The pure-silver mark hovering above the silver giant wolf plucked at every mind, Spirit Threads burrowing like bone-eating grubs, gnawing at each spirit body.

Movements froze as if winter seized the field, except for the Magic Maiden of District Nineteen, who stood untouched under that cold gleam.

Her contracted beast took the brunt like a mountain breaking the tide, letting her fight within that flood of unleashed thought.

She swept her trident, a misted white glow breathing along its prongs, while the spider phantom behind her raised eight slender legs like Spears and stabbed at the werewolf.

Behind her, the team staggered like reeds in a storm, Spirit Threads yoking their minds together in crashing collisions.

They couldn’t break away, the Moon Owl team pinned by invisible cords, while the silver giant wolf pressed in step by step like a glacier.

The District Nineteen Magic Maiden felt the noose tighten; frustration flared, she tried to slip the duel and rush to aid.

The werewolf read it in her eyes like a hunter reading tracks; no matter her skill, she couldn’t disengage in a heartbeat.

Luck flickered like a lantern in fog; the silver giant wolf seemed bound by limits, tethered to the silver mark’s burden.

He had to feed that mark with Spirit, losing mobility, forced to advance slow and heavy, not strike quick and clean.

That silver mark wasn’t flesh; it was condensed Spirit, pure force shaped like moon-metal.

Breaking it was a dream carved in ice; the only path was to end the silver giant wolf who held its reins.

She fought while angling the battle like a river redirected, dragging the clash toward the silver giant wolf for the shortest kill.

The werewolf drifted that way too, whether by design or instinct, making her plan glide like wind behind a sail.

The silver giant wolf lifted a claw; cracks veined it like frost on glass, yet its function held, sharp as harvest sickles.

He pictured these outsiders as corpses already, a banquet waiting in his gut—until the werewolf and the District Nineteen Maiden arrived at arm’s length.

The werewolf drew a small knife from his belt; the Maiden drove four Spear-like spider legs from her right, both strikes landing true.

Pain burst like sparks from flint; the silver mark faltered as the wolf struggled to keep it aloft, edges of collapse rippling through it.

The silver giant wolf reeled but caught the mark’s reins again, keeping minds entangled like fish in a net.

Illusionary Mist opened her eyes—her Spirit strongest among them—caught the moment the silver mark shivered, and broke free.

Blood soaked her shoulder like a red flower; anger smoldered, then steadied into resolve before motion returned.

She stepped to face the silver giant wolf, a small figure like an ant before a boulder, with the Moon Owl team behind her still ensnared.

The silver mark was Spirit at its purest, a blade of moonlight forged from thought; her current power couldn’t crack it.

Yet the silver giant wolf moved as if chained to his own mark; if ever there was a chance, it was now.

Illusionary Mist clenched her dagger, heart pounding like drums in misted hills; fear tasted of iron, resolve like flint.

She raised the blade, and her Spirit Threads thrust into the silver giant wolf’s mind like needles into ice.

To keep the mark, he had to pour Spirit like water into a thirsty field, pressing down on every mind he held.

He couldn’t split his focus; her Spirit might be the last straw—one reed breaking the dam.

The silver-white ring on her finger lit like frost under sun; Threads passed through it, gaining a gleaming finish like etched silver.

Hardened Spirit drove on, wave after wave, boring into the giant wolf’s head; his Spirit burst like a dam collapsing, layer by layer.

The werewolf bared his teeth, snatched a longbow from his back, and pulled distance like wind stripping leaves.

He drew an arrow with a mirror-bright head, aimed at the Maiden’s brow—and the silver giant wolf behind her—and let it fly.

His rival had reached the cliff’s edge; he didn’t mind one last blaze.

His Magic Stone and the mark in his bloodline burned like sacrificial candles for victory.

“You… treacherous.” (in Common)

Spirit Threads whipped like storm vines and wound the silver giant wolf’s mind.

Weak as he was, he couldn’t stop Illusionary Mist’s flood; the Abyss chewed at his life the way night devours light.

The silver mark went dull, its grip lost; clarity rushed back like cool rain, and everyone swayed, head spinning.

In low air, two figures clashed and threw sparks—her trident ringing against the werewolf’s claws.

The werewolf’s face twisted bloodthirsty; he rocked back, took a blow, then crashed to earth and kicked up a dust veil.

Dust swarmed like locusts and swallowed the field, then thinned to reveal his sly grin rising from ground’s hush.

By his side lay the silver giant wolf’s corpse; in his hand shone a deep-blue Magic Stone, cold as winter water.

Before him floated the silver mark like a coin of moonlight, trembling like a held breath.

He shoved the Magic Stone into his mouth; silver washed his eyes like mercury.

From the mark, Spirit Threads poured out like cars on a freeway, silver lanes rushing at the District Nineteen Magic Maiden.

She moved to dodge, light as grass bending to wind; but knives flashed in a fan, sealing paths like falling shutters.

Every throwing knife the werewolf owned flew, each blade soaked in Abyssal Aura like oil in black water.

Then the werewolf surged; Mana and Abyssal Aura wrapped his body like storm skin.

He traded flesh for speed, gaining the right to move the Spirit mark fast; the District Nineteen Maiden had nowhere left to go.

Illusionary Mist and the District Eleven Magic Maiden shook off the haze first, bodies tense like drawn bows.

One flung Spirit Threads to snare him, the other strode in and swung a steel-hard fist.

They were a heartbeat late; the silver mark sank into the District Nineteen Maiden’s brain, clean as a stiletto into silk.

The werewolf’s joy died in his throat as Spirit and flesh slammed him, pinning him to earth like a nail through wood.

Creak… creak.

“Aaah!”

With that shrill scream, a pitch-black spider phantom peeled from the District Nineteen Maiden’s body like night from shadow.

Half detached, the phantom thickened, gaining weight like storm clouds coalescing above stone.

Black, vein-like matter threaded into the Maiden’s flesh, replacing tendon and bone like roots strangling a tree.

It followed her spine and slid into her brain, cold as midnight water.

Her pale fingers lengthened sharp and elegant like jade knives; her lower half split and swelled into a vast black spider body.

Six spider legs planted firm, anchoring her to earth like spears in soil.

Clothes with golden tracery tore under sudden growth, petals ripped by gale.

Skin that tasted the Abyssal Aura drank it greedy as dry sand drinks rain; the change climbed like ivy.

Her black hair spilled longer and longer, a silk waterfall over her smooth back.

Bare skin sprouted fine scales like fish in shadow; her eyes turned abyss-black, no whites, a Monster’s gaze without a flicker of human light.

“Keh-keh-keh-keh—”

That screeching laugh rang over the empty grassland like rusted bells, and nearby Monsters scattered like birds startled by thunder.

Her aura kept rising, a tide surging toward Chapter Three, the air shivering like heat over stone.

Her trident dulled, its light lost like a moon behind clouds; her navy cap broke and fell, both buried by Abyssal wind-blown sand.

“What did you do!”

The District Eleven Magic Maiden hammered the werewolf’s face, fists like hammers, breaking nose and teeth.

Hatred burned in her eyes like coals; she wanted him torn to scraps and scattered to crows.

“He doesn’t understand. End him first, then see what’s happened to the District Nineteen Magic Maiden.”

“End him?”

The werewolf spat a few twisted words, rough as gravel—the local tongue, not Common.

Both women blinked; he seized the moment and sprang away like a fox, putting distance like water between stones.

“You should… look at yourselves.”

He vanished like smoke in wind.

Illusionary Mist and the District Eleven Maiden turned to the spider-fused girl, now half-human, half-spider, a smile raised like a blade.

She only curled her lips and loosed that grating laugh, still as a statue otherwise.

They dropped the chase; urgency pulled them toward the Moon Owl pair like a rope.

Those two had woken, but their minds swam foggy as marsh water, uncertain of the shape of the storm.

“Hold them steady. I’ll check if she’s still herself.”

The District Eleven Maiden eyed Illusionary Mist’s blood-wet shoulder, trusted her steel body, and split tasks like soldiers at a gate.

“Hey! Do you still have your mind?!”

The call flew, vanished into emptiness like sound swallowed by snow.

The half-human, half-spider Maiden kept grinning, no flicker of response, just that rasping chime of madness.

“Tsk. No mind left, huh…”

Illusionary Mist decided to pull back, gather the team like birds to a branch; the future felt like unread clouds.

Then an arrow hissed from range, slipped into the Maiden’s body like a needle into silk; the laugh died mid-echo.

Black eyes swept the grass like night searching for embers.

The group glanced toward the shot and caught only a figure skimming the field like a shadow of wind.

“That damned wolf.”

The District Eleven Maiden’s fist clenched like stone; rage climbed her chest like fire up a pine, craving his ruin.

He was too slick, his trail a river without footprints; and now a hunter’s gaze had settled on them.

The spider-black pupils found the humans on the ground like ants in dust; pain at her waist flared like a brand.

Only tearing these Magic Maidens apart, limb by limb, would soothe the storm boiling in her veins.