You all joined Aklatia fresh, sifted like grain through sieves, now standing as core members. The boss isn’t here, so as your secretary, I’ll map your roles like stars in a night sky.

Qianchun lifted her left hand, two swipes over the tablet, and a soft blue glow rose from the table like moonlight on water. The lights wove together like threads, forming a layout—the old grounds of Aklatia, drawn like a river’s course.

As you can see, this is where we’ll work next, the old Aklatia Research Institute, its dangers cleared like thorns cut away by the Order Keeper. After my talks, the Order Keeper agreed to let us take the site, but in exchange, when the Twelfth District is in peril, we help them face those storms.

Also, our people don’t stir trouble in the Twelfth District, and don’t spread rumors against its laws and faith, like smoke blown into sacred halls. I believe you won’t break this; most of us here are District kin, our faiths like twin springs.

Qianchun paused, her gaze turned sharp like knives glinting under frost, an oppressive aura coiling around her like a winter wind, sweeping the room.

Still, some will fly Aklatia’s name like a flag and spread words against those rules like crows scattering seeds. If I find out—

Her face softened back like cloud over sun, a smile returned as if nothing had happened, and her fingers tapped the tablet, crisp and rhythmic like rain on a roof.

Why so serious? I was only teasing, like a breeze that cools but doesn’t bite.

No one believed it was a joke; her look earlier had been the calm edge of a blade, not the flick of a feather.

Alright, onto real business. Yan Xin, explain, like a bell calling us to order.

Yan Xin rose, bandages wrapped around her like winter vines. When Yunling breached the Twelfth District branch, she was caught by Yunling’s hand; she should have died like a candle snuffed, but she lived by chance, recognized by a Magic Stone, reborn as a Magic Maiden like a flower after frost.

Tests showed little talent, a flame that burns but doesn’t leap; at her age, minus training and all the delays, she’d need till twenty-five or thirty to go official, and after that, unless a miracle falls like rain, becoming Cantata Two would be near impossible, like climbing into the sky.

She’s strong at handling operations, efficient as a well-oiled wheel, and loyal to Aklatia like a root to earth, so Qianchun entrusted her with the work without fear, like a captain handing the wheel.

This is the floor plan of the old Aklatia site—please look. Most of it stands sound, like stones weathered but unbroken. We need only fix three places: the entrance, the break between the first and second floors, and one load-bearing wall like a spine.

The underground lab was built with a special alloy, forged like thunder in the forge, technology of Aklatia. Records from the deputy say this alloy costs like gold rain, so we plan a temporary substitute, a scaffold of lesser metal like a bridge of wood.

She laid the documents out like maps on a riverbank. Qianchun had asked members skilled in drafting to draw them, but in this core group, true drafters are few, like cranes among sparrows. Everyone stared at the images and nodded blankly, like reeds swaying without thought.

This is Aklatia’s flaw: these core members are peaks in their fields, tested and proved like iron, but they are specialists, not generalists, like single strings without a full harp.

Aklatia needs someone who touches nearly every craft, a mind like a wide lake, to draw out all the strength in these core members, like wind filling every sail.

If you have no objections, we begin next Monday, like dawn after a long night. Inform your teams. Workers on the build will get two hundred a day, with water and two meals, bread and breath.

Even before the disaster, those benefits would shine like lanterns; after, they’re irresistible to most, like warmth in winter. Even some core members felt the tug like tides, unable to deny the pull of coin.

Money never feels like enough, like sand slipping through fingers. After the disaster, only Order Keeper jobs or self-run shops offer pay and food. Money buys grain like seed buys harvest, whether from Order Keeper or others.

Aklatia’s arrival lifts employment like the sun lifts mist. Now, seventy percent of the crowd drifts unemployed, living on daily rations from the Order Keeper, just enough for one meal, like a ladle from a thin pot.

Two meals? And a day’s drinking water, like a spring that doesn’t run dry?

A hand rose. An older teacher, with two children at home, her husband works under the Order Keeper, bringing in food just enough, like modest rice in a bowl. She wants work, but the Order Keeper’s slots are full, packed like a bus at rush hour.

Qianchun’s offer is generous, like a full basket. With her husband’s earnings, they could save over a hundred daily, like coins clinking in a jar, and even if she doesn’t work tomorrow, two meals would still be covered, like bread waiting on the table.

But let me be clear: everyone meets their daily quota, like rows to be tilled. I won’t squeeze you; each quota fits your own strength like shoes to feet. I’ll leave the assignment to you—I recall you majored in Production Quality and Management, like a craftsman trained in measure.

The teacher nodded, a quiet yes like a leaf touching water.

Qianchun had Yan Xin and the teacher, after the meeting, one record and one assign, roles split like day and night. After their quick talk, the meeting continued like a river flowing on.

Second point, about Aklatia’s systems and— The meeting was long, like a journey across hills. To make our troubles clear, Qianchun spent three to four days sorting, then pressed it into two hours, like tea steeped strong. When everything was finally laid out, night had fallen like ink, and people drifted home like birds to nests.

Qiu Sheng sat at the door over two hours, patience like a stone under rain. It was Aklatia’s secret, so she couldn’t enter; she’s an Order Keeper, a badge like steel at her chest.

Blade said Qianchun had to return to the branch to rest, like embers needing ash. So Qiu Sheng escorted Qianchun back, the care like a hand under a cup. Qianchun chose not to use that spatial passage; they picked a quieter corridor and took the long way, like a stream that bends around rock.

They chatted in the passage, voices soft as dusk; Qianchun replied to messages on her phone, fingers flicking like swallows. They walked and paused, steps deliberately slow, like a lull between waves.

But the corridor wasn’t long, a short tunnel like a vein through stone; soon, they stepped out, breath touching cool air like dew.

Just outside, Qianchun saw a small mountain of gifts, piled by the crowd like a hill of fruits. She had everything moved to Blade’s office, turning the already messy room into a wilder thicket, like vines over vines.

Blade eyed Qianchun with playful malice, a grin like a knife’s curve; Qianchun looked up at the ceiling, sheepish, like a cat caught with feathers.

This is on you. I warned you the Blood Clan had eyes on you, told you to switch routes. Qianchun, you really broke my heart, like wind that knocks a lantern.

Blade, you did just fine too—let me out to bait them, to pull the Blood Clan’s gaze. You spread word of the branch’s spatial passage, stringing them in like fish, and when they moved to trap me, you had Moon Owl open a new passage, to toy with them hard, like a hawk slipping the net.

Sitting in her wheelchair, Qianchun pointed at the pile on the floor, eyes narrowing like crescents.

And this is the people’s goodwill, a tide from their hearts. How is that me doing you wrong? I already accepted it for the Twelfth District branch. We can’t send it back, like rain we can’t return to clouds.

Qianchun grows tougher by the day, a willow turned iron. Blade took a small loss this time, a pinch with no real hurt, like a thorn brushing cloth.

Alright, alright, go rest early, like doors closing at dusk.

Blade waved them off, a gesture like a fan closing. Watching Qianchun leave, she had the items moved to storage like grain to granary, picked the useful ones like seeds from chaff, and planned to return them to the crowd at a better time, like gifts in the next dawn.

Qianchun’s group was brought back smoothly, like boats guided to shore, and the crowd was sent to the air-raid shelter by Blade, using Formations left by Night Frost’s mentor, sigils like frost etched on stone. It cost time, like ropes knotted too tight; except for Night Frost and her mentor, none were skilled in Formations, and Night Frost wasn’t here, her mentor still comatose, so setting them took hours like rain filling barrels.

Still, before night fell like a curtain, everything was ready, like torches lit along a wall.

By her count, the “bait” for the Blood Clan should be moving now, like fish biting line. They’ll be facing Chapter Three, a storm behind the door. May they be safe, like boats through narrow straits.

Caris had waited too long, patience frayed like old silk. She felt toyed with, made to waste half a night, time spilling like sand.

Finally, they come. You made me wait, like a hunter in fog.

Caris narrowed her eyes, crimson pupils fixed on Qiu Sheng and the bundle, a gaze like thorns.

Qiu Sheng pushed a wheelchair, and “Qianchun,” wrapped tight like a cocoon, slowly emerged from the passage, steps like leaves falling. As Blade had said, they would likely face Chapter Three, a shadow like a blade.

The enemy is strong, a river in flood. Their task is to draw the Blood Clan into the spatial passage, like leading wolves into a gate. They must play this scene well, masks firm as porcelain.

Fear prickled first, cold as drizzle. Qiu Sheng suppressed it, then pushed into the empty street, a road bare as a dry riverbed.

Heard those vampires plan to move on us. Hope the daytime passage fooled them. Let’s take the other route; the morning path is seeded with traps, no return, like teeth on a clamp.

Caris had been ready to strike, but hearing Qiu Sheng and “Qianchun,” she stilled, a hawk pausing mid-dive.

So Qiu Sheng and “Qianchun” turned, heading for the far end of the street, their direction like a needle swinging. With Qiu Sheng’s confident patter, a spatial rift opened, mouth of darkness like a slit in silk.

Qiu Sheng wore an earpiece, a whisper in her ear like a cricket at dusk. She already knew the Blood Clan had eyes on her; their delay surprised her, a silence like a held breath. If she stepped in, the mission would be safe, like slipping under cover, but Blade’s other arrangements would turn to paper birds, useless in rain.

Just as Qiu Sheng moved her foot, the Crimson Scythe descended, a crescent of blood like a falling moon. Caris’s hand grabbed them both, strong as iron, and tore Qiu Sheng and “Qianchun” out, like roots ripped from soil.

Damn it, it’s Chapter Three! You go first, like wind pushing sail!

Qiu Sheng shouted, and kicked “Qianchun” into the passage, a boot like a drumbeat.

Lightning burst from her body, bright as polished steel. The clear thunder scoured the blood mist around her like a gale through smoke.

Sanctum of Purity, Thunder to the Vault, Stray Dust Scattered, Chaos Reborn—

Caris wouldn’t give her the chance; she immersed Qiu Sheng in blood, a drowning like red rain, and stirred the Abyssal Aura, making the blood crystalize like ice.

Shame one slipped away. Still, we confirmed some things. For a piece of bait, it isn’t a loss, like a small fish for a bigger catch.