September 7. Medith and the others answered the summons to the Council Hall. Passing the Ancestor Master’s statue, she saw that eerie uplift again—the stone mouth curved like a crescent in frost. Her chest tightened first; then the thought whispered: Are you telling me it’s all in your hands? Or laughing at me?

Medith could never read that carved expression. One mouth, yet a pressure like cliff-face wind. “Medith, don’t be mad,” someone said, voice careful as stepping on ice. “What kind of faith is ‘Our will is eternal, may the world know no slaughter’?”

Melia’s group wore their original Green Sprite ensemble—fresh as spring leaves, bright as river light. She smiled with a hidden edge. “I thought our captain, Lord Medith, understood that line better than anyone.”

A shadow crossed Medith’s eyes before her voice smoothed. “We deal in slaughter; how does ‘no slaughter’ stand next to blood? And ‘our will’—whose will is that?”

Phiby tilted her head, confusion soft as a drifting feather. “Captain, you never understood it? Then why does it hit like thunder when you say it? Even we can’t help it—our bodies wake, our blood surges, we burn to fight.”

“That’s… my nature,” Medith said, a bitter smile like cold tea. “An ultimate liar who could fool the world, fool all things, even fool herself.”

Her gaze deepened, memories like ash lifting in wind. “I feel both forlorn and relieved. I thought I alone was the great devil, but someone else thought the same. The core is simple: let slaughter end with our generation. Violence to end violence. Use our flesh and bone as bricks to raise a wall for those after us, spare them war’s bleeding.”

“War has no winners. Yet without ending war, there will never be a winner.”

“This world… too? ‘Under heaven’?” someone stammered, words like stones tossed in a pond.

Click. Their talk carried them through the doors. The Queen and the Elders Council had been waiting, calm as mountains before dawn. Four green-armored silhouettes stood below the Elders, uniform as leaves in rank; even Sais didn’t dare flare too bright here.

“Your humble servant, Medith…”

“Your humble servants, Melia, Phiby, Milia… pay respects to Her Majesty!”

“Rise, our great heroes,” the Queen said, setting her Scepter into its socket like a spear into ground. Her palms met, and applause rolled like rain across stone.

Clap, clap, clap—like hail on roofs. The women looked around at untouchable grandees now clapping from the heart. Pride flooded like warm light; tears spilled, clear as spring.

The Queen stilled the wave, then her tone sank like dusk. “This time, I can’t shirk blame. If I had listened to Medith sooner—if I had seen the cracks earlier…”

“No, Your Majesty, don’t take it upon yourself,” Medith answered, steadied as an oar against current. “We’re always choosing in fog; no one knows the result. If anyone bears fault, it’s me—if I hadn’t defied your dignity with a hard-edged speech, and instead begged a regiment, things might’ve shifted. By the outcome alone, Your Majesty’s decision wasn’t wrong.”

You don’t call the storm wrong while standing under it, she thought—say that now and you’re sunk.

The Queen smiled, a lantern warmed. Medith had laid the stairs and rolled out the red carpet; it would be graceless not to step down. “For our Elf Clan to have someone as keen and far-seeing as Medith—it’s our honor.” She glanced at Medith with meaning, a thin blade hidden in silk.

Medith understood. Their secret would stay between two minds, like letters sealed with wax.

“Milia, Melia,” the Queen called. The two women knelt, careful as kneeling on glass. “Your merits are the greatest in this campaign. You cut down the mountain bandits’ captain ‘White Tiger,’ and your effect across the battle was indelible.

“Your title is only the basic [Sprite]. By custom, promotion may not exceed two ranks. But the moment is special. You are now appointed [High Priestess]. You may choose work and access within the noble district. One residence granted; twenty servants.”

“High… Priestess…” Milia stared, stunned like a deer in snow. Their clan’s ranks weren’t complex: below the Elders stood the Holy Elf; below the Holy Elf, the High Priestess. She’d had no title at all; now she’d soared into the nobility like a hawk catching wind.

“What are you doing? Thank the Queen,” Medith nudged her with an elbow, a friendly jab. Milia blinked awake. “Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you…”

The Queen laughed, light as chimes. “Ahem… next is Melia. Your reward is the same. You were already Priestess, so you’re promoted directly to [High Priestess].

“Iling, your protection and evacuation of civilians were critical. You’re promoted to [Priestess]. One residence in the common district; ten servants.

“Rita, Lina—you fought bravely, your kills the highest. You’re promoted to [Priestess]. You’re each awarded a B-grade [Wind-Rending] bow. May they please you.

“Phiby, I heard your plan. You pivoted the entire incident. You beat fear, beat the enemy, beat yourself. You cut down the enemy’s key commander and shattered the leader’s last hope.

“I’ve little left to give you. I lack a clever adjutant at my side. Would you take that post?”

“Ah… Your Majesty… You mean…” Phiby’s mind snagged like cloth on a nail. “Idiot! That’s a sideways invite to the royal guard!” Milia said, half amused, remembering her own fluster.

“I… I accept! I accept! I swear to protect Her Majesty!” Phiby’s small frame burst into a voice like a bell.

“Hey, I’m asking you to pour tea and carry papers, not die,” the Queen laughed. Then her tone turned, a feather to a fang. “And… our war god won’t resent me for poaching one of your hands?”

“It’s Phiby’s will that matters. If she finds Your Majesty’s side better, I’ve nothing to say,” Medith answered, a hair of steel under velvet.

“Heh…” The Queen didn’t mind the prickle. “So our war god does ache a little.

“Then, Medith—what do you want? Anything I can give, I’ll grant. Oh, not the crown.”

Laughter broke like a kettle boiling. The Queen had peeled a joke; the usual stiff meeting warmed into a hearth.

Medith had expected this. “My wish is simple, like before. I ask that Your Majesty issue rules: give everyone basic war knowledge and training. So when storms break, we can stand.”

“That doesn’t count as your wish; I was going to do that anyway,” the Queen said, prepared like a blade kept oiled. “Pick another.”

Medith went silent, caught off guard like stepping into mist. The Queen’s lip lifted—she tasted a small victory.

With no card left to play, Medith thought, breath steadying like a held note. “Then I ask to establish a training camp. It will ease my mind.”

“That’s all? No other idea?” The Queen seemed dissatisfied, burdened by a hero who wouldn’t take spoils. “No. You must give me a satisfying answer. That’s an order.” She wouldn’t carry this blame like a stone.

“Then… forge me a divine weapon,” Medith said at last, desire clear as a drawn line. “A longsword. A straight groove down the spine. Serrations along the edge. Blade built for high durability. I have my uses.”

“Good.” The Queen nodded, satisfied, like sealing a pact in ink. That request was high—near S-grade.

“Dismissed. Medith, stay.” She sent the others away and met Medith alone in the familiar study. She locked the door and took off her crown, its gold a fallen sun. “Do it. You know why I called you.”

Medith sat by the desk, posture calm as a straight road. “What is [Regido]?”

“Temporarily unknown,” the Queen said, eyes narrowed like bowstrings. “But it’s clearly reached parity with magic. Before, at best it deflected. Even a fine [Wind-Cleaving Arrow] matched only an A-grade Sprite. But now…

“Never mind that. We have a trace on the strategist. By facial chase, likely a former [Major General] of the Western Kingdom. I don’t know their exact tiering, but he’s high-level. The battering ram, [Collapse Point], [Silence Bomb]—all brought by him. [Regido]’s intel ties to him.”

“Major General?” Medith frowned, doubt like a small cloud. “What’s a [Collapse Point]?”

“I should’ve told you sooner.” Queen Laxis’s voice dimmed like a room before storm. “Every barrier—no, all magic—has a [Collapse Point]. Magic is solidified starlight elements.

“Strike the [Collapse Point], and the solid form shatters, scattering back into light motes; the barrier fails. It’s hidden, and strong—you usually need an equal force, a full strike, to break it.”

“So that’s a thing…” Medith murmured, the rules of the world shifting like sand underfoot. Queen Laxis knit her brows, willow leaves drawn by wind. “The dead are many. In days, I’ll call a city-wide mourning. You’ll preside.”

“Uh…” Medith stepped outside, worry hanging like mist. The sunlight still poured, the sun rose as always. No matter what this land suffers, she shines the same on all.

“Call it… Dusk Legion,” Medith said, shading her eyes against the blade of light. The name rang in her mind like a bell struck at noon.

September 10. Xurenxus City held its mourning. Heavy rites, highest honors for the brave Sprite dead who fell like stars.

At the same time, Medith announced: “Everyone, though it feels ill-timed to speak as the ashes are still warm—our warriors died well. As members of the City Guard, the Defense Corps, the Civil Guard, they beat fear, raised their blades, burned their lives, and defended home.

“But it wasn’t enough. This incident could’ve been cleaner. It’s not the Queen’s fault. Not yours. It’s our longing for peace and our ignorance of the outside that brought this end.

“So I ask that everyone, at minimum, learn basic war knowledge. Learn how to respond to emergencies. Only then can we better protect ourselves, our fighters, and Her Majesty.

“Can you do it?”

“We can!”

“Yes—!”

“Then I declare: from now on, anyone who joins my training camp will be called the Dusk Legion. We are the strivers breaking through the dark. Dawn will come!”

“Oooh—Dusk Legion—Dusk Legion—Dusk Legion—”

“Woah—Medith! Medith! Medith! Medith—”

Medith and the others stood in that epic swell, voices piled like mountains. Their white battle dress flashed like blades; they stood on the high dais like war gods. Today, an army that would shake the continent was born.

Outside, unseen beyond the Council Hall, the Ancestor Master’s statue stood as ever, stone rooted like a pine. He “watched” the distant tidal roar. Under the wet shimmer, that half-smile looked all the more uncanny.