“That’s the elder? He should be able to pin down Nessos—no, he might even kill him. He’s the only Sprite who made elder on raw might; his battle scars outnumber mine.” Relief softened Medith’s chest as she watched the elder’s battlefield, a storm cloud holding the lightning at bay.

She looked to the Sprites brawling with the Mountain Bandits. Fear shook them, and they’d never seen real blood, yet numbers swelled like a rising tide. About six thousand had come in; with combat strength topping ten thousand, they barely held.

“But what’s that strategist thinking? Why leave nearly two thousand sitting out there?” Medith stared at the bandits outside the walls, doubt pricking like thorns. The gate was breached, the barrier gone, even their line frayed like wet rope. She couldn’t see a single reason not to press.

...

“Strategist, we’ve got half an hour left on the plan. But the boss hasn’t sent the signal. What do we do?” A wolf-headed squad captain called up to the sky, voice cutting through the smoke like a thrown spear.

Wearing a dog-head mask, the strategist glanced around. No Sprite had eyes on him. He stood, stretched like a lazy cat, and said, “Ah—ahh—gotta admit, this Medith’s the real thing. Troops in her hands hit three times harder.

“Because of her, the siege’s running long. We were even forced to spend a Silence Bomb. Once we got in, they didn’t break—they knitted into a real line, and even their retreat flowed like a drilled river.

“Original plan was simple: boss punches through, Sprites collapse. Then we stroll up to the Queen’s palace and do as we please without breaking a sweat.

“Too bad a variable crashed the board...

“Activate Phase Two. All our chips are on the boss now. We’ve got one Silence Bomb left. If there’s no signal in half an hour, we carve our way in, pull him out, and fall back.

“If the signal comes, we run the original plan. A pity... with that bomb we could’ve smothered the Royal Guard and the Queen perfectly. Now, no matter what, one of them will still have teeth to bite back.”

...

In a hidden nook, a girl watched from the shadow like a night owl. She locked on a man—his pale hand, the shape of his mask, the jade ring with verdant veins. Killing intent flared from her eyes like an unsheathed blade, then her presence thinned and vanished like mist before dawn.

...

“Commander Medith! Isn’t it bad form to gawk mid-fight?” Tooth Tiger cackled and brought his spiked club down for her skull. Medith reversed her grip, met it with a ringing sword stroke, and pain stung her bones like frost.

A chill of alarm ran through her. This weapon’s wrong. I’m layering Wind Magic and my own sword art every strike. But when I clash with their weapons, half my force slips away like sand, and my power drains, like a leech on my mana. What is this?

She eyed the pale-glowing sigil on White Tiger’s hammerhead, thought gathering like storm birds. In that heartbeat, White Tiger exploded forward, warhammer blurring toward her. Medith startled, a flicker of blankness, and raised her longsword on instinct to block.

Damn! Even if I stop it, that hammer will ruin my arm!

Suddenly White Tiger screamed, “Ah—!” His fingers snapped back as if shocked. The iron hammer tore free, tumbled off the wall, and hit below with a bone-deep thud, carving a one-meter ring of cracks. The ground sank several inches, groaning like a wounded beast.

White Tiger stared at his right hand. A green-shafted, silver-headed arrow had pinned it; on the tip, a pattern gleamed—an intricate green leaf, caught mid-whirl by the wind.

“Captain! We’ve got your back!” Two graceful figures flashed over White Tiger and Tooth Tiger. They wore the same white uniforms and boots as Medith, capes snapping like banners in a gale.

“Melia? Milia?” Medith’s eyes widened.

“We’re here to help, Captain. We’ve cleaned up that side,” Milia said, blood streaking her but spirit bright as a new blade. “And those bandits still haven’t moved... Is their strategist over there?”

Medith glanced at the roiling melee of Mountain Bandits—no formation, no tactics, just chaos, like dogs fighting over scraps. “Nine times out of ten. But we can’t be sure. Even if he is, he’ll be wrapped in steel. We won’t get near. Everything hinges on whether Phiby can catch that single heartbeat...”

“Hmph.” White Tiger snorted. He pressed the center of the brow on his mask. Click—a hidden compartment. Inside lay a tiny vial, liquid clear as spring water. He yanked the arrow out; the head ripped a flap of flesh, and he didn’t make a sound. He poured the vial. Thick white smoke billowed, hissing, sizzle sizzle, like snow on hot iron. Moments later, his hand was whole as a new leaf.

“What is that?! They’ve got rapid regeneration?!” Shock flared through Medith like lightning. “Elder—! They can heal in a blink—! Be careful—!”

...

Euticles heard her shout. He already knew. Nessos had splashed an unknown liquid across his forearms; every wound knit shut like seams pulled tight.

Nessos flexed his hands. Then he fixed Euticles with killing intent heavy as a drawn bow.

...

Boom! White Tiger slammed his forearm down. The rock cried out. Below, the fallen hammer answered as if sensing his call, shot straight up, and smacked into his palm.

He wheeled it once. It moved like an extension of his will, weight forgotten.

“Fall.” The single word dropped like a stone. He rocketed up with brutal spring force and reached Medith in a blink. He was fast. She was faster—almost as he launched, she leapt and planted a foot on the rear parapet, borrowing the wall’s strength like wind off a cliff.

Rumble.

Crack-crack-crack—

The stone where she’d stood shattered under the hammer, several deep fissures radiating like lightning. The platform looked ready to collapse.

“Rapid March: Flash!” Medith caught the wall, body flickering. She dragged her blade through the air in a silver arc and, quicker than thunder rolls, slashed across White Tiger’s chest.

“Ah—!” He had just raised the hammer when silver beauty streaked past, and pain bloomed in his ribs like fire.

“Tooth Tiger!” With a snarl, Tooth Tiger swung his club and drove Medith back. A long wound scored White Tiger’s chest, a nearly full-width gash that almost cleaved him from left to right.