Blood gathered like poured lacquer, sketching a human shape. Crimson bat-wings unfurled backward, a wet banner at dusk. The fallen blood scions stood again, bodies nothing but blood, empty as husks.

Alarm tightened Chen Xiaoyin’s chest, then her heels slid back two steps. A light screen grew upward from her retreat, like ice blooming from the floor. The half-formed scions lunged and slammed into the azure barrier, waves breaking on glass.

They were stubborn as oil in rain; blades and simple spells barely bit. Freezing them solid or boiling them off seemed best, but this branch had no Magic Maiden fit for that storm.

They hammered Chen Xiaoyin’s screen, rhythm like drums in a storm. With each impact, the central scion swelled like a whirlpool drawing tide, while the flanking scions thinned like retreating surf.

At last, all the blood pooled into the center, a river fattened by floods. Once beneath First Symphony strength, it now had enough mass to stand against a Cantata Two, iron-gray as a mountain after rain.

Unease pricked Chen Xiaoyin’s skin; she sent the team to evacuate or reinforce, like birds shifting before a coming squall.

She reported to Blade, then layered her shield and screen again, leaves upon leaves. If these were normal Monsters, she’d have cut in like lightning; but blood scions knit like water when halved, an unfair tide for a Magic Maiden, so she braced and endured, spine like bamboo in wind.

Through the cameras, Blade watched blood climb back into shape, stubborn as ivy. Blood scions were near-immortal as a winter stream. The squad covering five corridors was butchered, and after drinking human blood the scions grew nastier, iron in their river.

“We don’t have a Magic Maiden built to counter liquids, do we?” The question landed like a pebble in a pond.

Qianchun looked at Blade. Blade’s face darkened, then she nodded, a shadow under lantern light.

The Twelfth District branch truly had no liquid-counter Magic Maiden on duty. Night Frost’s flame and Zhao Qingsnow’s ice—if they were here, this red tide would be no cliff.

Too bad it was only a wish, a paper crane in rain. Zhao Qingsnow lay badly hurt, and Night Frost couldn’t return soon. The only workable path was science—liquid nitrogen or sheer heat—winter or summer wielded as tools.

The Twelfth District wasn’t a lab; on-site heating was a non-starter, smoke without a stove. The underground hospital likely had some liquid nitrogen, frost bottled in steel, but not enough to tame this river of red.

“It’s always stat-check beasts or gimmick traps. Can’t we get a simple mob to farm a few chapters? Now we gotta think… cough—okay, that came out weird.” Blade’s gripe drifted like steam, then thinned.

Blade rose and paced, steps like pendulums. Qianchun halted, eyes brightening, dawn on a ridge.

“Aklatia’s old lab might still have liquid nitrogen,” she said, hope like a lantern cupped in both hands.

“You sure?” Blade’s gaze was a knife in fog.

With the corridors sealed, it would take over thirty minutes by car to reach Aklatia’s underground lab, a cautious clock in a field of hunters. On the road, the Blood Clan would smell them like wolves.

Qianchun shook her head, honesty bare as stone. Back then, old Aklatia had no light; she couldn’t know if nitrogen still slept down there, frost in the dark.

“But it’s still hope, isn’t it?” Her voice was rain tapping a paper window.

Blade couldn’t argue; the lab buried deep had metal walls like shields, and odds were good frost still waited below.

“Got it. I’ll send—”

“Don’t.” Qianchun stepped in, firm as a hand on a blade. “Aklatia’s business belongs to Aklatia’s people.”

She set down her phone; the message flew like a swallow. Aklatia’s team would head for the lab and bring back the frost—so the prayer went.

In nearby corridors, more blood scions rose, red vines climbing. Dawnlight and Lu Shi went back into the fray, but bullets were rain on the river; nothing stuck. Fused, the scions sat at Cantata Two’s gate, and more fusion would only thicken the stream.

They pressed deeper down the corridor, footsteps like beads. Soon they’d pass through to the command room. Lu Shi suggested luring the scions away, wind pulling a fire’s breath.

The command room and the underground hospital held many staff with no Mana, hands of paper against iron. If the blood scions reached them, it would be a massacre, a night without lamps.

Good idea, but there were seven scions, seven red moons. Only Lu Shi, Lu Jin, Qiu Sheng, and Dawnlight stood ready, four reeds in a gale. Even with two remaining squads, they could handle six at most, a bridge one span short.

“I’ll take a team,” Blade said, voice like gravel in rain.

She glanced at Qianchun. Qianchun had no Magic Stone; she’d bled out most of her Mana saving Qiu Sheng. Now her Mana couldn’t lift a pebble, a dry well under a thirsty sun. Her arm and thigh were bandaged, white ribbons on willow—luring would be walking into a blade.

“Then who’s better?” Qianchun’s tone was steady, night water reflecting stars. “You want ordinary people to bait scions? I’m short a Magic Stone, but I can still call Mana. I’m a Magic Maiden. Protecting them is my duty.”

She reached the door; her finger brushed the button, a moth touching a lamp. Before she could step through, Blade’s voice pulled taut behind her, a bowstring trembling.

“But you’re not an Order Keeper—we are! You’re who we protect, not who protects us. Listen, Qianchun. You’re still hurt. Trust me, there’s a way.” Blade’s words were storm-clouds trying not to break.

Qianchun smiled and tilted her head; a soft breeze lifted her bangs and hem, spring through a closed room. Freshness cut the heaviness like mint.

“I know. I trust the Twelfth District, and I trust you’ll solve this. But the cost is named death, a tally in red. This isn’t the moment for pride.”

“Blade, look carefully.” Her finger pointed at blinking screens and a mountain of coffee cups, hills of bitter rain. “Moon Owl’s holding two Chapter Threes. Dawnlight, Lu Jin, Lu Shi, Qiu Sheng—whose Mana isn’t scraped thin? Who isn’t fighting wounded against Cantata Two scions? Even the reserve squads face foes they can’t beat, reeds against stone.”

“See this? In one hour, how much coffee did you drink? Your body’s at its limit, Blade. You’ve never cared for it, pushing at high load, like everyone in the Twelfth District—charging forward for the district without looking back.”

On the screen, the lure plan had already started, like sparks catching grass—no orders needed, only resolve. Blood scions were pushing toward the zones with ordinary staff. To keep them safe, the teams decided on their own, a flock turning in midair.

Several reserve members fell. A scion’s claws slid into them like red knives through silk. Their bodies lay in pooled scarlet, still faces like moonlit ponds—no regret, only the quiet joy and loyal calm of a plan achieved.

“So, Blade, please don’t stop me.” Qianchun’s voice was a clear bell at dawn.

She unwrapped the bandage at her thigh; compared to her arm, that wound was lighter, a pale petal not yet healed. It would sting, but not end her—spring breaking through frost.

“Fine. You win.” Blade pressed her brow and hid a heavy dark circle with her pinky, a small curtain on a deep night. She couldn’t move Qianchun. The day Qianchun argued evenly, she’d known she couldn’t press down the woman Qianchun had become.

With Blade’s leave, Qianchun turned without hesitation, a hawk catching wind. She checked the handgun at her waist, metal cold as dawn. Ammo was full; she ran for the last corridor, feet like drifting leaves.

Blade sank back into the chair, gaze fixed on the screen, mapping routes like threads in a loom. On-screen, Qianchun had changed into clothes meant for motion, fabric like water.

“Nearby teams, send two to three to the location I’m pushing. Keep your own line solid.” Blade’s orders flew like arrows.

Qianchun moved with her gun up, careful as a cat in grass. Footsteps came from behind, a second ripple—other team members, pulled by Blade’s hand.

A blood scion advanced along the corridor, palm extending, a red tide step by step toward Qianchun.

Qianchun reviewed tactics with the others, brief as a spark. The scion arrived; three bodies peeled off into motion, a dance in a storm.

Qianchun fired first. The bullet slipped through the scion like a needle through water, in then out, a clean river cut. The blood scion turned toward her, wings snapping open like night curtains, and it flashed to her side, a red hawk.

Now. The word struck like a drum.

From both sides, two teammates lifted their SMGs; bullets sprayed like sleet. The scion’s hatred shifted off Qianchun, drawn by the iron rain.

Qianchun slid to the far wall, ghosting while the two pulled the scion toward the exit, step by step, current tugging a drifting log.

The scion watched the hail, then suddenly swiped, wind knifing under its feet. Its speed surged, a thunderclap breaking low cloud.

Qianchun felt the burst like ice in her gut; she gritted her teeth, holstered the gun, and yanked a metal bottle from her waist—a small flask of liquid nitrogen from the underground hospital, winter sealed in steel. She hurled it with everything, a comet toward the red.

The scion’s claws shredded the bottle with a crack; cold white vapor sprayed like frost-breath. Its blood-forged claws flash-froze, a winter flower blooming in an instant, and stopped a millimeter from a reserve member’s brow, time held like a breath.

“Move!” Her shout snapped like a flag in wind.

Shaken, the reserve member rolled up, then the three sprinted for the corridor mouth, feet like scattered beads.

The scion swung its arm, confused—why did winter bite its hand? It scraped the ice against metal, trying to grind the chill away, but the claw was frozen through, bone-deep frost.

Its arm shattered with the ice, shards ringing like glass. The scion howled, a wolf in a red forest, and pulled fresh blood to knit a new arm, river reweaving its banks. It stared at the three fading silhouettes and chased, fury a blade in rain.