The moment they stepped into the Weiyuan Domain, Monsters ran wild like wolves in a winter gale, hunting each other across a steppe spattered with Blood and fire.

Blood smoked on the grass like spilled ink, and flames crawled low like hungry foxes.

They suddenly felt their landing zone was a clean patch of earth, barren and quiet like a moonlit pond, yet free of any teeth.

“This feels bad,” someone breathed, voice thin as frost on glass.

The Monsters that had been tearing at each other froze like deer catching a torchlight, the scent of humans curling through their nostrils like warm steam.

Their eyes locked on Illusionary Mist’s group, gleam raw with bloodlust and greed like knives under snow.

Everyone shifted into guard, movements tight as bowstrings in wind.

Illusionary Mist touched the ring on her palm, her pearl-black eyes sinking like stones into a dark lake.

Moon Owl stood at her side, knife pinched like a thorn, flinching as Illusionary Mist’s rising aura pricked her skin like cold needles.

The Magic Maiden of the Nineteenth District pulled a trident from her Spatial Box, the tines gleaming like icicles, the shaft steady as a mast.

A spider’s phantom unfurled behind her like a night web, and beneath her hat brim, pale skin showed several pairs of crimson eyes like embers in silk.

Her body seemed to be drifting toward her contracted beast like mist toward a cliff, yet she pressed her navy cap with calm fingers like anchors.

Nothing mattered more than that cap, as if it were a star on a quiet sea.

The Magic Maiden of the Ninth District stood behind the one from the Eleventh, drawing moisture from the air like dew gathering on leaves.

The Eleventh District’s Magic Maiden clenched her fists, her mountain-solid build standing at the front like a cliff before waves.

The Monsters seemed to read the room like crows reading a storm.

The weak slunk off like smoke on wind, to hunt lesser prey amid the grass.

What remained before them were two of [Cantata Two], and a cluster of [First Symphony], like stones left when the tide pulls back.

One [Cantata Two] was a silver-furred giant wolf, five meters tall like a winter tree, its eyes holding human arrogance like polished steel.

The other leaned toward humanoid, a werewolf with leather from Monsters draped like trophies, a short blade at his hip and a longbow over his back like black wings.

He stared hard at Moon Owl and the Ninth District maiden, gaze edged like flint, reading them like tracks in snow.

He had met expeditionary Magic Maidens before, and he knew silver-patterned attire was weaker than gold-patterned like foil beneath hammered gold.

Earlier, the two wolves had quarreled like thunderheads grinding, the silver-furred wolf etched with knife-thin cuts, Blood dyeing its coat like crimson rain.

A claw mark marred the werewolf’s forearm, fading like old ink as moments passed.

Illusionary Mist’s group walked out of the barren patch like travelers leaving a dry riverbed.

The quarreling wolves turned their muzzles as one, choosing new prey like hawks shifting to a fresh flock.

“These ones smell delicious…” the werewolf said, voice low as gravel, in Wolf-tongue. “Territories can wait. Let’s finish them first.”

The silver giant wolf didn’t object, its silence cold as rime.

Family matters could be settled after, like debts tallied at dusk; the outsiders felt like an omen carved into bone.

They turned together, eyes hard as frost, fixing on Illusionary Mist’s group who stood ready like spears in a rack.

“Why don’t we see who kills more?” the silver giant wolf offered in Wolf-tongue, words smooth as oiled hide. “No need to maul each other to prove the strongest. We’ll weigh strength by numbers.”

The werewolf didn’t refuse, the logic sharp as a fang; no need to bleed out and invite scavengers like crows to a battlefield.

The silver-furred giant wolf bolted first, body flashing like lightning, lunging for Moon Owl in a blur like a storm across open grass.

He didn’t care for uniform codes, yet instinct flowed like a dark river.

Among these humans, the silver-patterned Moon Owl felt least seasoned, like a fawn in first snow, an easy first cut.

Silver hair carved an arc in the air like a sickle.

He pounced at Illusionary Mist with a speed that shocked like thunderclaps, too fast for eyes to catch.

Even Illusionary Mist and the Eleventh, standing front like shields, sensed him only by raw instinct, their bodies answering like drums struck in the dark.

The wolf stopped a meter from Moon Owl, silver fangs glinting cold as hoarfrost, as if ready to shred a small bird in his claws.

The Eleventh District Magic Maiden braced her powerful arms like iron beams, catching the silver paws that would have crushed Moon Owl.

Illusionary Mist’s ring flared like a lighthouse, shackling the silver giant wolf’s mind with invisible weight.

Moon Owl seized the opening, slipping free like a shadow, her blade flashing cold as river ice.

She struck for the silver wolf’s hide, the Blade slicing the air like a cracked mirror, space itself parting thin as silk.

At the breath before impact, the wolf twisted like a whip and kicked, one hind leg launching Moon Owl away like a leaf in gale.

The werewolf watched Illusionary Mist and the Eleventh hold the silver wolf, his eyes narrowing like a bow drawing taut.

The black-haired Magic Maiden worked with the mind, he judged, her presence cool as midnight.

She wouldn’t last long, he thought, because the silver wolf’s clan dealt in spirit like wind cutting stone.

The wolf’s fleshly brawl wasn’t his edge, but in the mind he was a true peak like ice on a summit.

The silver-patterned human’s dagger could cut space like a thin stream slicing a cliff; one hit would sting like a hornet.

But she moved clumsily, her bodywork raw as unseasoned wood.

This pack was strong, he admitted like rain admitting a river, yet the silver-patterned were still weaker than gold-patterned like willow beside oak.

One gold-patterned kept shielding Moon Owl, so he only needed to strike her like lightning.

Yet that strike would be hard as splitting granite.

His gaze slid to the Nineteenth District maiden not far away.

Six eyes stared back like a cluster of red moons, and her trident shone with danger like a reef under clear water.

She carried power from one of his kin, a strong one lending strength like a river feeding a mill.

It wasn’t aggressive by itself, more like a chess piece from another Abyss pushed onto this board.

Whatever it was, she was the sharpest fang here, able to pin him alone like a net pinning a boar.

These five wouldn’t be easy to bring down, unless he could detonate that piece early like flint to tinder.

Sweat beaded on Illusionary Mist’s forehead like dew on black jade.

His mind pressed hers by a thin edge like a blade, and she yielded ground in the unseen field like sand in a current.

Even suppressed, the wolf moved by instinct, raw wild strength roaring like a river in flood, enough to match the Eleventh.

Her spirit collided with the silver wolf’s like blades grinding, cutting at her thoughts with bright pain like ice shards.

His spirit methods were primitive like stone tools, but the Twelfth District had few spirit tomes, their pages thin as old bark.

Illusionary Mist only had basics hung on her wall like faded charms; the gap couldn’t be bridged by faith alone like a rope over a canyon.

The Eleventh shoved the silver wolf’s claws aside, muscles bunching like knotted roots, and in that beat Illusionary Mist’s spirit was pushed back like a kite on a gust.

The ring on her slender finger poured healing light like spring rain, mending the rips in her spirit with soft warmth like dawn.

The silver giant wolf threw back his head and howled like a horn, fur blazing with silver like moon on snow.

Illusionary Mist felt danger rush in like a tide; her body flickered to dodge like a sparrow, but the wolf closed like a falling star.

His claw rose with a keen whistle like a hawk’s cry, air screaming around the strike.

Illusionary Mist flinched, heart knocking like a trapped bird; she couldn’t clear the arc.

The Eleventh moved to intercept like a wall, but a knife whirled from the werewolf’s waist like a shooting star and forced her back a step.

The Nineteenth seized the opening and hurled her trident for the werewolf’s head like a lightning bolt thrown by the sea.

Illusionary Mist could only take it head-on, the choice clenched like a thorn in her teeth.

She scanned the field like a scout; Moon Owl and the Ninth likely couldn’t act now, their breaths thin as thread.

She bit her lip and steeled herself like iron in quench.

The claws nearly raked her shoulder when a rift split open before her eyes like a slit in night.

Moon Owl burst through like a night bird, and from the black seam a razor of void power flew like a crescent.

The void cut across the silver paw, shearing glowing hairs like drifting snow and etching a crack like a river in ice.

But the paw didn’t stop, wind keening around it like a winter blade.

Silver light flowed along the claws like a rip in the sky, promising to tear the dark wide open.

Moon Owl had no room to dodge, like a deer cornered between stones.

She swung her dagger, the little Blade brave as a spark, but a gold-patterned Magic Maiden shoved her aside like a gust.

A phantom of Magic Armor clung to the gold-patterned maiden like a lion’s mane as she took the hit head-on.

Illusionary Mist drove her spirit to the limit, her eyes deepening to pitch like new moon water.

Invisible Spirit Threads unspooled and wrapped the wolf’s spirit like silk binding a spear.

She flipped her palm, Mana hardening into a dagger like frost, the Threads twisting into a spiral like a drilled vortex.

She braced to block at arm’s length like a reed against a surge.

The Eleventh charged in, her fist thudding into the silver wolf’s body like a hammer into oak.

The claw still fell, the sharp tips tearing Illusionary Mist’s shoulder like talons through silk.

Pain lanced her body like ice, her face paling like ash, Blood bright at her lips like a petal.

The silver giant wolf steadied on his paws like a boulder, blood staining his eye corner like paint, cheek dented by the blow like soft clay.

He didn’t rush in, only studied them like a hunter reading wind.

Illusionary Mist was a thorn in spirit like a nettle; in a pure mind duel, she wouldn’t lose, he judged like a cold ledger.

But add that sturdy one, and matters turned thorny like briars.

The two in silver-patterned robes weren’t as weak as he’d thought, their edges hidden like knives under sleeves.

Even so, the silver-patterned were weaker than the gold-patterned like shadow under sun.

Take the wounded gold-patterned first, then the two silver-patterned, he planned like a wolf circling sheep.

The werewolf was locked with the strongest among them, trading blows like storm against cliff; that spider wasn’t weak, its limbs quick as black rain.

Now was the time like ripe fruit on a branch.

The silver giant wolf stepped forward, the fur on his brow standing like grain in wind.

A silver-lit character rose from his forehead like a firefly turned star, and behind him, Spirit Threads exploded outward like a web cast across night.