strong wings.

Risk felt small; across the land, total Cantata Two were only three or four hundred at most, stars you could count.

After they received uniforms and special gear, Moon Owl went to training.

There she met Illusionary Mist again, seated straight as bamboo.

She listened to a veteran fresh from expedition, his voice gravel and wind, explaining procedures and the use of new equipment, mechanisms humming like bees.

Moon Owl dared not slack, her mind tight as a drum.

A week of training ran its course; then managers and operators led them aboard, a procession of ants into the iron forest.

The expedition cruiser was entirely black, night poured into steel.

They said Obsidian Stone powder was mixed into the build.

When tearing the veil between Abyss and the land, it softened the clash between Mana and Abyssal Aura, like sand calming a wave.

It also kept the void from slicing the hull like paper, steel made stubborn against the blade of emptiness.

Moon Owl wore a black robe with silver threads, moonlight stitched into shadow.

Her black heeled boots rang on the cruiser’s dark plates, crisp as rain on tiles.

The robe let a Magic Maiden function within thick Abyssal Aura, body steady as a mountain.

It wouldn’t be overlaid when Magic Armor flared.

People said it was costly, rare, only from Headquarters, a falcon’s feather in a world of sparrows.

Illusionary Mist wore black with gold threads, sunrise sewn into night.

Her face turned serious, all the warmth tucked away.

Her movements were clean, eyes bright like a hawk’s, a soldier carved by storms.

She raised her gloved hand; faint light of her Magic Armor rippled beneath her robe, like scales under silk.

With other gold-embroidered Magic Maidens, she swore the oath, voices braided like a rope.

The launch ceremony ended, solemn as a temple bell.

Everyone boarded.

Flames punched through dense dust, sparks scattering like fireflies.

The pillar of Mana collided with the void, tearing open an Abyssal Rift, a wound leaking night.

Beyond the black fissure, countless Monsters waved their limbs, a twisted forest in motion.

Their howls and wails scraped ears, a swarm of knives.

The Magic Maidens guarding the cruiser all manifested their Magic Armor, light flashing like banners in a storm.

Five-colored Magic Cannons hammered the Monsters that tried to block the takeoff, thunder planted on flesh.

The cruiser didn’t idle.

Its mounted Magic Cannons roared without pause, iron hearts beating fire.

Only when the black hull vanished into the ominous Abyssal Rift did the outside Maidens withdraw, returning indoors.

They dismissed their Magic Armor, then handled the aftermath like carpenters after a flood.

Inside, Moon Owl and others watched instruments bloom with data, screens like cold lakes.

The Abyssal passage revealed itself completely—black, deep, frightening, a trench in the world.

The black cruiser merged with the surroundings, night within night.

Its conical prow cleaved Abyssal Aura and void, a needle through cloth.

Fire at the tail went silent; white rune-lines pushed the ship forward, steady as a glacier.

The cruiser stayed quiet, a church after service.

Systems chimed now and then, bells of glass.

Everyone worked at their posts, hands like ants.

Those in silver-threaded and gold-threaded black robes returned to rooms to rest, storing strength like grain.

Moon Owl didn’t rush back; her heart reached out first, then her steps.

She tried to befriend others, a hand extended in mist.

Almost all refused, doors closing like shutters.

Only a few Maidens from minor districts spoke with her, small fires in a long winter.

Moon Owl didn’t understand, fog in her chest.

She sought Illusionary Mist, the lantern again.

Illusionary Mist told her regions had tensions, storms between walls.

The Twelfth District was the extreme case, pushed onto the wind’s edge, a banner catching every gust.

Maidens from the Twelfth District were naturally unwelcome, thorns in certain eyes.

“Why do they dislike the Twelfth District so much?” Moon Owl asked, voice soft as rain.

“Where’s the knot?”

“Because the Twelfth District isn’t like most others,” Illusionary Mist said, words calm, a blade wrapped in cloth.

“In methods and policy, Blade seems to give ordinary people too much convenience, too much light.

Those high above don’t like that view, pillars looking down on grass.”

“And the Twelfth District’s magic differs from most,” she added, eyes on the floor, shadows long.

“Basic Magic Spells are the same, sure, but… forget it.

You’ll see when time lifts the veil.”

Something unspeakable lived there, a secret under snow.

Say it aloud, and you’d be shoved onto the gale’s tip, a kite with cut strings.

The Twelfth District felt born as a heresy, and children of heresy rarely find warm seats.

“I still don’t get it,” Moon Owl whispered, fog refusing to thin.

“You just stepped into Cantata Two,” Illusionary Mist said, voice like a hand on shoulder.

“You haven’t touched these currents.

Time will tell, and it will wash your naivety like river over stone.

“But remember one thing,” she continued, gaze steady as iron.

“We have to be strong so the Twelfth District stays strong.

Whatever disaster, we stand like a cliff against waves.

We’re the hope of the Twelfth District.”