Talos Continent, Year 995, September 12 — Xurenxus City, War Afterword:

Since that battle, Medith was crowned by fate in a single stroke. Her name swept the Mountain Bandits like a cold wind through pines.

At its whisper, faces blanched and guts turned to ice. People pinned two epithets to her: Bloodthorn and Ironblood War Deity.

Among the Sprites, a song took wing to praise her deeds:

Ode to the Verdant Sprite

Moonlight dims, nightingales hush; blossoms fall, and the night holds its breath.

A demon slips through the woods; a blade points at Sacred Spirit Mountain.

In the Holy City they glimpse the Verdant Sprite; blood spatters the mountain’s river.

Better to wade a sea of fire than meet one green leaf.

...

Nessos, one of the four strongest of the band, fell without a trace, like a star snuffed by cloud. Their strategist, the so‑called star of wisdom, died to her schemes before any lifesaving trick could spark.

Morale cracked like ice under a thaw. The whole band reeled, their spirit bleeding into dust.

From that day on, any bandit who saw Verdant Spirit Mountain saw Hell’s gate. One glance summoned that peak’s carnage, a red storm rolling over stone.

By night, the screams of ten thousand bandits seemed to wail with the wind, and the cries of Nessos and the strategist echoed like ghosts among firs.

It wasn’t just the eastern gangs that went quiet. Across other regions, heads ducked like cranes in rain; raids ceased, and even hunting felt like treading a trap.

They feared a green‑clad Sprite leaping from the trees, a leaf‑shadow turning into a blade. The forest breathed, and courage thinned like mist.

Any bandit who saw a Verdant Sprite froze as if meeting a specter. None dared covet that beauty again, veiled in blood and moonlight.

Those who escaped Medith’s hell‑chase lived trembling. Forest and grass became a long shadow draped over their hearts.

At the slightest rustle, their guts tore like paper; their souls bolted like startled deer. Night after night, they dreamed of her steps in the undergrowth.

Rumor said they never again set one foot into deep woods until death. Each dawn and dusk, they feared Medith’s hunt like a storm on the ridge.

Her blood‑streaked face and hell‑bright eyes spoke with a demon‑king’s tongue. Their seven souls fled; their courage fell like leaves.

The name “Medith” clung to them like a cold ghost, a shadow that walked beside them for life, and would not let go.

From then on, a saying spread among the Mountain Bandits:

Masters of thievery, don’t clutch your pride; ten thousand troops shy from the Verdant Robe.

Volume I: Survival of the Fittest (End)