…A week after Medith’s drills, the moon had wheeled once over the Glimmering Green Forest.

A cohort of female Sprites stood on the edge treetops, faces set, like spears of new bamboo in the night wind.

“Vortex Squad!” Medith called from a branch, white war-armor catching starlight like frost; across the black river, humans itched like ants under a stone.

“Captain, I found it.” Lina offered a page of Sprite-tongue with both hands, the paper pale as birch bark. “It’s the southern kingdom of Arlis. They formed a ‘National Hunting Corps’ to capture other races for trade.”

“National Hunting Corps?” Medith flicked the page skyward, cold as sleet. A teammate whipped up a knife-borne whirlwind and shredded it to powder, snowing in the leaves.

“So a crown made it ‘legal’ to hunt—and they target our Elf Clan?” Her small fists crackled like frozen branches about to snap.

Milia landed beside her like a swallow on a reed. “Yeah… that’s why they swagger, backs to a throne and a ‘law’ like a shadow at noon.”

“They probably feel no guilt at all, Captain. What do we do? Should we—” She drew a fingertip across her neck, a moon-silver slice in the dark.

“No.” Rita shook her head at once, ponytail flicking like a cattail. “Do that, and the Queen will lay blame. Punish us if she must, but don’t drag the Captain under.”

Medith rubbed their small heads, voice warm as a hearth ember. “Seems the training wasn’t wasted. You’ve learned to row the same boat through storm.”

“Only because you taught us well, Captain…” Praise lifted them like a gust under wings.

“Enough. I don’t recall teaching slick tongues.” Medith’s gaze sharpened, a blade of ice; far off, smoke rose from the opposite jungle like a snake.

“Vortex Squad, move by orders. Lita Sisters’ squad takes thirty to run guerrilla in the woods, like shadows between trunks. Milia’s squad takes twenty for lure-and-shoot, like fireflies teasing a toad. The rest stay with me and ready a full volley, like rain on tin leaves. Remember, don’t kill if you don’t have to.”

Orders flew like seeds on wind, and the Sprites flashed through branches, green to green, then vanished toward the far jungle’s heart like a shoal crossing a dark stream. Their petal-print skirts and sylph-green garb glowed against the night like lantern moss.

“Who’s there?” Riverbank sentries of the National Hunting Corps heard the branches whisper and raised their bows, moonlight along the limbs like wet bone.

Chitter-chitter—several squirrels stitched the canopy, brown sparks through the needles.

Their taut nerves loosened like slack nets. A bearded man leaned by the fire, hands to the heat like a lizard to a rock. “Relax. Those backwater Wind Sprites can’t do much.”

“Last time, the ones we caught… damn, they were pretty,” he went on, eyes oily as lamp smoke. “Faces like angels, bodies like spring willow, that low-cut gear… who’re they dressing for?”

“Waists thin as snakes, skin white as snow-lotus on a high lake.”

“And those legs, wow—slim, long, pale, a full meter easy. They’re not even that tall, and those stockings… can’t stand it.”

“If Count Verus hadn’t ordered them ‘intact,’ I’d have—”

“You’d challenge the Count?” another snapped, voice like a snapped twig. “Touch those girls and I’ll chop your ‘brother’ and feed the fish.”

“Hey, I’m just talking,” the bearded man muttered, smoke curling from his lips like a lazy viper. “Can’t a man talk?”

“We only get words. The bosses get the view,” a third snorted, sparks jumping in his eyes. “What if they ignore the Count and play anyway?”

“Fine by me. Then you and I become the bosses,” the bearded one grinned, teeth bright as wet stones.

“Hahaha, fair point…”

“Bastards.” Hidden in leaves, Rita’s anger spiked, a knife of cold down her spine; silver teeth almost cracked like hail on slate. These filthy humans dared to talk about their sisters like fish on a slab. What sin had their sisters done to be hunted like deer?

“Rita, steady.” Lina’s voice was a cool spring in the heat. “Our sisters are likely safe for now. Their superiors seem to forbid abuse, which is something—but he’s not inviting us to be ‘guests.’”

“First, we pry out their hideout. If that smoke is a trap, we can’t walk into the fire.” She glanced at the Sprites around them; nods flickered like moss-lamps.

They drew as one. A Cyclone Arrow flew, its head spinning a tiny whirlwind that hissed like a kettle.

“Aaah—”

Whoosh-whoosh—

Screams tore the night like ripped canvas, and a dozen Sprites dropped from branches, pinning men to earth and binding them with vines quick as snakes.

“You… how…” The bearded man trembled, eyes wide as pond moons, never imagining female Sprites would strike with tactics like winter wolves.

“What? Think we don’t do tactics?” Rita’s boot rose and fell, fury hard as granite. She crushed his manhood under heel.

Pop—

His howl knifed up like a butchered hog, but a Sprite gagged him with cloth, the sound dying to a boar’s wheeze.

“Speak. Where’s your camp?” Rita lifted her bow, eyes cold as river ice. “Or I’ll stomp your little toys, one by one.”

Faces blanched like ash. “The smoke’s fake,” one babbled, soul puddled like spilled wine. “Boss set it as bait. The real camp is five hundred meters east of the smoke. Don’t kill me. Please.”

“Good. Sister, we move.” Rita grabbed Lina’s wrist and slipped deeper, two shadows under ferns.

Before she left, Rita flicked a look. The Sprites understood like hawks to a whistle; their arrows dipped and pierced the men’s ‘toys,’ neat as needles.

Wails lifted and rolled, a tide across the forest, shaking birds into flight and beasts from burrows like wind upending a lake.

Among those who heard, of course, was the cunning captain of the Hunting Corps, ears pricking like a fox in frost.