Moon Owl reached for the phantom that thinned like smoke at dawn. Her fingers brushed empty air, and Illusionary Mist drifted away like silk on a breeze. As an elder, she tugged the younger sister’s thread with care. As a mentor, she taught Moon Owl with open hands, holding nothing back.

In barely ten days, their talk moved from work to small joys, from the shadowed past to bright futures, from hard ground to slender ideals. Different ages, different origins—yet a mutual spark. They began to call each other sisters. Bloodlines differed, but their hearts felt born of the same branch.

But she left… Life was brittle as frost on a leaf, even on the path of a Magic Maiden.

What is strength for? Why step into Cantata Two?

To protect?

How laughable.

She thought Cantata Two meant enough power to guard everything. Now, it’s not enough. She couldn’t protect the one she wanted, only watch the Blood Clan butcher her with ease.

The crushing pressure didn’t lift. Fear threaded Moon Owl’s chest like icy wire. She ground her teeth, and only then kept tears from spilling.

“I’ll take care of Little Li. I’ll give everything I have.”

“You’re strong, and you’re excellent.”

The District Eleven Magic Maiden held her silence for a long breath before speaking. Moon Owl was still young, her use of Mana unsteady—but she was strong, and she treasured her partners. Strength walks far. Partners become pillars. With her spatial Mana, she might reach a realm even this senior could never touch.

The District Eleven Magic Maiden ran with all she had. Hills folded into the horizon behind them and vanished like sinking ships.

Moon Owl drew a deep breath to steady herself. The deaths of partners and Illusionary Mist ached like cold rain, but as Illusionary Mist and District Eleven said, the living must carry their faith and ideals forward.

“We’ll come back. We swear it!”

“You… won’t make it back!”

Claws slit Moon Owl’s calf and speared the District Eleven Magic Maiden’s chest. A massive wolf face loomed close, breath hot and iron-sour. A wet, barbed tongue licked the blood from Moon Owl’s cheek, leaving a lattice of fine cuts like thorns on skin.

The werewolf pulled a bottle from his vest and splashed it over Moon Owl. She didn’t know what it was. It stank—like a liquid that rots if left too long.

His wicked laugh echoed in Moon Owl’s ears. District Eleven stared in disbelief. This werewolf had lain in ambush on their path, already guessing their flight route, aiming to pin them forever in the Abyss.

Her hands lost strength. She dropped Moon Owl and slowly pulled the arm from her pierced chest. Blood poured down, turning green grass into a red river.

She threw a final punch with everything she had and smashed the werewolf’s cheek. He didn’t dodge; he took her all-in strike like stone takes rain.

“If you weren’t hurt… if you hadn’t burned your stamina and Mana running, I’d respect your strength. Now you’re so weak. Once I finish you, I’ll deal with the little girl.”

His speech slurred and snagged, but his meaning was clear enough. District Eleven spun and barked at Moon Owl:

“Run… I’m done for. Run! Live!”

Moon Owl’s swallowed tears surged like a storm tide. She’d had enough. The District Thirteen Magic Maiden died. The District Nine Magic Maiden died. Illusionary Mist died. Now District Eleven would die…

She had been strong, was strong, would be strong—but that will called “strength” cracked like glaze under a hammer. In less than fifteen days, a team of five lost four.

She, the weakest, still stood almost unscathed. The one who should die was the weakest—no, they were the ones who should have lived.

She couldn’t run again. If she fled this feebly, she might as well die in this Abyss with them.

Moon Owl drew her dagger. Space rippled like black water. A slit of darkness opened before the werewolf. He moved fast, slipping past her strike like smoke.

Her tear in space formed too slowly. Any seasoned hand would dodge it—especially one who knew her gift tied to space.

The werewolf pulled a knife from his belt to test her steel, but warm hands pressed Moon Owl’s shoulders.

“You stubborn thing…”

District Eleven walked forward step by step. The Magic Stone at her waist blazed like a star. Blood in her chest slowed. Mana swelled fuller than ever. Her exposed heart clenched and hammered, and her blood boiled like water on the forge.

She tossed Moon Owl ten meters away. Then she turned, eyes burning so hot they looked ready to jump from their sockets. If looks could kill wolves, this one would be buried a thousand times.

“I’ll finish you. Quickly.”

The werewolf’s dagger flashed, and at the same breath, District Eleven’s fist shot out. They tangled, blow for blow, grass flying like green spray. Yet the end was written: District Eleven’s life drained grain by grain. The werewolf would win.

Moon Owl moved to help—but silver-furred, four-legged wolves slid from the grass, young and raw, lips peeled back. Their eyes hissed hate at Moon Owl like winter wind.

In that instant, Moon Owl understood the stinking liquid—the blood of the Silver Great Wolf.

This was likely the Silver Great Wolf’s territory—or the edge of it where it touched the werewolves’ range.

The sly werewolf never meant to let them leave. He splashed the Silver Great Wolf’s blood on Moon Owl to make the wolf pups think she’d killed their parent. And that was half-true; they had “contributed” to that death.

Where there are pups, there’s a mate—the spouse of the dead Silver Great Wolf—and their strength would be Cantata Two.

From far off, the Silver Great Wolf came racing, eyes sparking with rage. Days ago, that loathsome werewolf had slunk near her den and told her: her husband had been slain by outsiders.

Those outsiders were humans from the world above. They wielded Mana, not Abyssal Aura. They spent everything to bring her husband down. The werewolf, scared, fled early—so he lived.

Werewolves are born sly. The Silver Great Wolf’s mate wouldn’t swallow the tale whole. Without the werewolf’s hand, how could surface folk bring down a Silver Great Wolf with a bloodline sigil? With that sigil, a silver wolf’s spirit could reach Cantata Two.

With a few heaven-sent treasures, he might touch Cantata Three—or beyond.

But the werewolf hadn’t lied completely. Those human outsiders had taken part. She would kill them first, then settle accounts with the werewolf when autumn turned.

Moon Owl was pinned by the Silver Great Wolf. A grin spread across the werewolf’s face. His dagger traced ghosts in the air and shaved flesh from District Eleven’s chest, slice by slice like petals falling.

Blood spattered his face. He carved out the still-beating heart, lifted it high in his palm, and swallowed it whole like a devout man takes sacrament.

A nameless satisfaction rose from his gut. He praised the flavor of Magic Maidens and surface humans, then looked toward Moon Owl wrestling the Silver Great Wolf like rain against granite.

The Silver Great Wolf didn’t know Moon Owl’s gift. She stumbled at first and ate a loss. Fresh from birth, not at her peak, she fought Moon Owl to a draw for a time.

The werewolf’s blood-hungry gaze fixed on Moon Owl. His legs coiled, muscles layered like braided ropes. He tore the air and skimmed the grass, appearing before Moon Owl in a breath.

He raised his bloody paw and slammed down at her skull. It didn’t burst like a melon. Moon Owl had conjured a dagger in time and blocked, though his claws carved her arm to the bone like chisels in soft wood.

Pain drilled to the marrow. Moon Owl gripped the broken dagger and backed two steps, three. The Silver Great Wolf and the werewolf’s claws fell almost together.

Shunk—

Two sets of claws speared the silhouette ahead. Moon Owl froze. In her eyes, District Eleven’s figure reflected like a lantern in rain.

Her eyes already held no light. Her blood had already run dry. She spent the last ember of strength, the last thread of will, and stood before Moon Owl as a human shield.

“Run…”

It was the last breath forced from her throat.

“Use your gift. You can run… Don’t waste Illusionary Mist’s and my effort.”

The frail voice detonated in Moon Owl’s head like thunder under a low roof. Illusionary Mist’s face flashed in her mind. Her final words echoed again and again like bells over water.

District Eleven was right. If Moon Owl fought to the death here, she would die. If she died here, their effort to let her escape would mean nothing.

She was still too young, too brittle—yet she’d promised to live, to carry Illusionary Mist’s faith and the others’ hope.

Her spatial gift could tear space and send her to a place she knew. But such tunnels are fickle. With an anchor, she could manage a pinpoint transit.

Moon Owl had never used it. She’d just stepped into Cantata Two. Space is a hard art. The odds of mishap were eight in ten.

But now there was no other road.

Hating herself for failing to save her team, grieving for them at the same breath—Illusionary Mist and District Eleven had carved her so many chances to flee…

“I’ll come back. When I do… wash your neck clean.”

Moon Owl drew a steady breath. Her dagger split the void behind her. She dove in without a second thought.