Chapter 79 Everyone Has Arrived

“I hope to see you as early as possible. When you come, bring along the ‘Knight Blade’ crafted by Espol; it no longer suits you.”

“When I asked him to craft that weapon for you back then, I merely intended to offer you a general direction.”

“Do you remember? At that time I mentioned that ‘Solar Slasher’ wasn’t actually suited for you, yet you had already achieved basic entry, and abandoning it would prove far too regrettable. Thus I hoped the ‘Knight Blade’ could help you grasp the true essence of ‘Solar Slasher’, rather than becoming your hindrance.”

“From your letter, I sensed the confusion in your heart. That a sudden inspiration made you assume it was some divine guidance from above strikes me as thoroughly absurd. Unless you abandon magitech armor design development, similar events will occur again in the future. Designers like Espol never experience such worries, for they design armor for others to pilot, whereas you differ—you are a knight, so you always contemplate piloting the designed armor yourself.”

“Different armors suit different combat styles. The ‘Dragon’ you designed previously was a light armor, so your combat style developed toward light armor tactics. Later you joined forces with Yiluo to craft flight armor based on ‘Yaksha’—a specialized assassination suit—and though I lack knowledge of your recent circumstances, I guess your combat style grew sharp and bizarre. Now possessing a new inspiration, you harbor thoughts of returning to your origin, but what about next time?”

“I write these words not to deter you from researching new combat styles.”

“Everyone possesses a personal combat style, representing why high-tier knights own custom suits. Your style is holding no fixed style.”

“During the Golden Rose Dynasty, a Sword Saint named Bandan Douglas carried a spear, twin longswords, a crescent saber, and a rapier—deploying different weapons and distinct martial arts against different foes. His style was versatility, and behind versatility lay ‘counters’.”

“May this offer you inspiration.”

Richie read the reply repeatedly.

Whenever confusion struck his mind, he contacted the Librarian Uncle immediately, and this time was no exception.

The letter was written with casual detail, fitting the uncle’s image, stating thorough logic while concealing deeper thoughts beneath the lines—equally the uncle’s style.

“So you were worrying over such trivial matters,” a white-haired head poked from the side.

Toward Manuel’s child-like antics, Richie found himself speechless.

“The task you asked me to handle is done, though I hold low expectations for your proposal,” the old man grew serious when discussing projects.

Days ago, when sending the letter to the Librarian Uncle, Richie handed a blueprint to Manuel.

Designing a new suit on short notice was impossible, so Richie modified an existing armor model directly.

He chose the “Heracles” Heavy Magitech Armor—a model favored by numerous heavy defenders—where heavy armor replacement cycles moved far slower compared to main armors updated every thirty to fifty years.

The “Heracles” debuted at the Packington Holy Empire’s decennial armor exhibition over two centuries ago.

Over two hundred years, it evolved into uncounted variants, every component modified repeatedly while remaining in service, proving its unique merit.

Richie selected the model for its durability.

New synthetic sinews delivered terrifying force output, risking frame collapse if structural strength proved inadequate.

Another motivation was its massive frame, for Richie intended to test a new design methodology.

Back when crafting steel claws, he made an exoskeleton structure accidentally—placing the frame on the exterior. Acting out of necessity then, he discovered numerous benefits afterward.

The frame was naturally sturdy, and placing it on the exterior allowed it to double as armor while easing maintenance without removing outer plating.

That represented a radical design, explaining why Manuel held low expectations.

At the enclosed open ground, surrounded by high walls, the modified Heracles stood at the center.

The Heracles possessed elegant machine aesthetics—differing from the sharp, handsome posture of the “Dragon”—radiating masculine power.

From a distance, it resembled a muscular naked man, every part conveying “power”.

Indeed, the Heracles was famous for strength, and equipped with new synthetic sinews, calculated data left Richie thoroughly shocked.

Utilizing an exoskeleton structure meant internal components sat inside the frame, leaving the “Heracles” modestly sized—slightly larger than medium armor, weighing 1.62 tons without plating—modest even among medium armors, let alone heavy armors.

Richie intended to test it personally, climbing inside under everyone’s gaze.

Mindful of past lessons, he prioritized pilot protection. Internal space was compact, wrapping tightly around him like the “Yaksha”.

Surrounding surfaces felt soft, greased to appear slick.

Adopting an exoskeleton served that exact purpose: preventing physical impact against the hard frame by placing structural components on the exterior.

“I still advise letting someone else perform such dangerous tests,” Manuel’s voice came from outside, speaking out of goodwill.

“Verbose,” Richie spoke without hesitation, sharing zero taboos with the old man.

Having others retreat, checking control components one last time, Richie took a deep breath, engaging the power switch.

With a soft chime, the observation visor opened.

Testing began with fingers, followed by wrists. The armor’s arms were far longer than his, controlled through sensor rings without risking wrist injury.

Next came arm movements. Richie took a deep breath, flexing his arm slightly.

As anticipated, the armor’s arm raised abruptly, producing an involuntary, uncontrolled feeling, though free of injury.

Richie grew bolder, twisting his waist.

Waist movements appeared noticeably stiffer than arm movements.

Raising his left leg to test single-leg balance, Richie had worried most about balance.

To his surprise, zero issues emerged: adding a segment of standard synthetic sinew enabled precise movement adjustments.

His greatest worry failed to manifest, inspiring confidence for formal testing.

Like the previous test suit, Richie executed basic movement sequences initially.

If the test suit resembled a madman, this Heracles resembled a red-eyed bull charging wildly.

Richie had anticipated high speed, yet actual movement startled him.

That speed couldn’t be described as “fast”, but “crazy”.

Massive force pressed him against his seat, and just as he adjusted, the armor slammed into the slope. The ground spanned two kilometers long by six hundred meters wide—spacious normally, yet insufficient for this armor’s movements.

Pushing off with an arm to stand up, that single push sent the armor flying into the air, its propulsive force proving terrifying.

Richie possessed solid adaptability, finding tricks after tumbling several times.

This armor resembled a drunkard—possessing immense strength paired with poor control, charging recklessly, struggling to stand up after falling.

Richie had observed drunkards: smart ones bending down, hands bracing knees to walk slowly, far more stable than leaning against walls. Falling down, they curled up to roll over, climbing up like dogs.

Un-aesthetic, yet effective.

Leaning the upper frame slightly forward, knees bent, legs parted, control improved significantly.

Forward, backward, lateral shifts, running, and leaping functioned properly; tumbling occasionally, it rolled over to stand up swiftly—appearing clumsy, yet mobile.

Issues remained: sharp halts or turns during sprints produced massive inertia that sent the armor flying, lacking immediate solutions.

Richie estimated Manuel wouldn’t feel satisfied with the performance. Yet to him, resolving sharp halts and turns made the outcome acceptable.

What he anticipated most was inspecting its offensive output.

Testing “Gale Sever”, “Shadow Tear”, and “Soul Shatter” initially—his proudest self-created martial techniques derived from Tidi’s family manual “Ten-Ring Drizzle”, whose strength lay in speed and continuity.

“Ten-Ring Drizzle” claimed ten continuous strikes in an instant—exaggerated slightly, though achieving seven or eight strikes—while “Gale Sever”, “Shadow Tear”, and “Soul Shatter” achieved five strikes per instant.

The armor’s speed was already crazy; multiplying it five-fold promised an unimaginable scene.

Gathering Aura in his arms, Richie sensed subtle sinew vibrations—a sign of massive energy injection.

No wonder knights viewed armor as part of their body.

Previously, cabin walls and frames created separation, diluting sensory clarity, whereas right now he felt fused with the armor.

With a loud shout, his hands struck forward.

A series of sonic pops erupted out of nowhere. The “Heracles” arms vanished instantly, their speed surpassing human visual perception.

Amidst continuous sonic pops, surrounding air billowed violently.

Ground around the armor began cracking in expanding circles, shattering rocks into fragments.

Impact expanded outward, blasting rock fragments and soil like arrows in all directions.

A five-fold speed increase couldn’t be called crazy, but terrifying—absolute terror.

Richie felt he could duel a Glorious Knight right now—assuming the opponent used neither “Spiritual Piercing” nor “Domain” to freeze his movements.

Such a scene astonished observers inside the hidden vantage point.

“Formidable! Truly formidable!” the old man muttered to himself, before sinking into dejection: “Unfortunately, it takes an extreme path; control issues remain far too severe.”

“Indeed,” the bodyguard knight agreed: “Beside Zack, no one among us can pilot that machine.”

Zack referred to the Honor Knight test pilot—holding modest rank, yet supreme combat strength among their group.

The knight refrained from comparing himself to Richie, having read logs of two Honor Knights falling to Richie, rating Richie’s strength exceptionally high.

“This reminds me of the Franca Empire’s ‘Instant Burst Aura’,” another knight stated with a cold face, having witnessed the terror of “Instant Burst Aura”.

Those words moved everyone inside the vantage point.

“Instant Burst Aura” represented the Alliance’s greatest nightmare, and if a counter-measure existed, minor flaws were tolerable.

Just as they hesitated whether to report immediately, a heavy explosion echoed in the distance, followed by metallic fragments fluttering from the sky like snowflakes.

On the open ground, the armor stood frozen—body parts intact, while both arms had vanished from elbows downward, broken joints sparking electricity.

Everyone rushed out of the vantage point.

The armor was ruined. Exiting the suit, technicians inspected every component, discovering widespread structural damage.

“A pity! A true pity!” the old man muttered continuously, fascinated by recorded data, yet realizing even a heavy armor like Heracles suffered total destruction, leaving zero room for improvement—for adding shock absorbers would merely result in absorbers being destroyed by the immense force.

Richie knew not the old man’s thoughts, undergoing a full medical examination.

No one wished to see him injured.

Results arrived quickly: beside minor muscle strains, all body parts were unharmed.

Uninjured physically, Richie’s mind remained unadjusted.

One moment immersed in fantasies of supreme power, the next moment watching the suit shatter into pieces—the contrast proved far too vast.

Intense frustration made him reluctant to stay at Manuel’s camp or visit Emily’s group, though the camp offered plenty of places to shift his mood.

The refugee camp had taken shape—a project planned by his own hands.

Strolling through the camp, his frustration dissipated gradually. Enforcing military rule produced clear results: chaotic tents turned into organized rows of housing—sloped terrain built per Carmen’s design, flat terrain featuring dug trenches flanked by earth walls, topped with canvas or tarps for roofs, for wooden boards were scarce.

Scarcity was exacerbated by fires, leaving remaining boards reserved for doors.

In the riot, perimeter walls around Richie’s quarters offered protection, inspiring him to partition the refugee camp into forty districts separated by earth walls.

Should riots erupt again, chaos would be contained within single districts.

Furthermore, small districts ensured residents knew each other’s actions, preventing scenarios where eight out of ten claimed innocence, leading to unjust executions alongside missed culprits.

As Richie strolled, someone called out to him.

“We were looking for you! They arrived! They finally arrived!”

It was Abraham’s wife—unaccustomed to speaking, now incoherent with excitement.

Richie guessed her message instantly.

“Malone and the others arrived?” Richie asked.

The woman nodded, waving frantically to the distance while shouting: “Over here! I found him!”

Standing on high ground, her shouting and waving were visible from afar.

Moments later, a dozen figures approached through the crowd, led by Malone, followed by Binder.

Joy failed to mask journey fatigue; the group appeared thin, faces pale gray from exhaustion and malnutrition.

“Hard work! Was the journey smooth?” Richie greeted Malone’s group individually.

“Crawling like snails throughout the journey!”

“Fairly smooth; we recruited numerous people along the way!”

“In Harnoton, we met a group of miners who agreed to join us. Can you arrange housing for them?”

Boisterous noise filled the air, yet no one cared, excitement filling every heart.

“Let me get you food first,” Richie stated, knowing this wasn’t the place to talk.

Abraham’s wife led the way happily, everyone following behind, except Malone who stayed put, waving to others with a smile: “You go ahead; I intend to walk around.”

Richie stayed as well, sensing Malone had words for him.

Once others walked off, Malone sighed: “I heard about that incident; my family member caused you trouble.”

Richie knew Malone referred to his brother-in-law.

“Nothing major,” Richie refrained from elaborating.

“Such incidents were bound to happen,” Malone couldn’t act as relaxed as Richie, for it involved his family, and while minor, mishandling it carried broad impact: “Never did I expect it to occur so early, before foundation was established.”

Clapping Richie’s shoulder, dropping his voice low: “Relax, I’ll handle this matter properly.”

Hearing Malone speak as if discussing an outsider, a chill rose in Richie’s heart.

Noticing Richie’s gloomy face, Malone smiled: “Not the handling method you imagine; don’t view us Internal Security Bureau agents as pure killers. We rarely strike, using this to resolve problems.”

He pointed to his head.

Though clueless on his plan, Richie’s heavy mind lightened.

He cared little about taking lives, but striking against his own people differed completely.

“You performed impressively,” Malone scanned the surroundings: “Gaining control here upon arrival.”

“I worried you’d complain,” Richie spoke truthfully, for their initial plan prioritized bestowing favors.

Enforcing military rule and executing rioters generated considerable resentment.

“Politics requires alternating severity with leniency; someone playing the villain means someone must play the benefactor,” Malone had heard of camp events on the way, devising counter-measures early: “Word has it many were imprisoned for resisting military rule?”

Richie nodded.

“Perfect! I worried dueling politicians later would prove arduous, and this offers a perfect rehearsal.” Malone smiled with genuine joy: “Can you release those prisoners, giving them an opportunity to lead people away?”

“Easy,” Richie looked at Malone, awaiting an explanation.

He had agreed with Malone initially to avoid guessing games, requiring explicit explanations for his schemes.

“Do you think those people can procure supplies? Consider what kind of people will follow them?” Malone laughed cold: “Watch the show unfold.”

Malone’s laughter sent chills through Richie’s heart, as did the scheme.

Those willing to follow were disobedient individuals, including missed rioters, and lacking supplies, another riot was inevitable.

Yet the audience wasn’t him, for Richie understood the true audience was everyone else.

Though uncomfortable, Richie conceded this proved far superior to executing culprits as warnings.

“After this lesson, who will believe those politicians’ high-sounding rhetoric?” Richie asked.

“You view humanity too idealistically. With instigation, most view themselves as prized commodities, waiting for both sides to bid higher. That is human weakness. Don’t expect everyone to remember your favors; refraining from joining politicians to curse you means they possess genuine conscience.” Malone was a pessimist, having witnessed such events repeatedly.

“Then what should we do? Is our effort in vain?” Richie knit his brows.

Malone hadn’t spoken so initially, making Richie suspect Malone had shared only pleasant words to draw him in.

Noticing Richie’s suspicion, Malone had cared little initially, for political games in chaotic eras relied on two pillars: strong behind-the-scenes backing and close military ties.

Republic politicians found external backing easily, for established empires harbored ambitions, offering backing to anyone willing to trade Monstoke’s future interests. Yet regarding military ties—especially with knight bodies—none could match them.

Yet those words couldn’t be voiced, for just as Richie maintained vigilance toward him, Malone guarded against Richie, fearing ambition expanding with age into an empire.

“Saying one thing while acting differently represents human nature as well. Those waiting for higher bids haven’t chosen sides, and when forced to choose, most act shrewdly—especially after bloody lessons, knowing how to choose. Once the exile government forms, such worries vanish, for wartime prioritizes the big picture, suppressing anything detrimental. Politicians understand this better than us, refraining from handing you leverage.”

Suddenly Malone’s voice turned exceptionally low.

Richie froze, noticing they had walked into a secluded corner—a deliberate move by Malone to share confidential information.

Indeed, scanning the area, confirming zero onlookers, Malone whispered: “Yarno might leave Peines in a month. Having committed numerous crimes, he fears others won’t spare him, keeping his departure date secret even from confidants.”

“Did intelligence leak from our end?” Richie asked.

“Unlikely; I assigned them to monitor each other,” Malone smiled: “Everyone knows they are monitored by others, keeping their mouths shut.”

“Standard Internal Security Bureau practice?” Richie stared at him.

“Indeed; Internal Security Bureau wisdom proves functional,” Malone self-deprecatingly noted.

“What now?” Richie held zero mood for jokes: “How many escape routes exist out of the Republic? Two hundred? Three hundred?”

“If Yarno dares travel alone, zero solutions exist, for I cannot bribe him personally. Otherwise, zero worries exist,” Malone stated: “Though resigned, a guard unit protects him.”

“Wouldn’t he travel with one or two confidants?” Richie asked.

Malone smiled: “A psychological deduction: feeling insecure alone, taking a few confidants leaves him feeling insecure, fearing confidants turning against him, prompting him to bring more people until bringing the entire guard unit.”

“You have informants beside him?” Richie asked, seeking confirmation.

“Beside those knights, everyone serves as my informant—including Yarno’s confidants—though ignorant of my identity or backing,” Malone hid nothing: “Though I cannot handle those knights.”

Handling implied both bribing and neutralizing in combat.

“Do you know their strength?” Richie asked, knowing force was needed to resolve what Malone couldn’t bribe.

“One Honor Knight, two Ace Knights, three regular knights,” Malone had gathered intelligence thoroughly.

Richie understood immediately: a standard Honor squad configuration in the Republic—differing from other nations by omitting one Ace Knight to include three regular knights, lacking heavy assault power while excelling in chaotic skirmishes.

Richie sank into thought, for despite his recent strength surge, dueling an Honor Knight offered uncertain odds.

An Honor Knight’s strength lay not in Aura volume or technique, but in “Domain”—an incomplete domain he possessed, understanding its immense advantages.

Enemies entering a “Domain” had every movement exposed to the knight, rendering surprise attacks impossible.

A complete “Domain” even manipulated Aura flows forcibly, enhancing the knight’s attacks while serving as an impregnable shield against opponents.

Recalling Honor Knights encountered with Squad 105, only one was slain by Rosa’s “Thousand Threads” from long range, while others were slain through group assault or close-quarters suicidal strikes.

“Why not show me around? I wish to familiarize myself with the camp,” Malone interrupted Richie’s thoughts, knowing Honor Knights were hard to handle, refraining from waiting for Richie to devise tactics on the spot.

Malone’s arrival signaled the peak of the refugee wave.

That day, eleven thousand refugees flooded into Stein; even at midnight, groups carrying torches entered town.

Military rule displayed its benefits: a checkpoint five kilometers outside registered refugees by origin, and upon entering town, guides escorted newcomers to housing without leaving them to search.

Having underestimated refugee waves twice, zero mistakes were made a third time, expanding camp grounds repeatedly across vast barren terrain.

Housing construction lagged, yet isolation earth walls were erected, warning newcomers against wandering off.

Like Richie’s temporary medical center initially, massive tarps supported by wooden poles formed tents accommodating nearly a thousand people. Bedding was absent, leaving refugees to sleep on available items.

Night deepened, air smelling of lime—spread across ground and dusted over clothing to kill lice and bugs.

Though smelling unpleasant, exhausted travelers cared little, sleeping soundly inside massive tents.

“Since military rule is enforced, why not enforce mandatory reserve conscription?” Malone commented as they walked: “Conscripting reserves separates males from females, discarding family units to pack men and women into separate quarters, accommodating double the population while easing control over males who cause most riots.”

Unspoken words implied women and children served as hostages, easing control over males.

“Leaving these people idle is a waste; idleness breeds thoughts and trouble, while receiving food without labor breeds laziness. You must provide employment. Didn’t I show you that flyer? Guaranteeing employment for everyone represents our established slogan.”

“Leave open spaces for entertainment, for lacking entertainment is dangerous.”

“Food represents a major vulnerability. What if Balmer halts grain supplies? Politicians could bribe minor officials to disrupt supply chains, especially if backed by Balmer high-level figures.”

“Soon Republic forces will retreat north in mass, where Stein isn’t the sole choice. Bernibeli is further, yet offers far superior conditions; Galarolka Mountain contains vast mines, offering attraction; De’ang sits near Rosotto and Packington, representing the safest location. Stein’s advantage lies in convenient transit from Peines via roadside towns, drawing most central province refugees. My estimate predicts refugee numbers exceeding one million—far surpassing other locations.”

Walking along, Malone offered critiques that were by no means polite.

Richie had viewed the camp as impressive, yet Malone’s critique rendered it flawed. Refusing to concede proved impossible, for the man spoke with genuine insight.

“You manage affairs here going forward; alter whatever you deem unfitting,” Richie dumped the responsibilities onto Malone, overwhelmed by his own tasks: contacting Espol and Madam Saar for backing, messaging his mother and Aunt Ling in Packington and Rosotto for assistance.

He lacked time for those tasks, interrupted by new affairs: fulfilling his agreement with Vilia to guide female knights toward peak rank, mastering Vajra—a path offering zero return—and addressing the fast, self-destructing test armor.

By day, frustration filled his mind over failed creations, yet calming down, new ideas surfaced.

He intuited the test armor couldn’t be refined—even if Espol and Madam Saar joined forces—for its design pursued extreme paths.

Yet it wasn’t a failure, serving a specialized role like “Yaksha”—Yaksha for assassination, and this armor for suicidal mutual destruction like “Instant Burst Aura”.

“I’ll take you to meet someone,” Richie said with a lightened mood.

The person he brought Malone to meet was naturally Vilia.

Richie omitted detailed introductions for Malone, for Vilia understood his background, knowing Malone’s identity. With both remaining wanted fugitives, maintaining tacit silence proved convenient.

“Starting today, he replaces my position to manage daily camp affairs,” Richie stated.

Vilia said little, having anticipated the arrangement.

“Congratulations; may our future cooperation prove pleasant,” Vilia extended her hand.

“Zero conflict will exist between us,” Malone shook Vilia’s hand.

Both spoke with implicit meaning, yet with Malone holding zero official standing and Vilia serving as a minor figure among knights, they kept remarks brief.

Releasing hands, Vilia turned to Richie with a teasing smile: “Word has it an explosion occurred at the eastern open ground—reportedly a test armor malfunctioned.”

“More or less… something like that occurred,” Richie scratched his head awkwardly, unwilling to elaborate on embarrassing events.

Seeing Vilia probe further, Richie guessed her intent—assuming it was a breakthrough product to claim early: “That suit failed, and even if successful, it offers zero utility to you, for no one among you can pilot it.”

“Is that so?” Vilia studied Richie, nodding after a pause: “Then I won’t press you, though needing your help. As advance forces, we must upgrade the existing border defense line against Alliance assaults.”

Speaking so, she cast a glance at Malone.

Malone understood Vilia’s intent, harboring zero desire to involve himself in military details. Waving to Richie, he turned to leave.

Watching Malone exit, Vilia let out a sigh of relief, eyes filled with smiles.

Dismissing Malone, Richie understood her intent, having been absent for three days amidst busy tasks.

“My remark wasn’t an excuse,” Vilia smiled: “I need you to build an armor manufacturing factory here—an easy task for you. And if you’d offer a minor favor, grant us first priority for re-equipment, for we favor your armor design.”

Dragon armor was famous for appearance rather than combat power, and no female knight could resist owning such a stylish suit.

“I’ll try,” Richie refrained from bargaining, for building a factory benefited his interests, turning the camp into a fortified defense hub supplied with resources.

“Why not offer another minor favor?” Vilia smiled alluringly: “Word has it Dragon armor possesses custom upgrade components that boost performance.”

Richie looked at the demanding woman, speechless.

“Silence implies agreement,” Vilia acted like a fox stealing a chicken.

“I didn’t agree,” Richie stated hastily, for like “Magic Cube” variants, Dragon armor variants carried strict secrecy levels.

With dozens of Masters and thousands of designers refining Dragon armor, variants and upgrade components were astonishingly abundant, many classified as top secret.

Vilia didn’t take offense, gesturing to approaching female knights: “My persuasion lacks force.”

“Leave it to us!”

“Our persuasion lacks force individually, but combined numbers might suffice!”

“Your persuasion style fails; watch us!”

The women chattered boisterously, surrounding Richie.

Initially hiding identities during dual-training, time had rendered them accustomed to intense intimacy, gradually unable to abandon the wild lifestyle.

Richie was pulled into the adjacent barracks where more women awaited to “persuade” him.

Like the long tent, the barracks was built spacious, except female knights sat quietly on cots under wall-mounted lamps illuminating the interior.

All female knights were completely naked, though wearing half-face masks covering forehead to cheekbones while exposing cheeks, lips, and hair—adding mystery and sensuality.

“Word has it you refuse to help us,” a blonde female knight wearing a feather-decorated mask approached, unbuttoning Richie’s shirt gently.

Richie recognized the woman.

Commanding two thousand female knights, Vilia’s ranks contained four or five hundred dual-training partners, with barely a hundred recognized by identity.

He recognized her because she appeared frequently beside Vilia, holding high prestige among peers.

Surrounded by naked beauties, Richie’s mind felt feverish, yet keeping his mouth firm: “Your rank is insufficient; un-promoted to Ace rank, custom variants offer zero utility. Relying on your logistics officers for minor custom tuning is far superior.”

That wasn’t an excuse: Merlin’s “Swan” was tuned from standard “Raptor”, serving her family for generations with great success.

“If you tune them personally, we can relax our demands,” the blonde female knight gasped softly as a finger penetrated her intimate area, provoking a frown from sudden pain, blended with an exotic sensation.

“Middle finger against the anus”, pressing inside gradually, supporting her buttocks with one hand, Richie drew his other hand back, tapping her lips: “Here too; I want you to serve me with your mouth.”

Those words made her face flush crimson, alongside surrounding female knights.

Yet many viewed oral and anal intimacy as standard variations compared to Richie’s intense techniques, having experienced them previously.

“Settled then,” a female knight in her mid-twenties with a flat abdomen—clearly having never given birth—smiled.

Kissing Richie’s cheek, she walked to the other end of the room: “Wait for me to prepare.”

One stepping forward prompted others; another woman kissed Richie’s cheek, following the first.

One after another, experienced knights led the way, followed by hesitating knights.

The blonde female knight jumped off Richie’s body, kissing his cheek: “If interested, take me.”

Moments later, female knights returned with flushed faces, having learned preparation steps from experienced companions.

The blonde female knight was pushed forward first.

Parting her legs slightly, leaning over the cot edge, her hips raised high.

“This area is virgin territory; be gentle,” she spoke alluringly.

Richie’s attention fixated on the delicate rosebud.

The women were prepared, the area greased with ointment.

Inserting a finger gently, finding it loosened slightly—clearly prepared by experienced companions who expanded the area using ointments.

Withdrawing his finger, standing behind the blonde female knight, his massive glans pressed against the small rosebud.

Applying minor force, the glans slid halfway inside.

The blonde female knight’s body tightened, teeth biting the pillow.

Cleaning in the washroom earlier, experienced companions warned her that the initial attempt proved painful—far worse than losing virginity.

Tasting it personally, she realized descriptions were understatements, for it felt like tearing pain.

Enduring the pain, her mind harbored anticipation, for companions promised that once accustomed, subsequent sensations far surpassed normal intimacy.

Richie’s movements were exceptionally gentle, contrasting with his usual style.

Massaging around her anus with his thumb—a specialized technique from Soul-Melting Touch—anal intimacy maintained pleasure longer than standard intimacy.

Men pursued instantaneous passion, while women favored enduring affection.

Richie’s pranks had left female knights in agonizing arousal, where one-third withdrew angrily while two-thirds remained, which wasn’t driven solely by dual-training efficiency.

As for the withdrawn third who returned gradually, how many sought rank breakthroughs versus reliving that intense sensation remained unquantifiable.

Richie understood female psychology, knowing when to show gentleness versus dominance.

Under thumb massage, her anus loosened gradually, accommodating his massive shaft inside.

His length was substantial, leaving most outside.

Richie’s hands massaged continuously, engaging all ten fingers.

Soul-Melting Touch derived from Aura therapy, incorporating “Emergency” techniques to stimulate functions alongside “Nourishing” techniques to repair damage.

Richie had used emergency techniques previously, deploying nourishing techniques right now.

Under slow thrusts and magical finger massage, her fair buttocks turned crimson, melodious moans escaping her lips.

“Finished… tasting this sensation, we can never escape his grasp,” someone whispered softly.

Silence fell, yet every female knight knew those words spoke truth.

That wasn’t their initial intent—never assuming a boy could conquer them, fearing only reputation damage should secrets leak—yet right now they were addicted beyond return, like tasting forbidden fruit repeatedly without stopping.

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