Moon Owl was the only Magic Maiden from that unit who crawled back alive, a lone ember in ash. The city wore grief like a sodden shroud, yet the wind of public opinion howled and cut—why did only she return, why did she flee?

Blade brought her to the Twelfth District, sealed her behind iron hush, and used authority like a damp cloth to smother the blaze of rumor. Moon Owl wouldn’t spill the whole tale to everyone; she spoke only to a few, because this grief was a thorn lodged deep.

That expedition was ruinous, a storm that snapped proud masts. The New Faction pressed its advantage and ground the Old Faction back, wave by brutal wave. Targeted and hammered, the Twelfth District survived by Blade’s wealth and wrist, like a bruised reed still upright.

Moon Owl felt the floor’s cold bite and lifted her eyes to a sky of spilled silver. The full moon drew the silhouette of Illusionary Mist upon the window like frost, and two clear tears fell, twin threads cutting down her cheeks.

She saw Illusory Glass on the hospital bed, remembered Illusionary Mist dying before her like a candle guttering, remembered the old days, all salt and rust, and knew she hadn’t kept Illusory Glass safe.

Back then, the enemy rose like a mountain and left Moon Owl with empty hands and clenched teeth. Now she’d grown, stepped into Chapter Three, able to stand in front of everyone like a shield in rain, yet before that woman she was still pressed down and beaten, as if a hawk pinned a sparrow.

The dead left their faith like wind at her back, pushing her onward through sleet. But she hadn’t fulfilled what the dead entrusted; she was still too small under the sky. If she wished to guard all who needed guarding, there was only the road of becoming the strongest—long as winter, perhaps a vow she’d chase for life and never reach.

“The Blood Clan must’ve come in; otherwise Caris wouldn’t have slipped away so clean.”

Moon Owl rose, her fatigue folded away like a cloak. Spirit Threads of Cantata Three unfurled from her heart and spread outward like a silent tide, wrapping the whole Twelfth District. For hours, if those shadows showed a seam, they wouldn’t escape Moon Owl’s sight.

“Better hope I don’t find you,” she murmured, voice like night frost over stone.

“Is this okay?”

Blade had opened the door without sound, a knife shadow across the room. She saw Moon Owl sunk in memory and didn’t disturb her; instead, she flipped open the dossier and laid out the placements and the shape of what would likely come.

“We open part of the corridors. As Groundside enforcers, those hostile Blood Clan will see us like splinters in the eye and thorns in the flesh. We sell them one deliberate flaw, let the hook glint.”

“That way those blood-drinkers will likely push most of their strength onto our branch. Moon Owl, you watch the places where crowds pool, and deny them any chance to strike civilians. That’s our branch’s load to carry.”

Blade’s plan was simple, a fisherman’s net in clear water: draw the enemy into the Twelfth District branch and keep the people behind the weave.

“It’s a heavy task, especially for you. Whoever ghosted in and took Caris, without a ripple, must be Chapter Three. Two Chapter Three…”

“I’ll do my best. But Caris will not leave breathing.”

Qianchun had just negotiated a short discharge with the Twelfth District nurses. Her wounds were grave, but she had to show up for Aklatia’s internal meeting—rules, bones, and long-term sinew. As Night Frost’s secretary and aide, she had to chart a future; these things don’t settle clean over a wire.

The nurse felt it wasn’t wise, but Aklatia’s needs were heavy as a seal. She asked Blade, who approved Qianchun’s discharge under conditions: return to the branch on time, take Blade’s assigned escort. Otherwise, every request would be denied.

Qianchun’s limbs were bandaged tight, trussed like a zongzi, and her body couldn’t take even small knocks. Blade’s arrangement made sense, yet Qianchun wondered if Blade was really sending someone to audit Aklatia’s rules from within.

When Qiu Sheng stepped up as her protector, Qianchun’s suspicion settled like dust.

Compared to a few days ago, Qianchun’s wounds had eased. The Twelfth District’s tonics were expensive as incense gold, yet for someone with no Mana like Qianchun, they worked like spring rain. She’d grumbled about the price for days. Thankfully, Blade waived the bill this time; otherwise Aklatia’s hard-earned funds would have shrunk like a drying river.

Qiu Sheng and Qianchun rolled onto the street. The Twelfth District rebuilt at speed; towers rose like bamboo after rain, and almost all residents had returned to houses. Complaints pricked here and there—some hadn’t been given first relief, some bore losses from war, some mourned family and demanded the branch pay.

Blade pressed those voices down, a soft hand with steel strings. They weren’t a tide yet, but she never loosened the watch. With luck, those splashes might draw out other districts trying to drown the Twelfth.

Most people, though, carried gratitude like lanterns. Without the branch and the Magic Maidens, they wouldn’t have lived. Their families remained, lives were tougher, yes—but day by day, they were mending.

Bandaged like a zongzi and seated in a wheelchair, Qianchun had barely rolled out of a spatial waypoint when a bouquet found her hands, sunlight in paper. A little girl offered it. A few days ago, the girl had returned from the front, and this bouquet was one of the branch’s comfort gifts for disaster survivors; Qianchun had helped hand them out. Now the circle turned, and it landed back with her.

Qianchun could only laugh with tears at the corners, but she wouldn’t deny the child’s heart. She accepted. The moment she did, warmth burst like a kettle; people surged in and piled gifts into Qianchun’s arms, and she and Qiu Sheng were hemmed in until the street felt like a flood channel.

Soon the goods before Qianchun stacked into a small mountain—water, self-heating pots, some books, and odd bits from private caches. The contents didn’t matter; the weight of care did.

“Everyone, listen!”

She finally raised her voice, a clear bell in a busy market. The heat of their goodwill was fierce, and it pressed on her chest. After a disaster, most here couldn’t afford to buy much; these were treasures scrounged from ruins, precious as dry wood in rain.

“Please take these back. Most of this keeps you alive. They’re more useful in your hands than in mine.”

Her words didn’t scatter the crowd. The murmur grew thicker, a warm river against her shins.

“These are extra,” someone insisted, eyes bright. “We mean well. Please accept them. Look—your injuries are serious, aren’t they?”

Qianchun thought for a breath. She couldn’t refuse their kindness; their eyes held hope like stars over water. Another refusal would bruise that light.

Staring at the gifts piled like a hill, she found a gentle path.

“I’ll accept your kindness. But look—this is too much for me to carry. I’ll call people to move it. Is that alright?”

As soon as she agreed, the ring loosened. Qianchun dialed and asked staff to move these to Blade. Let Blade have the headache.

As things slid piece by piece into the void, Qianchun called Blade again. Their spatial corridors seemed exposed, like footprints in fresh snow. They’d need a new place.

The Twelfth District branch kept corridors private. Few knew their paths. But now someone had found them and spread the word. Trouble would drift in like smoke.

Blade said it was fine, a shrug under armor. It wasn’t Qianchun’s dark thinking; Blade was just that kind of person. Perhaps she’d poured that rumor herself, bait on the wind.

Qiu Sheng tugged Qianchun’s sleeve and reminded her to move. Another wave of people would soon come, and the street would choke like a clogged river.

The crowd pulled back like parting reeds and watched Qianchun and Qiu Sheng leave. Once the two were far enough, certain no one tailed them, they darted into an alley, a scrabble of steps on gritty concrete. It wasn’t that Qianchun and Qiu Sheng were weak; the warmth was simply too strong.

“Huff… huff…”

Qiu Sheng exhaled, back to cold concrete, breath fogging like winter smoke. She asked Qianchun if anything was wrong. Qianchun said all was well.

Back in the crowd they’d stood in, a figure under an umbrella had slipped through like a shadow fish and hid under a tree’s dark canopy. His pallid face wore a rigid smile. In the brief moment Moon Owl pulled her Spirit Threads back to breathe, he thinned into blood mist and drifted away like stain in water.

“Their stealth isn’t impressive. Except for that unknown Chapter Three, even if they turn to blood mist, I can snare them,” Moon Owl murmured, eyes like knives in snow.

“The big fish bit.”

The blood mist rode the air and drifted to the Prince, coiling like a red ribbon. By his side, Caris had returned to her true posture; in a deep crimson dress, she stood like a loyal knight, straight as a spear.

The umbrella-bearing Blood Clan condensed into a body and gave his report, words laid out like bones.

“Groundside is still Groundside,” the Prince mused, voice amused, like silk over thorns. “No matter the progress, the defenses feel like screens. Am I meant to think that? Such clumsy theater—do they want us to walk this path?”

He chuckled softly. He’d walked Groundside before and knew the old trick: invite your prey into the trap and close the lid.

“Spatial corridors,” he said, red eyes shining through the city’s sprawl like a blade. “So hidden, yet I know them. Of course there’s a small abacus clicking behind it.”

His gaze, crimson as a harvest moon, cut past rows of buildings and found Qiu Sheng and Qianchun slipping into a concealed corridor, two figures peeling away from a stream of people.

They were branch members, he recalled. He’d seen them fight at that hidden research institute. The gold-haired girl’s strength was decent, a quick blade of light. The other one had iron will, but frail power—wounds that looked hard to reverse.

“They’ll make fine bait. They invited me for afternoon tea; I should prepare gifts.”

“I’ve heard Groundside lives prize sentiment and duty. Let’s see if that’s true.”

“Caris.”

The Prince lifted his scepter, its tip pointing toward the last place Qiu Sheng and Qianchun vanished, a finger aligning fate.

“Night’s falling. Watch that corridor. Take them.”

Caris raised her eyes from her lowered lids, clutched her Crimson Scythe like a prayer, and sank to one knee, pale palm over her heart.

“As you command.”

The Prince licked his lips, hunger flickering in his gaze like a spark under dry leaves.

“But this bait only needs one.”