Medith woke to morning light like a blade across her eyelids. She rubbed the sleep from her lashes, then tilted her head toward the calendar.

It read: August 5th, Year 995 of the Talos Continent. Paired with the pocket watch’s steady tick‑tock, its precision felt ruthless—ten thousand times clearer than counting years by bark rings and old habit.

She knew too well how heavy time sat, like a mountain on the chest. Miss a minute or a second, and the price could be a city lost, or a nation toppled.

“They say scholars are good for nothing,” she murmured, listening to the watch’s tick like iron rain. “Turns out only scholars could make a thing like this.”

She had despised those moonlit poets, sipping wine among blossoms, while she and her unit fought in steel and blood. Against them, her bias was sharper than a drawn blade.

But thinking it through, the hourglass came from their hands. The hours, their hands. Even her weapons and armor, their hands. And now this pocket watch, stirring old memories like leaves in a clear stream.

“Medith, let’s go! Today’s banquet matters!” Melia pushed the bedroom door wide and pulled Medith along. She was dressed like a snow lotus in full bloom, trailing a white gown, her heels pale as bone.

Rouge stained her lips like fresh blood; a rich scent rolled off her like warm incense.

Next to her, Medith’s white battle armor looked out of place—like a general riding straight from the front to crash a noble ball.

“Hey, that stuff on you—your ‘cosmetics’?” The scent made Medith’s throat tighten. Still, she noticed every male Sprite they passed turned to stare, like moths to a moonlamp.

Melia stopped and swung her skirt in a slow circle. “Well? Do I look noble?”

“Oh.” The word slipped out of Medith on reflex. Melia’s smile faltered. She knew that “oh”; once Medith’s mind short‑circuited, no conversation followed.

They reached the main doors of the Decision Hall. The statue stood as ever outside, unmoving as a mountain. Fountains flung silver threads around it, sweet and clear, washing its stone skin bright.

For the first time, Medith felt reverence rising from the root of her heart.

Then the faceless mouth on that statue quirked upward, a sly curve in the stone. Medith almost cried out. She scrubbed her eyes with her knuckles, looked again, and saw only the old half‑smile, like mist.

“What’s wrong?” Melia finished a neat ritual step beside her. A bead of cold sweat slid down Medith’s brow like a stray raindrop. She wiped it away. “Nothing… I saw wrong.”

Melia shrugged and followed the Sprites ahead inside.

Medith stepped in after her. As she crossed the doorway’s blur of light, the hall bloomed bright—clap, clap, clap—snow‑white illumination washing every corner.

Noble Sprites in gowns rose like a garden opening at dawn. They applauded, pride and relief in their eyes, their gazes resting on Medith’s battle‑sharp bearing.

Medith didn’t float on it. She walked steady to the end of the red carpet and sank to one knee. “Your humble servant Medith greets Your Majesty.”

“Rise.” The Queen’s voice held a thread of delight, like sun through silk. Medith lifted her head and saw her on the high seat, still in an opulent gown, still cradling that ancient, heavy, shadowed black tome.

With no sunlight to veil it this time, her face shone forth—flawless contours, a beauty cut fine as jade. Her blue eyes rippled like water, clear as a lake, yet stern as a deity judging a mortal shore.

A jade crown of twenty‑four cogs glinted on her brow. Her long blue hair fell like a waterfall down her back, two smooth strands draped across the high swell of her chest.

“Is there a stain on my face?” The Queen’s lips tilted as she spoke to Medith, who had forgotten to blink.

Medith flinched, then dropped to both knees. “Forgive me, Your Majesty! I saw you like a lotus rising clean from water, a beauty untouched by the dust of the world. Born from mud, yet unstained; to be admired from afar, not profaned up close. Your eyes ripple like clear blue waves. I lost myself. If I offended, I’ll gouge my own eyes.”

“People say Sister Medith has a tongue like a whetted blade, a mouth of spear and shield,” Sais murmured, a complicated look in her eyes. “Seems they weren’t wrong.”

“Heh… heh…” The Queen’s laugh rang soft and girlish, a sound so rare the Elders Council glanced at one another, startled. None had heard her laugh like this at a formal rite.

“Stand, Medith. Your eyes are pearls that see true. I won’t let anyone take them—least of all you. Do you understand?” Her smile showed a flash of white teeth; spring warmed her face.

Medith rose. “May I ask why Your Majesty summoned me?”

The crowd rustled like grass in a wind. The Elders Council looked faintly vexed; what business had she to ask?

The Queen didn’t mind. Her right hand slid to her cheek, as if to test whether it matched Medith’s praise. A breath later she caught herself and let her face return to its usual calm.

“Medith spoke with insight and acted with skill. You rescued four C‑rank female Sprites and removed a key hidden threat to our kind. I hereby promote you to the title of [Priest] and award one medal of merit. In peace, a medal is rare. Keep at it. Relieve our people’s dangers. That is all.”

At her words, four Sprites in emerald armor stepped forward, women all, each with a different light to her face—one sultry, one bold, one shy. To Medith’s surprise, Sais stood among them.

Each unclasped a green leaf from her breastplate. The four leaves flowed together, melting into a four‑petaled green flower. The shy one reached up and pinned it to Medith’s chest.

Medith smiled at her. The girl flushed like a peach in spring and darted behind Sais.

Sais patted her head, then took her place below the Elders Council.

“Band, play! The banquet begins!” The Queen’s voice carried laughter now. Soon a group of green sprites whirled and played, their music lively as a brook, their dance a waking dream.

The Decision Hall shrugged off its solemn skin. It swelled into a vast banquet. Countless figures talked and laughed and raised their cups.

Medith watched the scene, her brows knotting into three hard strokes. Not just nobles and councilors; even the Elders, and Sais among them, wore bright smiles and flowed into the feast.

The thought beating in her chest grew louder, like a drum before a storm.

On the throne, the Queen smiled till the blossoms trembled. “You’re young and able. I’ll grant you one wish. If it lies within my power, I’ll spare no effort. You have five minutes. Think it through.”

A low “huh…” rippled through the hall. For the first time in years, they saw the Queen yield to private favor. Sprites looked at Medith with tangled eyes—envy, jealousy, admiration, relief, disdain.

Medith ignored their faces and the Queen’s offer. The cheerful air didn’t carry her. Her small face hardened, hate hot as iron fresh from the forge. “Then I ask only one thing.

I once read four characters: Break to build.

Did we win?

Yes. For the moment we won. But we haven’t ‘won.’ Humans can roll back over us any time, and we sit here unaware.

Because this is an illusion, a utopia painted over a pleasure garden.”

The words fell like hail. The merry air froze in place. Every head turned toward Medith and stopped, as if time had locked its hinge.

Her voice was a drawn sword aimed straight at the Queen, no curve or courtesy. She accused the mind that set this hall at ease.

Break to build: under this surface of peace, blades may already point from every side toward Xurenxus City. One command, and this place is rubble.

“We won?” Yes, we did, for now. But you, Queen, treat it like a grand victory, as if humans dare not come again. You throw open a banquet to numb the nerves.

Those around you see and don’t say, choosing instead to savor the false garden. All of it forced into being by you, a utopia balanced on a blade’s tip, trembling.

Her tone cut cold; her aim was ruthless. Sweat beaded on brows, a few drops sliding like rain before a squall.

Sais flashed frantic looks: stop. Euticles slapped his chair—bang—and roared, “Reckless whelp! Ungrateful! You dare to front Her Majesty? Your Majesty! Permit me to seize her now and teach her hard!”

He moved first, trying to haul Medith away and soften what would fall next.

“Let her continue.” The Queen’s eyes were an ice cave; the smile on her face froze to rime. The hand on her book, the hand on her Scepter, both trembled, a quiet war for control.

“Little brat, doesn’t know the sky’s height. Watch me—” Euticles leapt from his seat and dragged Medith toward the doors.

“I! said! let! her! continue!” The Queen forced each word out like a pebble from the throat. The great doors slammed shut with a heavy thud. The bright hall folded back to its old bones. Only a few sunbeams slanted in like spears.

Clatter—goblets slid from hands. Wine spilled, soaking the red carpet like a slow dark cloud. No one seemed to notice. Their fingers stayed in that empty grip, and their faces were masks of pure fear.