There’s a stretch of time he misses most.

It was an early-summer dawn, heat just budding, dew clinging to tender leaves like glass beads. Beautiful, yet unseen—pedestrians rushed, traffic stitched the road, him included.

Polished shoes hammered gray stone bricks; a dark suit wrapped an anxious silhouette. He sprinted the street, parting busy bodies, and the road refused to end.

The seven a.m. bus was packed—boarding, riding, getting off, all jammed. An eight-thirty meeting waited; eight o’clock was for prep.

A knockoff watch from a street stall told him time had run thin.

He planned to organize on the bus. Chatter buzzed; engines droned; his less-than-seven-hour nerves frayed and scattered his thoughts.

His company sat in a downtown tower; the morning sidewalk was a tide of people. He had five minutes to run the last stretch.

He squeezed into the conference room with a minute to spare. Every gaze pinned him; awkward air pricked his skin as he took his seat.

The meeting started at once. Everyone looked ready, waiting. His late arrival nudged the start past some folks’ ideal, and faces soured.

Everything about the meeting lived in last night. The crush and the tension made him stutter. Eyes fixed him, and pressure spiked.

He forced it through—grit plus a decent memory. He stumbled out the rough draft, and the effect felt flat.

The meeting broke. People clustered around the stars, talking futures and product plans. He stood sidelined, chilled by polite neglect.

He believed his plan held its own. Today’s performance killed it. No one would admire him.

Who to blame? Slow buses, thick foot traffic, early birds, stiff rules, a poor home, an unjust world.

None of them. Only his chosen road, his half-shed introversion, his lack of talent. He wasn’t exceptional.

Even with college effort, his deep-set nature held ground.

He returned to his station, resigned. The manager dropped a heap of work on his desk—his direct superior, who’d watched the whole speech.

That superior had trusted his ability and handed him the project report. Today’s showing disappointed, drew the boss’s cold eye and peers’ sneers, and cost a raise.

No soft face came. The folders landed with a thud. Finish them today. He bowed to fate and began flipping pages.

The files were empty calories—summaries of pointless minutiae and bureaucratic fluff. Anger at formalism ground down; pressure pressed; life bent his back.

Near evening, he finished the assigned load. The superior returned, arms stacked with busywork. Overtime again. Where did this end?

He grumbled, and only reached home near dawn.

Night streets weren’t the day’s human tide—silence lay like a drained lake. He collapsed alone, too empty to drag himself to a shower.

Tomorrow wanted him too.

He groaned, picturing the weekend—an out-of-town trip, a good meal, nerves unwound. Sweet dreams only; unless the world ended, the grind reset daily.

Boom.

A colossal roar shattered everything; the ground trembled. The quiet sky ripped open. Crystalline shards rained down and punched a hole through his roof.

More thunder rolled; rain poured in sheets; the force burned his eyes. Half his house slumped and swayed in the storm’s curtain.

This had to be a dream.

He pinched his thigh hard. Pain said it wasn’t.

He’d only joked—world’s end wasn’t his wish. His parents were here; freedom hadn’t touched him; he still wanted to live.

Tower blocks swayed in wind and rain, ready to fold. He swallowed fear and bolted for the door. The high-rise began to collapse.

The sky kept dropping fragments. They smashed before and behind him. He’d played basketball well once, but years had rusted him.

His clumsy body dodged falling debris; gravel still scraped him twice. Pain bit, and he pushed on.

He sprinted the corridor. The staircase ahead shattered under a boulder. No path remained.

Void yawned underfoot. Wait for death or jump for a thread of life? His mind whirled.

He chose to leap.

His life flickered—work, study, scolding, circling without meaning. Dying here almost felt fitting for such a life.

But if he didn’t die… he wanted to start over.

He fell, and kept falling. From this height, death looked certain.

Cold muddy water and hateful stones lanced his skin. Warm Blood ran with the rain, stealing his heat.

The ground swelled closer; death drew near.

Then came sudden lightness. Wind gathered behind him like a thousand hands and lifted his whole body.

He squinted up. A figure like a sprite rode the wind toward him. Invisible gusts wove her wings; veiled hands reached out.

He reached too, grasping for that shape. It felt like a last hallucination; hope stayed small.

It wasn’t. The fairy-like lady caught his hand for real and lifted him with ease.

Falling stones got shouldered aside by wind. He clutched her hand, and they threaded the rain like needles.

“You are…”

He watched her profile. Rain slicked it, yet beauty shone through. Humans flying on wind without gear stunned him.

She only smiled, and his mind drifted. Could someone be this lovely? An angel of the gods, a Kunlun fairy gone mortal.

“Thank you…”

She carried him to a wider clearing. The building fully collapsed, dust pluming dozens of meters high, but the sky’s ghastly rift stayed visible.

“What is that…”

He’d never seen such a sight. From the crack crawled unknown beings—snake-like yet not, bodies larger than people.

Black scales, two claws sharp as a Blade, eyes deep and dark with a sickly green glow that chilled the spine.

The sprite-like girl calmed the crowd, then lifted two thin swords. She moved like lightning; sword-light flashed as she met the front Monsters.

Her thin Blades split air and dragged fierce wind. They pierced the Monsters. One stroke, one body, cleaved clean.

Dark green Blood splashed and spotted his cheek. The stench turned his stomach; last night’s snack clawed for his throat.

These Monsters were brittle before her, but they swarmed in droves. Sweat pricked for her.

She worked with ease. Each flick of a thin Blade harvested a life. Wind obeyed her; her agile form danced through storm.

Her cheek, stained with Monster Blood, held a sharper beauty.

Soon the Monsters lay finished. She panted hard, face pale. She piled their stones together.

She plucked their Magic Stones. When the rain lightened, she poured oil. Fire bloomed; a mountain of corpses went to flame.

She scanned the area; no more Monsters showed. She turned and started clearing the crowd.

“Are you afraid?”

She asked the man softly. She wiped her Bloodstained hand on her Magic Armor, then offered it to him.

He shook his head. Danger ebbing, curiosity rose. He wanted her name, her place.

“What are you? What do I call you?”

“Mm. Something like a Sorceress, a witch. You could call me a Magic Maiden. As for a name, call me Qinyu. It’s only a codename.”

Qinyu explained and smiled. Long, light lashes trembled in the wind.

“And you?”

Out of courtesy, she asked for his name.

“I’m Yin Tiancheng. Thank you… for saving me. I didn’t expect anything.”

He stammered—maybe her beauty, maybe fear, maybe the joy of living past the edge.

“It’s the mission we’re born to. We can’t stand before the masses… I’ll check over there.”

Her voice lingered, tugging his thoughts. She hadn’t gone far when her communicator crackled.

“The rift… won’t close!”

From the black crack, a colossal claw unfurled. Unlike the others, its body dwarfed them by ten, by a hundred.

A flood of smaller Monsters swarmed behind the giant. Qinyu drew the sword at her waist in a flash.

But she was nearly out of strength to face the leviathan at her back.