The car crawled, leaving District Twenty One, grinding on for three whole days and nights, into barren wildlands ringed by soaring ranges, nothing like the squat hills of the Twelfth District.

Autumn was tipping into winter; mid‑slope wind slapped the windows like wet cloth, its iron chill threading through seams and making the driver shiver over the wheel.

No AC ran. After three days and nights, the tank was near dry; turning it on would drink the last drops, and stalling here meant back‑breaking pushing under a pitiless sky.

If the weather turned, it’d be suicide. Besides, the transfer station lay just a few miles ahead, a thin promise on the cold horizon.

The climb shook the chassis. The ascent was slow, a dull grind. The two in front cursed the bumps, while the woman in back stayed silent, anchoring herself with the tentacles unfurling from within. That was Ms Feng.

Night Frost lay like a dead fish across the back seat. Ms Feng sat beside her, quiet, flipping files. Night Frost had woken many times these days; each time she tried to protest, Ms Feng would inject her with psychic toxin, dropping her back into infant‑soft sleep.

Now Night Frost’s lashes trembled. Chill and jolts teased her toward waking. Luck favored her; the station was almost here. Ms Feng wouldn’t need to dose her again.

She had slept far, slept deep. Every brief waking was hard‑caught, and the next sleep hit like a wave. She didn’t want daylight; she’d rather keep her eyes sealed than taste that toxin from Ms Feng’s seeping tentacles again.

But feigned sleep never fooled Ms Feng. Her eyes had already measured Night Frost’s state; the toxin had worn off. Night Frost was pretending, maybe bloated with too much numbness, maybe aware resistance was useless.

Good either way. If Night Frost didn’t fidget, Ms Feng didn’t need to babysit a disobedient “masterpiece.” She could bury herself in work.

She left Night Frost alone, frowning, eyes fixed on her tablet. A stylus slid in her palm, sketching and striking through lines of data.

Time skimmed past. The car rattled over the mid‑slope, pushed through denser woods, and finally nosed into the transfer station.

Ms Feng checked the time. She saved her files. A pure‑white, slick tentacle glided to Night Frost’s chilled cheek. Of course, the Eye Orb’s tentacle was even colder; Night Frost jerked, shuddering, and sprang off the soft cushion of the seat.

“What are you doing!”

Her voice snagged with anger. She was a captive already; who torments a captive like this? An “ice brick” slipped inside your clothes in mid‑winter—what else is that but cruelty?

“Out,” Ms Feng said. “We’re here. It’s cold. Change, if you don’t want to freeze.”

Her tentacle dipped into Night Frost’s Spatial Box and drew out thicker clothes. Night Frost took them, a reflex “thanks” spilling out.

A heartbeat later she caught herself. That was her Spatial Box. Everything inside belonged to Night Frost. These were clothes Qianchun had packed for her.

She cursed her own stupidity and, in her heart, Ms Feng’s gall. Her things, handed back like favors—she was the idiot who’d get sold and still count the buyer’s money.

Damn it. These clothes? Forget it.

She hurled them back into the car and followed Ms Feng out. The instant her fingers slipped past the doorframe, a razor wind sliced her palm; tears stung out faster than Blood.

The Blood froze as soon as it welled up in this damned weather, pinched into red glass.

Night Frost yanked her hand back and slammed the door. Her breath turned cloud‑white; she blew on red‑purple fingers, chasing warmth like a beggar chasing a coal.

“So, walking or not?” Ms Feng’s voice came from beyond the window, muffled by glass, thinned by snow, but clear enough to bite.

Night Frost shook her head hard. The car was warm as a den. Out there was a meat‑locker. In this small body, she wouldn’t die, maybe, but she could freeze stiff.

“Really not going?”

A smile tugged at Ms Feng’s mouth. She looked to the sky. Ink‑dark clouds pressed over a strip of clean blue; a gale shouldered the heavy mass toward the peak at alarming speed.

“Give it minutes,” she said. “The summit will be shredding under a blizzard. Ten, maybe. You’ll be buried with the car. You still want to stay? I respect your choice.”

Night Frost jolted upright like a startled cat. She threw on the clothes in three fumbling motions. When life is on the line, even pride admits it was wrong.

Even wrapped tight, the cold gnawed. Wind howled like wolves. It pushed her off balance. Far sky spilled snow in long bands; gusts slapped pure‑white flakes against her cheeks.

As Ms Feng said, the blizzard would be here in no time.

Even with her old strength, fighting wind and snow like a Chapter Three Magic Spell was rough. Nature is a stone weight; only Cantata Three could stand and unravel it.

If her power weren’t sealed, and you gave her some food, she wouldn’t freeze. Survival odds would be decent. Reality was harsher. Her cheap master’s bracelet clamped her down; at most she could puff a few finger‑flames—enough to light a cigarette.

All Ms Feng’s fault.

But Night Frost had no moves to play, so she trailed her, sulking, toward a heavy, silver‑gray metal gate, its plates like shut jaws.

“So what the hell is this place?”

Ms Feng’s tentacle slid out a tablet and pressed it into Night Frost’s hands. The map on‑screen had been set for her, neat and merciless.

“Fifth District?! Snow Mountain?!”

The shock hit like a slap. The Fifth District was worlds from District Twenty One. Night Frost did the math; she’d been out for about three days and nights.

“Mm. Not the destination,” Ms Feng said. “We’re just borrowing transport from this branch.”

They took an elevator down. As they sank, Night Frost muttered why so many outfits loved building bases underground. Digging this deep couldn’t be cheap.

Ms Feng didn’t dodge. Her answer was kind and almost careless. “They’re underground organizations. If they’re not underground, where would they be?”

Night Frost found that very reasonable and nodded with weird solemnity.

“Built above ground, they’d be aboveground organizations.”

It was a joke, but Ms Feng hadn’t expected such a straight reply. She studied Night Frost’s serious little face and wondered if the toxin had nicked her IQ. It was supposed to numb… but too much anesthetic does dull the mind.

“Mm. That was a joke.”

Ms Feng gave Night Frost a meaningful look and considered brewing an IQ‑boosting drink.

The elevator reached bottom. Doors slid open. Warm air washed out the cold like a tide; Night Frost tugged off the heavy coat in a few quick, grateful motions. Heat wrapped her limbs and bones. It felt like new life.

She really looked then. The underground space was vast, all walls poured in metal. To either side lay ragged heaps of parts and scaffold.

The floor wore a mess of pipes. Their bases sat in murky liquid. The gaps between were yawning; one careless step and you’d plunge into sludge.

Workers in coveralls bent over their tasks, fitting parts together into something like scales. The craft was fine as filigree, but Night Frost couldn’t name its use.

It felt like a giant parts factory. Nothing special pulled the eye. No transport worth stealing jumped out.

“Keep walking. You’ll see.”

Night Frost clacked along the seam‑patched metal floor, gawking. Ms Feng found her dawdling annoying. Night Frost used to move quick; now she was dragging her feet.

The thought clicked—silent resistance. Night Frost was slowing her on purpose, shaving seconds off the leash.

It wouldn’t help. Ms Feng’s tentacles could hoist her like a sack. Add a few more, and carry her like freight.

Night Frost rose, flailing weakly, legs pedaling air. Ms Feng won this round without breaking stride.

They went on to the end of the corridor. There, several ray‑shaped craft crouched, each odd, each sleek in wrong ways. These would be their ride.

“Do these even fly? Corners are all wrong. Top‑heavy. Anyone with basic physics knows it won’t lift—”

“Holy hell!”

The scattered parts around them began rearranging, clicking and whirring, growing into a humanoid suit, like cinema armor, more like a Jaeger from a certain ocean.

This world had none of those titles, but for Night Frost, whose heart beat mecha, resistance rolled over and died.

“I’m gene‑side,” Ms Feng said. “But the machine folks do spin wonders. Some mad geniuses birth miracles. Not very practical, though. Regular flight is enough.”

Two helicopters got stripped for parts. Under the guide’s signals, the pieces recombined into a bigger ray craft, wide enough for both Ms Feng and Night Frost to sit inside.

“Uh…”

Night Frost looked at Ms Feng with pleading eyes.

“I’m a college student… can I…”

“No. You can’t.”