Chapter 101 Eve and Foreplay

It was often said that summer was like an infant's temper—one moment radiant with sunshine, the next overcast with scowling clouds. There was undeniable truth to the adage.

Back in the north, conditions had been comparatively tolerable, marked only by the occasional heavy downpour. Casmolina, however, was another matter entirely. Here, violent squalls struck almost like clockwork every afternoon—brief, yet staggering in their sheer ferocity. Once the deluge passed, the skies cleared abruptly, often without a wisp of cloud remaining, leaving a searing sun to beat mercilessly straight down from the zenith. Having just absorbed such a torrent, the sodden earth steamed under the furnace-like glare. Paved thoroughfares fared slightly better, plagued only by pooling puddles, but wherever vegetation grew, the topsoil was thoroughly saturated, pooling into murky ponds in countless depressions. Under the scorching sun, thick sheets of sultry vapor billowed into the air.

Because this cycle repeated day after day, the air carried an unrelenting stench of mildew and decomposition.

Consequently, when summer arrived, no one in Varedin was willing to stay cooped up indoors. Even though residences here were designed with cross-ventilation in mind—doors and windows aligned squarely opposite one another to allow breezes a straight passage through the rooms—the sweltering heat remained stiflingly oppressive.

If proper houses were this insufferable, the condition inside airtight hidden listening posts was beyond wretched.

The subterranean bunker was awash with standing water, its floor resembling a miniature pond. Although drainage channels had been carved into the stone, the surrounding soil was completely waterlogged in the wake of the deluge, rendering the runoffs utterly useless.

Moisture beaded across the stone walls like sweat pouring from feverish skin.

In a stifling chamber that felt like a steaming kiln, even conditioned knights could hardly bear the torment. Stripped to the waist, they bared their chests simply to salvage what little relief they could muster.

The rhythmic clatter of approaching boots brought a flicker of relief to the faces of these tormented recon scouts.

It signaled the arrival of their relief shift; the clinking of metal mess tins and ration kits could already be heard with crisp clarity.

At that familiar chime, the knights inside moved as though an alarm had sounded, hastily flinging open their footlockers to yank out their garments. By dressing now, they could depart the moment the handover was finalized; none of them wished to linger in this godforsaken hole a second longer.

The footsteps drew nearer, and the men inside grew visibly restless with anticipation.

Abruptly, their bodies spasmed in unison, followed immediately by their rigid collapse onto the wet floor.

The exact same grim scene unfolded across the other perimeter listening posts simultaneously.

The moment the occupants inside dropped senseless, the supposed 'relief shift,' who had been ambling at an unhurried pace, suddenly quickened their stride.

Every one of them wore the field uniform of Varedin imperial knights, yet their physical features bore no resemblance to Varedin men; with dark hair, black eyes, prominent cheekbones, and deeply recessed sockets, they possessed the unmistakable countenance of Omore natives.

Bursting into the bunker, they drew daggers from their hips and slashed the throats of the fallen soldiers without hesitation. Formidable though Mind Pierce was, it did not inflict lethal trauma; there was always the risk that a victim might regain consciousness at any moment. Driving a cold blade across their windpipes was the surest way to guarantee silence.

Not every soul was slaughtered, however. In the highest vantage post overlooking the surrounding terrain, two individuals were spared. Both were Psions tasked with handling communications and surveillance across this sector.

The pair were dragged separately into two adjacent thickets; their lives had been temporarily preserved solely to extract vital intelligence under interrogation.

Among the infiltrators was a Psion of their own, an Omore mentalist who swiftly took his seat at the console specially rigged for psionic amplification.

The scanning net, which had flickered out for a fraction of a second, hummed back to life.

Silence reclaimed the surroundings as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The sole difference was the muffled whimpers emanating from the neighboring groves—the smothered groans of men gagged and bound, their agonized cries strangled in their throats.

Roughly a dozen minutes later, the operatives emerged from the woods on the right. The captive Psion dragged into the foliage earlier had been broken beyond recognition.

"The bastard broke. He sang like a bird," the interrogator reported to his commander. "Every half hour, headquarters checks in for the counter-pass. Today's countersign is 'Solar Wind.' And there's one critical detail: every scanning net along the line is fully interconnected."

The soldier in charge of interrogation concluded his briefing with a somber frown.

"Fuck!"

The captain spat a blistering curse. A middle-aged officer sporting a thick, unruly beard, he was the sort whose vocabulary consisted largely of vulgar profanities.

He had every reason to be thoroughly aggrieved.

A linked scanning net meant that the transport vehicles they had concealed beyond detection range could not possibly be brought forward. More critically, it meant that any demolition charges powered by energy crystals were utterly unusable, as their energy signatures would instantly trip the sensors.

"Thank heavens we brought conventional gunpowder,"

a subordinate sighed beside him.

This foresight had not been their own invention; when the infiltration plan was submitted to high command, the general staff had been ordered to conduct an overnight simulation of every plausible contingency, prompting them to pack traditional munitions as a redundant fallback.

"What are you standing around dawdling for?"

The bearded captain glared furiously. "Get to work, now!"

His men dared not hesitate, scurrying off to attend to their respective assignments.

The captured listening posts flanked both banks of a modest river spanning roughly twenty to thirty feet across. Spanning the waters was a broad stone bridge, its center embedded with railway tracks while both shoulders served vehicular traffic.

At that moment, two-man teams were hard at work beneath each of the bridge's stone piers.

Bundles of gunpowder were tightly lashed together and crammed into structural fissures between the piers and the bridge deck, every pack linked together by detonating cords. It was hazardous, highly technical labor.

It took a full half hour before the rigging was complete. What followed was an agonizing, drawn-out vigil.

High command had secured solid intelligence confirming that the Ironblood Corps would commence their withdrawal this afternoon. The military trains marshaled over recent days were currently queued in long, unbroken lines at the rail depot beneath the Mendel Plateau.

Yet none knew the precise departure schedule; even Varedin's senior brass had been kept in the dark by their Francan allies.

"Keep your eyes glued to that garrison over there,"

the bearded captain instructed, tapping a finger against the unfolded topographical map. Roughly a dozen kilometers from the railway stood an imperial encampment. When selecting this sector for the operation, the presence of the bridge had been one deciding factor, and this barracks had been the other.

Having dispatched his orders with crisp efficiency, the captain cast a distant glance toward Casmolina, muttering under his breath, "I wonder how those two are progressing with their preparations..."

The afternoon tempest had reduced the highways to treacherous quagmires. Varedin's road conditions were notoriously dreadful—not for lack of state funds, but because no matter how sturdily paved, the roadways could never withstand the elements for long. Violent squalls eroded the subterranean roadbeds, carving natural sinkholes and ruts, while airborne tropical seeds settled into crevices, germinating into roots that split the stone slabs apart. As a result, the thoroughfares remained perpetually potholed, transforming after every rain into a labyrinth of muddied ponds.

A small convoy of motor vehicles crawled sluggishly along the route. It was not for lack of desire to hasten, but because speed was physically impossible; the highway was choked not merely with pools of water, but with slick, churned silt that promised a disastrous rollover the instant a driver pressed too hard.

Richie rode in the lead vehicle.

When mingling with that degenerate pack of aristocratic cronies, idleness was naturally out of the question.

The vehicle was custom-built: devoid of seats, its floor was lined with plush mattresses overlaid with woven bamboo mats. Aside from the chauffeur up front, every occupant—male and female alike—was stark naked.

The afternoon heat was already sweltering, the humidity suffocating, and the passengers within were all furiously engaged in grueling physical exertion. Drenched in sweat, their bodies glistened as the conflicting aromas of feminine perspiration, rank masculine musk, spilled seed, and wanton vaginal juices blended together, brewing an intensely pungent, heady stench inside the cabin.

Richie and Trisli were crammed right into the center of the compartment. This arrangement was hardly Richie's design; it was Trisli who relished the depraved thrill of being watched. Thus, Richie lay stretched out upon the mat, allowing Trisli to ride him with wild, unrestrained fervor.

Perhaps stirred into a frenzy by the surrounding debauchery, Trisli was far more untamed than usual. Her hips ground and rotated with frantic rhythm, undulating in rolling waves of pale, succulent flesh that rippled over his rigid length.

Truth be told, Richie had never quite understood why Trisli's physique bore none of the rigid, sinewy firmness typical of female knights. Her flesh was remarkably soft—softer even than that of ordinary noblewomen—yet her explosive strength was second to no veteran in the realm.

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the quintessential female form.

Richie was by no means alone in this appreciation. Aboard the vehicle, aside from the wanton women, was a pack of lecherous aristocrats; how could such lustful degenerates overlook a peerless enchantress like her?

Several greedy hands roved across Trisli's naked curves. The plump youth behind them was especially bold; hovering just inches from their flanks, his palms stroked the creamy curve of her buttocks while his fingers slid rhythmically in and out of her puckered anus.

Possessive though Richie was, this level of wanton petting fell within his tolerance for maintaining their cover. Had anyone dared attempt to drive their manhood into Trisli's body, however, he would never have permitted it.

A sudden lurch of the brakes threw the entangled passengers into an undignified heap.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

"Who taught you how to drive?!"

These pampered scions were all arrogant, overbearing figures accustomed to throwing their weight around; having suffered such a humiliating collision, they had no intention of letting the matter drop.

Hurriedly yanking on their trousers and kicking their feet into boots, they shoved the doors open with a resounding bang and leapt down one after another.

Ahead sat an immobilized military convoy, where one vehicle had rolled off the shoulder into the ditch. Beside the wreck stood a detachment of female knights in complete disarray, some spattered in mud, others drenched from head to toe.

The degenerate nobles promptly broke into lewd wolf-whistles.

A spectacle like this was a rare treat under ordinary circumstances.

Though these young lords strutted through Casmolina with utter impunity, there were lines they dared not cross; using brute coercion against active imperial female knights, for instance, was strictly beyond the pale.

"Come now, little darlings, how about stepping over to our carriage?"

the portly scion purred, spreading his hands with an expression of leering, insufferable vulgarity.

"Your clothes are soaked clean through. Why not strip them off? You'd be far more comfortable in the buff."

"Stripping naked might leave you chilly, but your big brother here is more than happy to warm you right up!"

"Heheh, exactly..."

Tossing crude double entendres, the youths swaggered toward the stranded women. Even if violent force was off the table, a bit of brazen teasing carried no risk. Besides, there were plenty of 'legitimate' leverages to ensnare these female knights eventually. Their past lack of opportunity had merely been due to the women remaining cloistered behind garrison walls, leaving no openings for their predatory schemes.

Just as these louts became intoxicated by their own lust, verging on forgetting the very purpose of their excursion, a frigid snort rang out from the rear of the convoy.

The acoustic vibration struck like a physical hammer, sending a tremor through every heart present and fogging their minds with sudden vertigo; several scions stumbled sideways, swaying as though on the verge of collapsing.

Though lecherous degenerates, these noble youths were not complete fools; they instantly recognized that an entity far beyond their reckoning held sway within that military convoy.

Sure enough, a staff car slowly rolled forward from the tail of the column. As it drew to a halt, a man and a woman stepped down from either side.

The instant that icy snort had sounded, Richie's heart had involuntarily leapt into his throat.

An unsettling sense of familiarity gripped him—and it carried an intensely ominous foreboding.

Among the entire Varedin race, there seemed to be only one individual capable of evoking such instinctual dread.

Richie subtly shrank back, maneuvering himself behind the broad frame of one of the noble fops.

The moment the debauched scions caught sight of the approaching pair, every shred of their swagger and salacious arrogance evaporated into thin air.

The pedigree of the arrivals was terrifyingly immense. The man was the empire's youngest Quasi-Glorious Knight; though currently serving merely as an army group commander—a provisional wartime appointment marshaling several neighboring corps—everyone knew this posting was merely a stepping stone. Sooner or later, he would inevitably ascend into the empire's supreme echelon of leadership.

Anderson stood before them, casting an icy, disdainful glare over the assembled aristocrats.

"You gentlemen must have stopped to render assistance," Anderson remarked, his tone formally polite yet dripping with unconcealed contempt. "In that case, accept our gratitude."

Polite words hung on his lips, but his expression radiated pure scorn.

He despised these cretins with every fiber of his being. In his eyes, they were the empire's disgrace, human vermin whose privileged existence stemmed entirely from structural rot embedded within the imperial system itself.

Yet knowing this full well, he was powerless to reform it, for those systemic flaws were woven into the very bedrock of the empire; to purge them completely would require tearing the imperial hierarchy down and rebuilding it from the ashes.

Such an upheaval was utterly unthinkable.

All he could do was emulate his revered master, striving to the best of his ability to shield those under his wing from degradation.

Anderson cast a cursory glance over the group, but abruptly, his gaze paused upon Richie.

He did not recognize the youth; the current Richie appeared noticeably younger than when they had first crossed paths.

While knights frequently retained youthful complexions far below their chronological age, reverse aging was biologically impossible. Consequently, he had no reason to associate a seemingly thirteen- or fourteen-year-old adolescent with the renowned, formidable Richie.

He merely sensed a faint whisper of familiarity, unable to pinpoint where he could have encountered such a boy.

A sudden gust of wind blew across the clearing, carrying with it the unmistakable musk of carnal union.

Not only did Anderson catch the scent, but the surrounding female knights smelled it as well. The female knight standing beside Anderson flushed crimson with humiliation, her arched brows furrowing in fury as she prepared to lash out.

Anderson abandoned his search for the source of that fleeting familiarity; catching his female companion by the sleeve, he waved dismissively toward the noble fops: "Please make haste, gentlemen. We all have ground to cover."

"Right, right! Quickly, lads, lend a hand and flip the vehicle upright!"

the portly scion fawned, rushing toward the overturned car with a fawning grin. The moment his back turned, however, that smile twisted into bitter venom, though his rage could only fester in silence.

Seeing the fat youth take the lead, the others had no choice but to pitch in. While they loathed Anderson to their very bones, none dared exhibit the slightest insubordination on the surface.

The vehicle was largely capsized into the roadside ditch. The plump scion was cunning enough to claim the firm edge adjacent to the highway, while the others, a fraction of a second too slow, were forced to slog through the sucking muck.

Weighing around five or six tons, the armored vehicle was deeply mired in the bog, gripped fiercely by the suction of mud and water; budging such a deadweight through the efforts of a few foppish aristocrats alone was practically impossible.

Fortunately, the female knights did not stand idly by; with over a dozen trained fighters joining the effort, their combined surge of strength finally hoisted the vehicle clear of the mire and rolled it upright onto the asphalt.

Though the vehicle was freed, their boots remained caked in thick, viscous muck. Richie feigned haste alongside several comrades, trotting over toward a nearby rainwater pool to rinse his footwear.

The convoy resumed its march.

The moment Anderson's staff car disappeared beyond the bend, the pampered scions erupted into a storm of vile curses, while Richie breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Acting all high and mighty! One day, I'll teach that bastard a lesson he'll never forget!"

the sinister-natured Roni hissed, clenching his fists as though swearing a solemn vendetta.

"If you have the guts, why not seduce the wench beside him? That's Kaidene's daughter,"

another scion chimed in from the side.

"She's a prime piece of skirt, no doubt, but she's a rose choked with thorns."

"What of thorns? Slip on a sheath and you can pluck her all the same!"

Their banter grew increasingly crude and sordid, though Richie knew they were merely venting their bruised egos. Varedin was a realm rigidly bound by hierarchy; such brazen insubordination against military royalty would never be tolerated in reality.

Having rinsed their boots clean, the men piled back into the carriage.

They were frivolous creatures to the core; despite their indignant posturing moments ago, the instant the doors clicked shut and their breeches dropped, all memories of their humiliation vanished into thin air as they resumed the lascivious revelry that had been so rudely interrupted.

The convoy trundled onward for more than an hour, arriving at their destination around three o'clock in the afternoon.

Though Varedin's summer tempests were ferocious, daytime temperatures were blisteringly high; by three in the afternoon, most open ground had baked dry, leaving only the earth beneath dense canopy and low-lying hollows damp and soft.

Their chosen encampment bordered a wooded expanse, in the distance of which lay the very hamlet where Richie had previously stashed his hang-gliders.

Richie had handpicked this locale. Securing the group's consent had required little effort, for to these decadent wastrels, one hunting ground was as good as another.

On a gentle slope flanking the woods, pavilions had already been erected by their servants earlier that morning. Resembling circus marquees, their sides were left open to welcome the passing breeze.

"Did you truly evacuate every resident from that town?"

Richie peered through his binoculars toward the distant hamlet; through the windows of the cottages, every visible chamber appeared utterly deserted.

"They're still inside, merely holed up in their storm cellars so they won't disturb our sport,"

Roni replied, strolling over while raising his own pair of field glasses toward the horizon.

Richie felt a ripple of goosebumps prickle his skin at the degenerate's approach, yet his curiosity got the better of him: "How did you manage that?"

"Simple enough. I dropped a word to the civil administration, claiming we were running a military drill out here and required the town's full cooperation,"

Roni bragged, preening with smug satisfaction.

Given their noble lineage, forcibly displacing the townspeople would have provoked little consequence, but his approach had proven the most effortless.

Spoken casually by the fool, the revelation struck Richie with profound impact.

Before his bloodline awakened, whenever conflict erupted outside the city walls and the warning bells tolled, he and his mother had been paralyzed with terror, utterly clueless as to where to seek refuge. In Monstoke, drills were conducted as well, yet every exercise was tailored exclusively for armed forces.

Had the civilian populace been organized beforehand, taught exactly what protocols to follow when battle commenced, perhaps the slaughter of innocent lives would never have reached such harrowing proportions.

His mind drifted to the subterranean refuge carved from drainage conduits where they had once sheltered. If every city possessed fortified civilian shelters of that scale, perhaps the tragedy of Morena might have been averted.

Recalling the horrifying chaos of the two great evacuations, had military curfew and order been enforced to guide the refugees in disciplined retreat, countless lives might have been spared.

"What's running through your head? You've gone dreadfully grim all of a sudden,"

Roni asked, having sensed an imposing aura subtly radiating from Richie that compelled him to step back half a pace.

"Nothing of note. Just some lingering thoughts about warfare."

Richie cared little if the fellow gleaned a hint of his reflections, though he saw no reason to elaborate.

"I've known all along you weren't cut from the same cloth as the rest of us,"

Roni remarked with rare sobriety. "You still burn to carve out glory and distinction, unlike us who merely idle away our lives waiting for death. To tell the truth, there are times I feel rather pathetic myself."

Richie stared at the repulsive youth in astonishment. It was entirely beyond his expectations that such a creature possessed a reflective side, and judging from his tone, the other scions within this circle were not entirely devoid of lingering aspirations either.

"Bah! I must be losing my mind to spout such nonsense. To walk that path demands excruciating toil; even a peerless genius like Anderson has spent two or three decades in brutal asceticism... Living like this is infinitely sweeter."

The youth burst into loud laughter, genuinely content with his decadent existence.

*Bang!*

A gunshot echoed across the distance.

At the signal, more than a dozen figures dashed forward into the brush.

Richie quickly singled out Trisli's silhouette among the fleeting runners.

Trisli was holding her true prowess in reserve, maintaining a deliberate position in the middle of the pack.

These 'prey' were handpicked captive female knights. With their wrists bound tightly behind their backs, maintaining balance while sprinting over uneven ground proved exceedingly arduous.

The noble scions had not shackled them out of concern that their quarry might slip away—they could easily absorb such a minor loss; what they truly dreaded was that an unbound female knight might turn upon them, a lethal hazard they were keen to avoid.

"How about some refreshments?"

the plump youth hailed from the pavilion; it was not yet time for their pursuit to begin.

With their arms bound behind them, the women were incapable of fleeing swiftly, allowing their captors the luxury of granting their 'game' a generous half-hour head start.

A half hour could hardly be spent in idle waiting, so the company had laid out an opulent spread of delicacies and chilled beverages.

Varedin was blessed with an endless bounty of tropical melons and fruit year-round, its coastal borders providing an abundance of seafood and river catches; Richie almost found himself intoxicated by the lavish comfort, though the bitter truth remained that this was enemy soil.

"How about a wager? Whoever captures the most quarry takes first prize—all his captured wenches belong to him, and the rest of us pool our coin to pay their ransom fees!"

one of the scions proposed.

The motion met with enthusiastic cheers. To men of their station, gold was of no consequence; sheer amusement was all that mattered.

"I'm at rather a disadvantage, wouldn't you say?"

Richie mumbled around a mouthful of roasted delicacies.

In truth, he was at no disadvantage whatsoever; with his terrifying martial caliber, the entire pack combined could not withstand a single serious blow from him. Yet feigning vulnerability was essential to his guise, as his current persona was merely an Apprentice Knight, whereas even the most incompetent among them stood at the mid-tier of knightly cultivation.

"That's fair enough,"

Roni conceded, ever partial to Richie and quick to lend him support.

"Nonsense! Raw cultivation doesn't dictate footwork—who knows what arcane arts exist under heaven?"

another youth countered immediately.

"My discipline is external body-hardening,"

Richie stated, picking up a ceramic platter and grinding it between his palms; with a sharp crack, the dish shattered into shards before crumbling into fine white porcelain dust beneath his crushing grip.

The onlookers exchanged dumbfounded glances. External body-hardening arts were universally regarded as crude, graceless methods with virtually no future, not to mention excruciatingly arduous to master.

"Why on earth would you practice something like that?"

the plump youth blurted out, voicing the shared bewilderment of the company.

"My father made me train in it. My innate talent is mediocre, making it near impossible to rise through personal combat prowess, so my only path is racking up military merits. The fastest way to earn merits is on the frontlines, which isn't necessarily suicidal so long as you don't charge like an idiot into the fray. Survival is paramount, so preserving my skin takes precedence above all else..."

Before Richie could finish, someone scoffed, "You mean running for your life takes precedence!"

Roni jumped in to defend him: "On the frontlines, if men of our standing are forced to flee, the battlefield must have descended into utter disaster. Could anyone escape under those conditions anyway?"

"Point taken,"

the skeptic conceded with a nod.

"Brilliant, truly brilliant!"

the fat youth marvelled. "Your family possesses terrifying wit."

"I've recently discovered that body-hardening carries another marvelous benefit,"

Richie continued, dangling the bait.

"I know, I know!"

The plump youth squinted his eyes into lecherous slits, chortling lasciviously: "No wonder you fuck women like an untamed beast—your stamina completely defies your age!"

An instant later, his face fell into dejection. "Alas, it's far too late for regret now."

"Not necessarily,"

Richie teased. "If you seek to use body-hardening to survive battles, I have little to offer, but if your aim is merely to conquer bedchambers with sovereign majesty, it's remarkably simple."

"Out with it, man!"

The debauched nobles instantly crowded around him in desperate anticipation.

"I can share the method, but you must grant me a quarter-hour head start when the hunt commences,"

Richie proposed, waiting for the fish to bite.

"Done!"

"It's a deal!"

The company assented without the slightest hesitation.

"Body-hardening is structured similarly to conventional disciplines, save for an additional foundation: physical conditioning. Conditioning can be achieved through various means—some rely on external impact and beating, others on medicinal steeps. You can completely bypass the internal cultivation manual and focus exclusively on physical tempering,"

Richie explained.

"Makes sense, total sense!"

The plump youth nodded thoughtfully.

"Count me out for physical beatings, but medicinal steeps sound well worth a try,"

another noble muttered, already scheming to prepare his baths.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss it,"

Richie grinned conspiratorially. "The former produces far superior results!"

Pampered aristocrats that they were, none were eager to endure bodily hardship, shaking their heads in unison.

Richie lowered his voice to a sultry, tantalizing purr: "It all depends on how you stage the act. If you have an exquisite beauty assist your training, commanding her to lash your naked frame with a riding crop, and once the tempering is done, you throw her down and ravish her in retribution—would that not turn discipline into exquisite pleasure?"

The instant the words left his mouth, their eyes blazed with lustful enlightenment.

"Holy fuck! What an inspired play! A clever mind truly sees what ordinary folk miss—why in hell did we never conceive of such bliss?"

"I've decided! The moment we return, I shall throw myself into grueling cultivation; it'll bring tears of pride to my old man's eyes!"

Howls of lecherous jubilation echoed across the grassy hillside.

While the young aristocrats basked in their depraved reverie, Anderson had already arrived back in Casmolina. Having escorted his fiancée back to her cantonment, he proceeded toward military headquarters. Occupying sinecure posts, he was obligated merely to check in at headquarters morning and evening.

By nature, he abhorred such idleness, yet he knew he had no choice; too many powerful interests desired precisely this passivity from him.

The imperial high command was determined to dismantle his late master's entrenched influence across the armed forces, while the newly appointed frontline supreme commander was busy forming his own inner circle. As Kaidene's premier disciple, Anderson had to be kept on ice for the time being.

Such was the ruthless reality of politics.

In years past, he had never been burdened by such Machiavellian machinations, needing only to master the art of war; today, the rules had irrevocably shifted.

Ascending to the second floor, Anderson spotted a cohort of officers rushing past him in frantic haste.

Though scarcely familiar with the headquarters staff, he recognized their leader as the director of military intelligence.

He knew at once that a major crisis had erupted, for the intelligence officers were heading straight toward the private office of Supreme Commander Korsak.

Anderson arrested his stride and waited nearby.

Moments later, the heavy doors of Korsak's office swung open. The supreme commander strode out toward the conference chamber, trailed by the intelligence chiefs, while his aides-de-camp scattered in various directions, clearly dispatched to summon department heads.

"Is there anything I might do to assist, Commander?"

Anderson hailed from down the hall; in this tense atmosphere, he alone possessed the stature to address Korsak directly.

The supreme commander paused in surprise, pondered for a brief heartbeat, and gestured: "Join us."

Shortly thereafter, more than a dozen senior directors gathered inside the briefing room.

His countenance set like carved granite, Korsak pointed toward the intelligence director: "Recount the situation."

"At seventeen minutes past four, anomalous activity was flagged in Sector FN189," the intelligence director reported crisply. "The Alliance's special military train was scheduled to transit that very sector. We immediately transmitted an urgent advisory to Alliance high command urging them to postpone the withdrawal, but the Ironblood Corps flatly rejected our recommendation."

The intelligence chief kept his summary concise, yet omitted none of the critical essentials.

"Has the military train departed?"

someone inquired from the assembly.

It was the very question burning in Korsak's own mind.

From the moment the dispatch reached him, a bitter knot had twisted in his chest; he knew full well that the Ironblood Corps had spurned their warning primarily out of deep suspicion toward Varedin.

"Two trains have already departed. Originally scheduled for five o'clock, they accelerated their departure instead once the alert was broadcast,"

the intelligence director answered.

"Have the conditions along the railway corridor been verified?"

Korsak pressed directly.

"Thoroughly checked, sir. Nothing amiss was detected. We also audited the logs for the entire day; no security breaches or anomalies were recorded in Sector FN189 or its perimeter,"

the intelligence director hastened to reassure him.

Because the elimination of the listening posts had been synchronized precisely to shift changeover, that brief interruption had gone entirely unnoticed.

Hearing that all remained quiet, Korsak grew increasingly convinced that the Dante Alliance was staging a diversion, and he could readily rationalize their motives.

The Dante Alliance desperately sought intelligence on the Ironblood Corps' rearmament, which explained why they had dispatched Trisli alongside another enigmatic operative.

Yet the clandestine spy network the Alliance activated had been compromised years prior, aborting their reconnaissance before it could even commence.

However, that failure had precipitated the Ironblood Corps' premature relocation. Naturally, the Dante Alliance would want to delay their departure, fabricating a false alarm to compel them to remain in place.

"Does the general staff have any recommendations?"

the supreme commander asked.

"The 213th Corps is stationed nearby. Staff recommends detaching at least one squadron from the 213th to sweep the sector."

The intelligence chief had arrived fully prepared.

Korsak hesitated for a beat. An instinctual prickle warned him that something was amiss, yet what it was eluded him for the moment.

"Proceed accordingly,"

Korsak ordered with a wave of his hand.

"I can undertake the sweep personally,"

Anderson volunteered from the sidelines; as a Quasi-Glorious Knight capable of detecting hostile intent and gazes across vast distances, his reconnaissance would prove incomparably sharper than ordinary scout knights.

Korsak was about to grant permission, but on some sudden inexplicable impulse, reversed his mind.

"Unnecessary. You... remain here."

Once the officers had filed out, Korsak sat alone in his high-backed chair, brooding over the sequence of events.

If the enemy intended to startle the snake into staying put, stalling the trains for a day or two served little purpose. Could the Dante Alliance possibly finalize a major military deployment in such a minuscule window?

Pulling open the chart rack, Korsak unrolled the detailed map of the sector.

Drawn to a one-to-ten-thousand scale, even prominent boulders were meticulously charted. Gripping a magnifying glass, Korsak scrutinized the terrain.

Time trickled by as daylight waned; summer dusk arrived late in these latitudes, so even nearing six o'clock, the sky hung between dim twilight and gathering dusk.

Korsak remained waiting in his quarters until the report arrived confirming that the lead two military trains had safely cleared the sector, at which point he finally exhaled.

Of those two trains, one pressed ahead to scout the forward rails, while the second remained halted within the alert zone.

Korsak knew that by halting there, the Ironblood Corps was blatantly advertising their distrust of Varedin forces.

News of the lead trains' uneventful passage was relayed back to the rail depot beneath the plateau, prompting the following trains to slowly chug into motion. Still, the Francans maintained heightened vigilance, reducing their cruising speed by a third and widening the intervals between transports.

Inside the stone post, the bearded captain stood beneath the emerging moonlight, murmuring a fervent prayer.

He was not alone in his supplication.

These hardened knights were hardly devout worshippers; their prayers were merely an anchor for inner peace, for each of them knew this operation was almost certainly their final stand.

Most on edge were the operatives concealed along the riverbank, saddled with the most perilous assignment. What rattled their nerves was not the lethal danger, but the knowledge that if they failed, there would be no second chance.

If death was their lot, it had to buy victory.

An indeterminate span elapsed before the hooting of an owl drifted through the night. The cry sounded chaotic to an untutored ear, yet listening closely revealed a precise, measured cadence.

Those muttering prayers instantly fell silent, their comrades snapping to alert and darting toward their assigned stations.

Roughly seven or eight minutes later, a faint vibration whispered along the steel rails, gradually swelling into a rhythmic, metallic clatter: *clack-clack... clack-clack...*

The rumbling grew steadily louder.

Like an armored serpent slithering through the dark, the train approached. From afar, its pace appeared moderate, but as it loomed closer, its speed easily outstripped that of any highway vehicle. The roar of iron wheels crushing the track mounted to a deafening thunder, drowning out the faint hissing of burning fuses. In the blink of an eye, the locomotive surged onto the bridge.

Just as the bulk of the train spanned the river, the charges on the first bridge pier detonated. A violent ball of flame erupted into the sky, billowing black smoke engulfing the carriages.

Instantly following, the second pier blew, then the third, and the fourth... Detonating cords carried a split-second delay, triggering a catastrophic domino effect of explosions beneath each support.

The bridge collapsed in a thunderous roar. The military train suffered an even more gruesome fate, wrenching violently through the air before slamming into the roiling river below.

A full squadron of Ironblood Knights was stationed aboard, all suited in magitech armor and poised on high alert; the instant the detonations shattered the air, they vaulted from the ruined cars.

Tragically, beneath their boots lay a churning torrent.

Plunging like leaden weights, the cumbersome armor suits and their occupants splashed headlong into the surging waters in chaotic succession.

Following their recent rearmament, every knight of the Ironblood Corps possessed two sets of magitech armor: one was the Cube, and the other was that enigmatic new model. At this moment, they were outfitted in the Cube.

The Cube ranked on the heavier side of medium-class battle armor, and this raging current proved its ultimate nemesis; turbulent undercurrents and deep riverbed silt prevented the knights from establishing even a shred of footing.

While the imperial knights floundered in disarray, the Omore operatives waiting along the banks sliced into the water, swimming toward the submerged carriages.

With the freight doors torn open, an Omore scout swam straight inside.

Sure enough, the compartment he entered held racks of that mysterious new battle armor.

Richie had theorized that this armor was merely a hollow shell, so when Omore's operational planners drew up their mission, their primary objective was to blast open that outer casing by sheer explosive force.

The Omore knight slipped the satchel from his back, slung it over the breastplate of the mysterious armor, and gave a sharp tug, unraveling a detonation wire.

He instantly kicked backward, swimming out and taking cover behind an adjacent carriage.

With a violent yank, a flash of fire lit the murky water, followed by a muffled concussion.

That initial blast unfolded precisely as predicted, but what followed was utterly unforeseen.

A second detonation ripped through the riverbed—and its magnitude was catastrophic. In the blink of an eye, the entire train carriage was blasted to splinters, ripping away more than half of the neighboring two cars in the blast wave!

The knight sheltering in the adjacent compartment was annihilated on the spot, his body torn to shreds.

The carnage did not stop there.

That carriage held not merely a single suit of that mysterious armor; the others racked inside detonated in rapid sequence, their ferocious explosions tearing through adjacent cars and pulverizing the remaining suits stored within!

Like tumbling dominoes, a relentless chain reaction of detonations erupted beneath the waves, gouging out the entire riverbed. Water geysered skyward in continuous, colossal plumes, merging into a monolithic wall of churning foam.

The Omore knight had not entered the water alone; an entire team had submerged with him.

Not a single operative in that team survived; pitted against such cataclysmic shockwaves, their mortal flesh was as fragile as gossamer paper.

Nor were they the only casualties: every Ironblood Knight submerged within the blast radius was wiped out as well. Underwater shockwaves propagated with far greater speed and crushing kinetic power than in open air; superior though the Cube's defensive resilience was, it could not withstand such overwhelming underwater concussions.

This sudden catastrophe caught both sides completely off guard. Reacting swiftly, the bearded captain bellowed with a frantic sweep of his arm: "Quick! Send in the second team!"

They had not relied on a single diving squad; three separate teams had been marshaled in advance. Originally intended as redundancies against the treacherous currents, that preparation proved their salvation now.

The sequential detonations had churned the river into opaque silt; even the ferocious current could not wash away the roiling clouds of mud.

The second team plunged into the depths, feeling as though they had swum directly into the ink sac of a leviathan squid. Fortunately, every operative selected for these water teams was an Honorary Knight; deploying their sensory Fields, they navigated the pitch-black murk effortlessly, pinpointing what they sought without needing sight.

The operational plan had never envisioned salvaging an entire suit of armor—that was logistically impossible. Retrieving fragments and shattered components was more than enough.

Amidst the murky waters drifted countless jagged metal shards; heavier components had sunk near the wreckage, while lighter fragments were swept downstream by the roaring current.

After five or six minutes, two knights broke the surface, each hoisting a weighted salvage sack.

"It's an empty shell, just as suspected! But we could only salvage components from the limbs!"

one of them yelled toward the bearded captain on the bank.

Without awaiting orders, the communications officer standing by transmitted the breakthrough back to high command.

Richie's deduction had been verified.

Simultaneously, scattered explosions thundered in the far distance. Gunpowder charges had been planted across sections of track ten kilometers to either flank, severing the railway line.

Railways possessed distinct advantages over highways, but carried a fatal vulnerability: they were exceedingly easy to sabotage.

Given Varedin's dense vegetation and impenetrable jungle terrain, once the flanking rails were blasted apart, the infiltrators secured ample time to execute their withdrawal.

Fifteen kilometers downstream, several transport vehicles laden with magitech armor sped desperately toward the rendezvous.

Not everyone fled; the communications officer made no move to retreat, knowing an escape was impossible and that his final duty remained unfulfilled.

Drawing a small blade from his pocket, he manipulated the controls on the overhead psionic receiver disc.

The communication link connecting this sector's scanning net to the rest of the railway corridor was severed in an instant. He had no intention of shutting the net down entirely, for the grid still served a purpose.

At this moment, the outer perimeter of the scanning net was ablaze with crimson pips of light, scattering rapidly as one contingent rushed toward the river while another sped downstream.

These crimson signals represented Alliance knights—the majority belonging to the Ironblood Corps, with the remainder from Varedin's 213th Corps.

The officer paid little heed to the pips along the periphery; they were still at a considerable distance. While the force moving along the railbed toward the bridge would arrive swiftly, the detachment sweeping downstream had to fight their way through dense jungle, which would severely impede their advance.

What truly alarmed him were the beacons within the river.

The entire train had plunged into the depths, and every Ironblood Knight aboard had sunk to the bottom; everything hinged on how quickly they could extricate themselves. Once free, the short-range sprint of the Cube could easily overtake the retreating scouts.

Suddenly, several crimson pips along the edge of the scanning net blinked out without explanation. A faint smirk touched the officer's lips. Skirmishing had erupted. Across the river, knights of Varedin's 213th Corps were caught completely flat-footed, utterly unable to retaliate because the ones attacking them were their supposed allies, the Ironblood Corps.

The Varedin knights were suffering a grievous injustice. Having heard the explosions, they had hastened toward the scene merely to investigate what had transpired.

To their horror, the Ironblood Knights opened fire and unleashed ruthless assaults upon them without asking a single question.

"Notify High Command at once! We are under attack by the Ironblood Corps! I have no idea why they are firing on us!"

"I don't know what the hell we're supposed to do!"

The senior officer of the 213th Corps on the scene, a battalion commander, was beside himself with panicked confusion.

Varedin efficiency was formidable; within two minutes, the urgent report landed on Korsak's desk, accompanied by an additional document—a blistering diplomatic dispatch dripping with scathing condemnation.

His face darkening to an ashen fury, Korsak read through both dispatches. He finally understood why an uneasy foreboding had nagged at him all afternoon.

The Dante Alliance had factored the Ironblood Corps' visceral distrust of Varedin into their very tactical calculation!

Even standing as an adversary, he could not help but marvel at such flawless, meticulous planning. At the same time, Franca's utter lack of faith in them stoked a boiling rage within his chest.

"They drafted the withdrawal plan! Every listening post along the corridor was manned by their own men! When our headquarters warned them of potential infiltrators, they stubbornly dismissed our counsel and insisted on departing tonight. Now that disaster has struck, they dare pin the blame upon our heads!"

Korsak's heart burned with bitter resentment.

The office was packed once more; not only had the intelligence staff assembled, but commanders of the garrison divisions and imperial constabulary were jammed shoulder to shoulder within the room.

"Should we issue a formal response demanding they explain why they assaulted our forces?"

his aide-de-camp ventured to ask. He was not exceptionally bold, but duty demanded the inquiry.

Korsak clenched his fists tightly, but after a desolate pause, shook his head in defeat: "Pointless. I know the reason all too well. They never trusted us. Previously, they guarded against us like potential traitors; now that an ambush has succeeded, they have stripped away the final pretense and treat us outright as enemies."

Korsak was powerless—the bitter helplessness of a minor state subject to the whim of a hegemon.

Suddenly, his eyes flicked toward the military map. He remembered what His Majesty the Emperor had privately confided to him.

The emperor had tasked him with uncovering the secrets of the Ironblood Corps—a demand born partly of wounded pride that Korsak had never intended to pursue in earnest. Yet in this chaotic rupture, he perceived a golden opportunity.

"I shall report this development directly to His Majesty. Return to your respective departments, and order the 213th Corps to pull back to their garrison."

Korsak rattled off a succession of commands.

Reaching the threshold, he paused in hesitation. Korsak knew full well that taking this step meant alienating the leader of the Norman Alliance entirely; if the truth were exposed, the Franca Empire would never show mercy.

During the fleeting second Korsak wavered, Anderson was lost in deep contemplation of his own, replaying the encounter on the muddy highway earlier that afternoon.

The same torrential deluge; the same ties to that den of lechery and vice; the same carriage laden with wanton beauties; and nestled among them, the exact same youth.

Anderson's pupils contracted violently; he finally realized where that nagging thread of familiarity originated!

"Which of you are members of the Silver Path Private Club?"

Anderson demanded, his expression grim and taut.

The exclusive private club was renowned, and quite a few officers present were frequent patrons; yet Anderson's sudden mention of such a decadent pleasure house at this grave moment left the entire assembly dumbfounded.

"Why bring up such a place now?"

Korsak knew Anderson far too well to believe the young commander had lost his senses.

"On my way back into the city, I crossed paths with a party of their regular patrons. Among them was an adolescent who appeared no older than thirteen or fourteen. I paid little mind to him at the time, but in hindsight, his presence felt uncannily familiar."

Anderson offered a concise account of the roadside encounter.

"A boy?"

Korsak's cheek twitched slightly. "Could you possibly mean... him?"

Though no name was uttered, and the remark seemed disjointed on the surface, the officers gathered in this chamber possessed formidable intellects; more than half instantly grasped the terrifying implication.

"I'll investigate! I'll scour every record immediately!"

the intelligence director stammered. He knew all along that someone stood behind Trisli—a monumental prize.

It was precisely to net that very prize that he had delayed tightening the snare, allowing Trisli to slip away. Now, clarity struck him like lightning.

Within the entire Varedin Empire, few understood Richie better than he; in mere moments, he stitched together disparate, fragmented clues into a cohesive tapestry.

From the portly scion Richie had slaughtered previously, to Richie's notorious reputation for insatiable lust and promiscuity, down to Trisli's audacious emergence—the answer was screamingly obvious.

"Investigating now is already too late!"

Korsak roared. While his grasp of the details was not as granular as his intelligence chief's, he had pieced together enough of the truth.

"You, come with me,"

he pointed at Anderson. In this desperate hour, all he could do was pray to God for a stroke of miraculous fortune.