Fifteen minutes remained until three o’clock.

  The sun sagged low.

  In Greenleaf Valley, the first layer of fog began to stir.

  It rose like damp silk—cold, clinging—brushing against skin with a whispering reminder:

  —the yin was waking.

  After a brief council, Commander Matthew Craen gave the order:

  “We kill the Owl King here.”

  The creature looked broken, breathing its last.

  But no one would gamble on what might come once the yang-to-yin reversal struck.

  No one wished to see this thing summon worse horrors.

  YiChen and ChengYu were stationed at the rear.

  They had never before faced—up close—a beast that warped time itself.

  This would be their first glimpse.

  And a lesson carved in blood.

  ?

  The Hunters

  Four would lead the strike:

  ? Craen, Commander.

  ? Rako Vonn, thunder warrior.

  ? Reinhardt Wenlan, phantom sniper.

  ? Noah Brighton, wind-marked bowman.

  They crept within twenty meters, crouched low in the grass.

  Craen spread his palm.

  His contract beast—the Gossamer Cicada—shimmered across his wrist in golden motes.

  Threads uncoiled, weaving into a spherical lattice.

  Glyphs glimmered fine and intricate, edges rippling like fractured glass, reflecting warped rings of space.

  He murmured, low.

  Sweat beaded his temple, sliding in a single drop to the soil.

  Behind them, Gerold bent to whisper in the brothers’ ears:

  “Matthew’s greatest art is barrier-craft.

  The Gossamer Cicada is phantom-class—rarest of rare. Against space-borne fiends… it’s nearly their bane.”

  ChengYu’s eyes shone.

  “So cool…”

  YiChen’s gaze was darker, calculating.

  “His precision… flawless.”

  ?

  The Strike

  Up front, Craen’s voice stretched taut as wire:

  “Barrier drops in five. Lock target. Strike with everything.”

  Golden threads slid into the earth, coiling unseen around the Owl King.

  The beast crouched still, unaware.

  One second.

  Two—

  The barrier flared.

  Golden filaments lashed upward, caging the Owl King.

  Time froze.

  It thrashed, body surging into liquid shadow—

  too late.

  “Now.”

  Three hunters loosed at once.

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  Lightning.

  Wind.

  Phantom.

  Arrows screamed through the stillness.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  A thunderclap split the air.

  Beams drilled into the beast’s chest, straight to the core.

  The Owl King convulsed.

  Star-marks shattered.

  Its form collapsed like a broken reel of film, unraveling into strips of time.

  No cry.

  Only a silent implosion—

  then black sludge, boiling away in flame that was not fire.

  The hunt was done.

  ?

  In less than ten seconds—

  clean. Silent. Deadly.

  Hidden in the brush, ChengYu finally let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “They’re insane… so strong…”

  YiChen’s gaze stayed steady, tone intent:

  “Every step exact. This is what a true elite squad looks like.”

  ChengYu’s grin split wide.

  “With teammates like this… maybe we really will make it out alive.”

  YiChen’s eyes lowered, voice quiet:

  “…Let’s hope.”

  From the remains, a deep-green demon core floated upward, leaking foul glow and death-aura.

  Craen’s golden threads wrapped it tight, sealing it.

  “Full retreat. Camp in ten.”

  Already, valley fog was thickening.

  Delay a moment longer—

  and when night’s wraiths caught the scent of death here, the hunters themselves would become prey.

  ?

  Camp: Vinebone Hollow

  Ten minutes later, the squad reached a natural hollow.

  Stone walls ringed the basin, roots dangling like ribs. Wind channels bent aside, spirit-flow steady—

  a near-perfect refuge for nightfall.

  Craen scouted the ground himself—testing currents of wind, blind angles, the reflux of demonic aura.

  Then he summoned the Gossamer Cicada to unravel.

  Golden threads spilled from his wrist, weaving through cracks of rock and soil. One by one, stakes etched with Exorcism Seals flared alive.

  A dome-shaped ward rippled upward, enclosing the camp in liquid light.

  “Three layers,” he said.

  “Outer ring—concealment. Middle—sensing. Core—emergency displacement. Do not cross the line.”

  Next, Elena lifted both hands.

  Her contract beast—the Lyriquill Heron—circled high above, scattering pale-gold brilliance.

  The glow folded into Craen’s wards, layering strength upon strength.

  3:45 PM.

  Night-mist began to fall from the cliffs.

  The world drained of color.

  The squad raised sanctified war-tents.

  Within minutes, a thirty-man encampment stood complete, arranged with precision:

  ? Central Hall — council, mess, briefings.

  ? Six Dormitories — four hunters each, curtained for privacy.

  ? One Command Tent — Craen’s alone.

  Outside, the smokeless Silent-Flame Forges burned—odorless, traceless, boiling only water, invisible to prowling fiends.

  ?

  ChengYu circled the tents wide-eyed, like a boy stumbling into a city for the first time.

  “Bro! Beds, tables, lamps—everything! I don’t ever wanna leave!”

  YiChen sighed.

  “Trust you to find joy in a death-valley.”

  ChengYu flopped onto a cot, laughing.

  “It’s not that… it just feels like those camping trips back at school.”

  YiChen only watched him—eyes softening, faintly.

  The brothers ate by the forge, cleaning their weapons in silence.

  Nearby, the Brighton twins lingered.

  Ian edged toward ChengYu, hesitant at first—

  then, within minutes, the two were whispering like old friends.

  Noah dropped onto the bench beside YiChen, grinning.

  “Your brother’s a good one. I haven’t seen Ian laugh that much in years.”

  YiChen’s reply was flat.

  “He talks too much.”

  “Little brothers do.” Noah exhaled, gaze distant.

  “When we were kids, Ian clung to me the same. Back then, we weren’t with the Church. The Rift fell, our parents were gone, and… we had no choice but to join.”

  At that, YiChen finally looked at him.

  His voice came quiet, deliberate:

  “You… know Genevieve?”

  Noah frowned, thought.

  “Blonde? Works close to the Bishop? I’ve only seen her a few times. She’s always on external runs—guarding transports, cross-city orders. Inner circles… nothing I’d know.”

  YiChen gave a small nod, saying nothing more.

  But the answer was enough.

  Genevieve and her cadre were not ordinary exorcists.

  They were the Bishop’s hidden blade—

  a knife meant never to be seen.

  His father’s disappearance.

  His mother’s poisoning.

  Their home, defiled.

  Step by step, the Church had funneled him and ChengYu into this war.

  They were no longer sons, no longer hunters—

  they were stakes on the table.

  And yet—the Church hadn’t accounted for one thing.

  Commander Matthew Craen.

  A man who prized talent to the edge of obsession.

  He had fought for them: for gear, for medicine, for standing—

  staking even his own authority.

  Already, the Bishop’s script had gone astray.

  This “mission” to reclaim a relic was never just a hunt.

  It was a wider game of exposure.

  YiChen’s voice fell soft, like rain on stone:

  “We’ve been played into the board.”