November 9th. After two days at sea, Medith and her crew cut through gray swells like a blade. The Elf Clan adapted fast; seasickness only struck once, then vanished like mist. Below deck, Milia and the others huddled around crates, devouring food like sparrows raiding a granary.

“You lot—have I gotten too soft lately? Look at you.” Medith descended into the cabin, her shadow sliding over them like a cloud. She feared they’d strip the stores bare before they even reached the main city.

“Medith, want some? Mmf… mmf…” Milia chewed a dripping drumstick, words thick with grease.

“Tch. Finish up, then train. When did you all turn into sloths? Complacency kills.” Medith’s voice snapped like a taut bowstring. “Move. Ten minutes.”

“Haha, got scolded.” Sais munched soft candy, eyes bright with mischief.

“You too, Sais. Don’t think two fancy tricks give you a pillow to sleep on.” Medith said it, then slammed the door.

Bang. Everyone flinched. Grease slicked Milia’s fingers; the drumstick nearly shot free like a fish.

“Bleh.” Sais stuck out her pink tongue, then set the food aside and drifted toward the tiny training room like a cat slipping through reeds.

…

Sais stepped in just as Medith drew her sword. A green arc ripped the air like a torn leaf, streaking toward a distant rock outcrop.

Clang—crash. The sword-qi shaved a slice off the stone. The cross-section gleamed like a mirror, clean as if cut by silver wire.

“Unorthodox March: Wind Flash!” Medith’s body blurred into a whirling Cyclone, her rush a round dance tearing the air toward the rock. “Forced March: Break Arms!” Her blade skimmed the stone’s center at light-speed. Steel spun clean. No grit clung. It was like striking air.

Two seconds later, a neat sword mark bloomed around the rock’s waist. It wasn’t deep, just a skin wound—but it was surgical.

Sais stared, jaw slack. Medith’s swordwork was terrifying. The Unorthodox March moved like lightning; the Forced March struck like sleet—no frills, all edge. The set was built to kill quickly. The attacks looked plain, yet murder hid in the folds like winter under a warm sky.

“What… what sword art is that?” Sais searched her memory and found nothing. The two sets seemed paired: Unorthodox for the rush, Forced for the strike.

“You’re here.” Medith slid the blade home into the white scabbard strapped to her right thigh, unhurried, like wind settling after rain.

“Medith… that…” The women arrived just in time to see the rock’s cruel, straight scar. They’d never watched her take a swing; they only knew she was strong, not how strong.

“Sit.” Medith pointed at rough stone benches and a table, practical as camp stoves under a pine.

They sat, mouse-small before a cat’s gaze.

Medith smiled and poured them red tea, steam curling like fog over a river. Sais cupped her cup and asked, “Medith, what school is that sword art?”

“School?” Medith blinked, then laughed like a breeze scattering petals. “My school.”

“Your school? You created it?” Sais’s eyes flowed, light dancing like water. “Did you have it before crossing worlds?”

The question hit Medith like rain on armor. She’d always practiced killing efficiently. Years of battlefield slaughter honed three sets into her bones. If some hack hadn’t slapped edgy names on them, she’d never bother shouting them.

“More or less. Unorthodox handles the rush. Forced handles the strike. Battle Song handles the execution. Three sets layer and interlock. I don’t believe many could withstand one full set from me.” Pride flickered in her voice like a blade catching dawn.

“Then… can you teach us? We want to learn!” Milia and Iling almost spoke in unison, their eagerness like sparrows chirping at spring.

Medith waved it off. “Fighting is personal. Move the way your heart moves. Don’t force it. I can guide, but I won’t demand you learn my art. And my art isn’t as simple as you think.”

She didn’t hide it. Her sword art was hard—hard like frost on stone. “It needs a mountain of real combat, insane reaction speed, body coordination, battlefield instincts. That’s sharpened on a blade’s edge. As you are now, you’re far off.”

Her motions looked simple, yet held a thousand changes like clouds shifting over peaks. Unorthodox plus Forced became a formation-rending style. Forced plus Battle Song became a piercing finisher. If the enemy didn’t know you, that move could kill in a single beat.

Red Tiger died that way—one teasing line made him drift, he braced against half my strength, showed a sliver of opening, and got cut. That takes vision and experience like iron.

“The skilled avoid anger. The warlike avoid sentiment,” Medith said, voice low like thunder behind hills. “No matter how strong, no one fights without comrades at their back. One against a hundred, fine. Against a thousand? Can he stop ten thousand? Can he hold back a million iron riders?”

“Arrogance breaks armies. Know yourself and know the enemy, and you approach being unbeaten. Even then, unknowns will smash plans, even kill us. We still can’t retreat. We choose right—fast.”

“What we can do is kill mercy and become devils. Only then you won’t waver. Only then you guard the world behind you.” Her short speech carried truths worn smooth by years, like river stones.

The women’s eyes dimmed, lanterns in a sudden wind. Phiby clasped her hands, thighs pressing tight as if to keep fear from spilling. “But… humans can be good too. We…”

“Humans in the Eastern Nation are good. That doesn’t mean others are,” Milia said, calm as an evening lake. “We can’t be fooled by a pretty surface.”

“Humans… are the species you’ll never fully see through.” Medith’s sigh held endless roads. “Train. Loosen up. Don’t go stiff. Tomorrow, I’ll teach you battlefield sense.”

“Why can’t we go back to the city to stretch? We rarely get a day out…” Sais sprawled over the table, lazy limbs stretching like a cat in sun.

No one answered, but their eyes shone with hunger like stars peeking through clouds.

“Battlefield Taboo, Rule Five: never drop your guard. Danger nests at your elbow, waiting for one careless second to devour you.” Medith left the words like a knife on the table, then started the drills.

The women nodded, clarity striking like cold water, and launched into tight training.

…

Flutter—flutter.

Flutter—flutter.

At 16:34, a mass of pigeons crashed onto the deck like hail. Their bodies were stiff, eyes open and glassy, as if death had grabbed them mid-flight.

“What’s going on?” Medith stared at the eerie scene. Hundreds fell straight from the sky, no drift, all slamming the planks. The corpses lay scattered, those empty eyes whispering of unseen winds.

Sais shivered; goosebumps rose like frost. The feeling wouldn’t leave.

“These… these are carrier pigeons from Sia City!” A sailor pointed at the bands on their legs—three wave marks, the sea-sign for Sia’s key location.

“Why did the flock die together?” Medith asked, voice tightening like a bow. Everyone shook their heads. A grim premonition rose. She leapt, grabbed the rigging, and climbed to the highest yard like a hawk.

From above, she froze. The fallen birds formed a rough character, a smeared “Si.”

“Captain, how long to Sia City?” Medith dropped from the mast, urgency like a storm at her heels.

“About three days. Why?” A middle-aged man frowned, eyes like weathered stone.

“Sais! Milia! Get to the other two ships. Use Wind Magic and push speed.” Medith’s words snapped. Sais’s brows pinched. “These hulls are huge. We’ll burn mana fast. What’s got you this alarmed?”

“Just do it. Guards, with me. Emergency training now.”

“Yes!”

“What is it?”

“Is something big about to happen?” Phiby stared at black clouds brewing on the horizon, her fear peeking out like a small animal from brush.