“You didn’t die? But… well, makes sense. Even a revenant like me came back—nothing strange about that,” Manto saw the Captain’s face and the picture clicked, like dawn breaking through mist.
The Captain stepped up, towering over them. “Our goal aligns. Ostos, that sanctimonious fraud—did he think I’d forget everything and trail after him? Blood for blood, he should know that better than anyone. Shame he still guarded against me. After all these years, the intelligence and troops I gathered are just the tip of the iceberg, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Rise, Manto. We were bound to meet. We carry Sinis’s share and keep living, until our purpose is done.” His grip was iron and warm, like a mooring rope in storm.
Manto and Erig clasped his strong hand, sealing a pact as steady as bedrock.
“I heard your soldiers killed many. Why?” The Captain’s gaze turned odd, like a hawk watching a wounded fox. “Doesn’t that clash with what you seek?”
Erig looked toward Sia City—now a drowned mirror of sky and sorrow. “I… don’t know… They were once my everything. Seeing them now with Ostos-branded minds, I just…” The words snagged like thorns; the feeling hit first, then the breath.
Manto stepped in and set a hand on his shoulder. Erig fell silent, a shuttered window before rain.
The Captain chuckled, a dry rasp. “Heh. Then you should see the Royal Capital. You’ve no idea how flamboyant Ostos’s abdication rite was.”
The two traded looks, stunned, like deer frozen in moonlight.
“Right. Your news doesn’t run deep. I’ll explain it slow…” The Captain’s tone flowed calm as a river, and he beckoned them into the cabin.
The warship surged at full power, gliding toward the unknown shore like a shadowed gull chasing the horizon…
…
Back to the present.
December 1, 10:10 a.m. Medith and her company passed a village beyond the Eastern Nation’s frontier. A funeral bell tolled—four heavy strokes, each one a stone dropped in the heart’s lake.
“The mourning rite begins…” Haidra slid from her warhorse, fist light against her chest, a quiet drum under gray skies.
Medith and the women felt it deep, and mirrored the gesture, grief first, movement second.
In that moment the bell’s voice washed over the whole Eastern Realm, a hush laid like frost. Everyone—archduke, prime minister, king, commander, noble, city lord, commoner—high and low alike, mourned the dead of Sia City, sorrow shared like a long winter night.
“Some died in honor, some in injustice, some without fault. It all matters, yet it’s not the point. They were Sia City’s warriors, our people of Eunomia. War is merciless. Because it is merciless, we must cherish peace harder.” Haidra’s words drifted like incense under eaves. “May the world know no killing.”
“May the world know no killing,” the priest intoned, face grave as stone.
The bell tolled four rounds, each with four strokes, a long, low music rolling across the earth, echo lingering like smoke.
…
“That’s exactly why we guard it,” Haidra said, eyes on the familiar soil. Birdsong and flower-scent came riding the wind; this was their land, their flavor, their breath under sun.
“Honestly… your country’s style of governance is very… how should I say?” Medith searched for a word, feeling before phrasing.
Haidra smiled like spring thaw. “Unbelievable? Or too far ahead?”
The women nodded.
“You won’t believe it,” Haidra said, hitting the mark. “We’re a noble-run state, yet we don’t have that split—nobles sneering at commoners, commoners spitting at nobles.”
Medith nodded again. Before coming, she’d combed through records—monarchies, aristocracies everywhere. But this felt closer to a world made one, all under heaven as one hearth.
People set aside rank; many still struggle, yet they try to blend, not high or low, only the bedrock of faith and respect.
In that soil, quiet and harmony grew. The nation prospered; hearts held steady—fortress-strong.
“That’s His Majesty’s charm. Who’d imagine he could turn scarred Eunomia into this in just thirty-five years?” Haidra’s voice carried a devotion like temple bells at dusk.
“Maybe… the Queen’s utopia picked the wrong direction,” Medith said, thinking of Queen Laxis. “If she joined hands with me, we could shape a perfect utopia for the Elvenfolk.”
She knew better than most: only strength holds peace, a truth hammered in wartime embers.
Did humans make peace out of pity for the Elvenfolk? No. Never. If that were true, why issue a war edict at all?
Even a god, if it shows fatigue, can be dragged from the throne and killed—how much more any other race?
She thought half-high walls and an ‘indestructible’ ward could stop humanity. But just as Medith foresaw, that was a sham utopia dangling over a cliff.
Humans haven’t attacked for one reason: they simply haven’t found the true heart of the Elven City.
“Only the strong earn the right to speak of peace,” Medith breathed, the feeling landing like a falcon on the wrist before the words took wing.
Haidra tried to argue, but her station and sight made the truth sink deep. In some way, it’s a skewed logic—but painfully real.
Behind Medith, Euticles listened, sigh soft as ash. “The girl’s grasp of war is frightening… only…”
“Every war aims, in the end, at peace,” Medith said, voice steady as a lantern in wind. “Those who take joy in war, who spark it on purpose—are not human. They’re demons. Remember that. Never mix them up.”
At that, the elder’s smile showed, relieved as dawn. She hadn’t lost her head, hadn’t turned into that damned shape.
Everyone nodded hard, carving the words into the heart like runes on oak.
After that, they pressed on, until…
…
December 3, 9:24 a.m. They reached the foot of Verdant Spirit Mountain. The road had been smooth, like a clear stream. The Dusk Legion banner and the Eastern Nation standard snapped in the wind; all who saw them stepped aside as if from a storm-front.
Guilty hearts most of all. A hundred-strong squad from the Southern Kingdom spotted the Dusk Legion’s colors and vanished into the brush in a breath—like legions melting before a white banner.
“Commander—!”
“Ah— it’s the Commander— I’m dying—” The cry rose from the cliffs like skylarks spiraling.
Lina and Rita wore their usual Green Sprite outfits. Thousands of green Sprite archers lined the escarpment in a single gleaming rank. The scene struck grand, a curtain of emerald and bowstrings.
While Medith was away, the Sprites sealed the old Mountain Bandit path with cordons, and raised tall watchtowers like spears of timber. In the Glimmering Green Forest, sprites flashed between treetops—playing, sparring, whispering love beneath leaves.
Couples hid in the high crowns, burning with sky-high romance on the canopy’s edge.
The Boundary River now bore a bridge, guarded by fully armed sprite sentries. Dusk Legion patrols passed from time to time. Areas once restricted or unexplored opened under a swelling strength, frontier pushing out like grass after rain.
“My, it’s barely been a while, and this place finally has shape,” Medith said, a quiet pride blooming like tea in warm water.
She watched them laughing in clusters, stepping into forest once forbidden by the Queen. They brought back exotic fruits and rare wonders, and the women’s delight rang bright as bells under leaves.
