"Everyone, retreat! The path is here—just get through, and we're out—"

Before he could finish, a deafening *bang* shattered the battlefield’s tense silence.

The leader, clad in a security uniform, jerked violently as if struck by an invisible sledgehammer. Fresh blood gushed instantly, staining his uniform and the terrified faces of his comrades.

Outside the passage, smoke choked the air; flames clawed at the sky. Gunfire, shouts, and wails wove into a tragic symphony. People crouched, froze, fled, or scrambled. Shrapnel danced like the Grim Reaper’s scythe. Fear and resolve etched every face.

This was the Fourth District now. Citizens draped in cultist robes had turned on their own home. Regardless of past lives, they were devotees of *that voice*. They hunted the robeless. Resist? Death. Surrender? Cheers—eyes blazing with fanaticism, utter fanaticism.

Hours ago, celestial light bathed nearly every soul in the Fourth District. Now, those touched by it had forged a hell of blood and death.

The leader glanced back at the carnage. Pain and reluctance flickered in his eyes. He wanted to live—more than cover others’ escape. Teeth gritted, he pressed his uninjured hand to the wound. Blood stubbornly seeped through his fingers, crimsoning his palm.

"Retreat! Now! If you won’t live—*let me live!!*"

He roared with all his strength. His comrades turned without hesitation, fleeing the path he’d shown.

Alone, he faced the robed citizens of the Fourth District advancing slowly, guns held in unnatural stances. He sat up, fished a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a shaky hand. A wry smile touched his lips.

"Damn… played the dog for years. Finally acted like a hero. Hell… no one’ll remember me."

He raised his hands.

"I surrender."

He knew escape was unlikely. Yet dignity wasn’t measured only in breaths. Surrender might buy hope—or merely delay the end. But…

He glanced toward the passage.

*He’d bought them time. Hadn’t he?*

The lead cultist announced his surrender. The robed crowd raised their guns—not to shoot, but to cheer. Absurd. Real.

"As expected… I still want to be *me*."

Muttering, his hand groped backward, found a submachine gun. Light. Low ammo. Few cultists ahead. Enough.

He drew a slow breath, rose. Determination flashed in his eyes. He aimed. Pulled the trigger.

"To hell with the Magic Maidens!!"

A raw roar tore from his lungs. Bullets rained like torrential downpour. Cultists scattered—too slow. One by one, they fell. Blood stained the ground, their robes.

"Huff… huff…"

Exhausted, he tossed the empty gun. *Clang.* He looked skyward and laughed—a sound of relief, sorrow, release.

*Bang.*

A bullet pierced his forehead. Before him stood officers in cultist robes. Their marksmanship surpassed the frenzied believers’.

He collapsed. His blood mingled with theirs.

From the crimson pool, a blood-red figure rose—petite frame, pale skin, crimson eyes. Bat-like wings confirmed her Blood Clan lineage.

"Ah~ ah~ Blood Unit Two, activate!"

After a vocal check, she hovered above the Fourth District. A wave of her hand drew surrounding blood to her chest, forming a crimson stone. Wings fluttered. She soared beyond the district’s borders.

This scene repeated elsewhere.

"Father!"

Qian Qingqing and her group emerged at the Fourth District’s border. Behind them trailed loyal guards in security uniforms—remnants of the Qian Corporation CEO’s inner circle.

Half an hour earlier, robed citizens had smashed through Qian Corporation’s defenses, storming the building. *"Join us or die!"*

The CEO triggered the secret passage. He led Qian Qingqing forward; guards covered the rear. Of a hundred, fewer than ten remained.

This border town hid a shelter beneath its soil—a contingency the CEO never wished to use. Fate disagreed.

Roughly three villas wide, the shelter was ringed inside and out by a Formation—a costly acquisition from the [Seekers]. Less potent than the Magic Tools beneath Qian Corporation’s main complex, but vital. Canned food, medicine, household appliances… electricity hummed through the space.

"The other sector holds a small lab," the CEO explained to her. "Beyond it: generators. Diesel. Magic Stone-powered. They are this shelter’s heart."

*This was no mere shelter.*

Qian Qingqing collapsed onto a sofa, drained. After chugging two water bottles, she ducked into a restroom. Relief washed over her—no "apocalypse" felt real here. Toilet flushed. Hands washed. As she turned to leave… blood drops on the corridor floor.

"Must be from the guards," she muttered, leaping over them. She dared not stare. Each stain summoned memories: frenzied cultists, Qin Yanmo in bizarre metal armor firing a Magic Cannon—blocked only by Qian Corporation’s shield.

In hours, the Fourth District had become unrecognizable.

"Father… will we hide here?"

The CEO shook his head. "Supplies last six months. The Magic Maidens *will* find us. Our only path: seek asylum with another Magic Maiden district."

"Damn it… the whole Fourth District’s gone mad!" He coughed, swallowed medicine, waved off assisting guards. Qian Qingqing followed—her father needed her.

"These… bloodstains. Whose?"

His voice cut through her thoughts. Her gaze dropped to the very drops she’d ignored.

"Not mine. A guard’s, surely?" She shook her head. *A secret base—only Father knew.*

"Not yours… and *not* the guards’. Everyone was outside!!"

Both froze. If not theirs… whose?

They followed the trail to a slightly ajar door. The CEO pushed Qian Qingqing behind him, chest high, and opened it.

*Clatter.* A dagger embedded itself in the floorboards at his feet.

He recoiled. Qian Qingqing peeked past him. Three figures lay neatly under a quilt on the large bed. Another rested beside the nightstand, wrapped in a blanket.

"Magic Maidens… Wait—it’s *her*!"

They recognized two: Night Frost, and the woman always at her side.

"Stay quiet. Tend to them. Clothes are in the wardrobe."

Calm and decisive, the CEO pointed to the closet, left Qian Qingqing, and returned to the living room.