The brothers kept vigil through the night.

  Genevieve, ever considerate, had servants bring reclining chairs and blankets.

  But the Hall of Sacred Healing had already mended their bodies—no fatigue touched them.

  YiChen felt the faint warmth pulsing at Shadowfang’s mark. He called him forth.

  The beast appeared as a jet-black kitten, sleek and soundless, curling at the bed’s edge.

  Silverwing followed, shaping himself into a silver-lit cat crouched by their mother’s pillow, eyes glowing soft in the dark.

  Both had taken Vivi’s form.

  Normally untamed, Shadowfang now lay docile, his tail tapping lightly against Zhang Han’s hand.

  Silverwing pressed close to her chest, his breath shallow, gaze shimmering with liquid light.

  At times their mother stirred, lips moving in broken dreams. Her fingers twitched faintly.

  At once the spirit-cats leaned close, brushing against her palm.

  She had once teased with a laugh:

  “Our Shadowfang and Silverwing have greedy little mouths too.”

  That laughter was long gone.

  But they remembered.

  The brothers sat wordless.

  Each breath felt too deep, as though the air itself weighed heavy.

  That night, no words passed between them—

  only the quiet purring of spirit-cats,

  and their mother’s fragile breath,

  holding together the last warmth of home.

  ?

  At first light, Genevieve arrived—punctual as ever.

  Behind her stood a young nun, calm and modest. Genevieve introduced her as a healer of light, come to tend their mother in their stead.

  The brothers bowed in solemn thanks.

  The nun dipped her head shyly, a faint blush touching her cheeks. Their steady bearing was not easily ignored.

  At the side, Genevieve’s lips curved faintly—cool, unreadable.

  Heart-thieves. If they ever stayed within the Church, half the cloistered sisters would never sleep again.

  The brothers lowered their eyes, taking one last, silent look at their mother.

  They said nothing.

  Only turned, and walked away.

  They knew—

  this might be the last time.

  ———————

  Genevieve led them into the Church’s training ground.

  The dome arched high, forged of silver-gray metal, gleaming cold in the morning slant.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Runes and energy-lines webbed the walls; the floor stretched with shifting obstacles, jagged terrain.

  Not a practice hall.

  A cage—of war.

  Two figures already waited.

  ChengYu’s eyes lit at once—he rushed forward.

  “Uncle Ruda!”

  The man turned, arms wide. Gerold—his father’s old friend, their neighbor, one of the first contract-bearers.

  “Ah, Xiao Yu, Xiao Chen!” His laugh was warm, hands heavy on their shoulders.

  “How are you, boys? Last time was dinner at your house… Your parents, I heard—ah.”

  Beside him stood another. Early forties. Lean.

  Short hair combed sharp, gray eyes blade-cold.

  He spoke flat, clipped:

  “Enough talk. We have work.”

  Genevieve’s smile lingered.

  “This is Crane. Your commander for this mission.”

  She turned to leave, voice drifting back like incense smoke:

  “May the Lord bless your task.”

  ?

  Crane mounted the platform, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid.

  Morning light struck his steel-blue gaze, gleaming like a drawn edge.

  He looked down on the brothers with scrutiny that barely veiled distrust.

  “I hear you’re skilled.” His voice carried low across the cage.

  “But I don’t heed rumor. I’ll see for myself—

  if you deserve this mission.”

  He gave a curt nod. An assistant moved.

  The dome sealed.

  Walls flared crimson, runes burning alive.

  An iron gate thundered open—

  a rush of air like a crack torn into the underworld.

  Something slithered out.

  A mid-tier wraith.

  Its body cloaked in boiling black fog, scarlet eyes glowing like coals.

  Across its brow burned a deep red scar—the soul-core mark.

  It rose slowly, whispering in insect hiss, shrieking like steel raked on glass.

  ChengYu leaned close, smirking:

  “Brother, is this supposed to be hard? Want me to play nice?”

  YiChen’s eyes stayed steady, river-calm.

  “Probe it. Seventy percent. No more.”

  “Then I’ll play nice.”

  The wraith shrieked, lunged.

  Silverwing flared—uncoiling into a ring of light.

  It snapped shut around the wraith’s head, pinning it midair.

  Black fog thrashed, writhing to break free.

  YiChen flicked a finger.

  Shadowfang shot forth, shaping into a black spirit-blade.

  It pierced between the eyes, straight into the core.

  A muffled blast.

  The shriek died midair.

  The wraith froze. Shuddered once. Twice.

  Collapsed into tar-black sludge.

  Ten seconds. No more.

  Its shadow had not even struck the floor before its soul was gone.

  ——————

  On the platform, Crane stood still.

  He had meant to strip them bare.

  Instead—he had witnessed precision.

  Shadowfang’s line. Silverwing’s arc.

  Every motion exact.

  No recklessness. No hesitation.

  Only lethal art—clean and absolute.

  He had seen brilliance before.

  But this… this should not exist outside the Church’s command.

  His thoughts knotted.

  And yet the order was clear: complete the mission. Ignore the rest.

  Quietly, almost to himself, he murmured:

  “If only… there were another path.”

  “Matthew?” Gerold’s voice cut in.

  Crane blinked, mask resuming. He signaled the assistant to shut the array.

  Blue light ebbed. The cage cooled.

  He looked down at the brothers, expression unreadable.

  “Approved,” he said at last, voice flat.

  Though softened—half a shade.

  “Go to the prep hall. Meet the squad.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Ruda—take them. I’ll report to the Bishop.”

  Gerold nodded, beckoning the brothers forward.

  Crane turned, striding into a side corridor.

  His figure sank into shadow.

  YiChen’s eyes followed, sharpening.

  ChengYu muttered:

  “He was rattled, wasn’t he?”

  YiChen shook his head. Silent.

  Gerold clapped their shoulders.

  “He has his orders. Come. Time to meet your teammates.”

  The brothers exchanged a glance.

  A quiet smile flickered between them—sharp, knowing.

  Then they followed Uncle Ruda toward the next battlefield awaiting them.