After the ink dried, Medith stepped out with her “spoils,” satisfied, like a hunter shouldering dusk.

Olivya had a hawk’s eye on making Medith move in, hungry for the catch.

Medith wasn’t; if this felt wrong, she’d drift like a cloud and find another house.

One side jacked the price on the spot, stall-owner bold; the other haggled sky-high like a storm over a market.

In the end, Medith won clean and took warlord terms, a banner snapping in dusty wind.

That wagon got hitched to the kingdom’s chariot, and Medith’s name rang near and far like a drum at dusk.

Yet the woman mistook her for a hotheaded spear, thinking a sugar cube would seal the deal fast.

Medith waited for her victory fanfare to peak like a cresting wave; then she tore up those proud clauses like brittle leaves.

Step by step, she herded her into a dead corner, shadows folding like shutters.

Eunomia owed Medith big—true—but favors travel on rails of interest, iron shining under sun.

To last, both sides need profit flowing like a river; ties don’t move at a finger snap.

A hundred thousand troops? Don’t kid me; even a king can’t reap a hundred thousand like wheat at will.

Treasury and intel whenever Medith wants? Keys to vaults aren’t candy tossed on a street.

Tiny gnat-sized gains, maybe; once it touches state scale, in the Eastern Nation even the king’s a paper umbrella in rain.

The Queen and Medith aren’t ordinary in their ties—true—but she’s still the Queen; Medith won’t skate wild over thin ice.

Olivya bluffs well; Medith better, masks layered like lacquer.

On bluffing, she’s worn two lifetimes of faces; who dares compare with that?

A kid swinging a blade before a war god, waving a hatchet at a master carpenter—pure foolishness.

The contract’s slate flipped clean over, like a tide turning.

Aside from shielding them in the city, every cost—funding, manpower, publicity, venue fees, management, yada yada—got dumped onto Olivya like a cartload of stones.

The girls basically netted a big guild hall for free, a fish caught in a calm pond.

Plus a free recruitment office for soldiers, banners ready like geese in flight.

Every month they’d still owe Medith a hefty “protection fee, brand-ambassador fee,” tribute rolling in like tides.

...

“Hahaha... Medith, you’re savage.” Sais let out a long breath, steam leaving a kettle; her whole body loosened like slack strings.

Watching that once-imperious woman stand there dumbfounded, listening as Medith laid out clause after clause, tears glassing her eyes, Sais almost felt it was a bit too much.

“Geez... your tongue’s a blade; reputation earned...” Melia felt her horizon widen, a window flung to sea breeze.

She’d known Medith’s mouth could duel; she hadn’t expected it at this level, swords sparking like flint.

“Ah, youth, youth.

This is called jacking the price on the spot, feet planted like a stall owner.

She’s set on having us move in—look at her—her seat’s likely wobbling like a loose stool.

She’s only got one so-called epic guild and gets pummeled by the rest like rain on a roof.

She finally hooked a treasure like me; no way she lets go.

And don’t think I’m bullying her; once our guild’s built, her gains only grow, green shoots after rain.

What I asked was the light stuff.” Medith wore a “such a loss for me” face, sly as a fox under moonlight.

...

Morning of 1/19, Medith and her people got Olivya’s notice: the guild site was ready; they could move in.

Legend-tier guilds still need a maze of procedures and audits, elders peering like owls, and an epic-tier foundation beneath.

Simply put, Medith’s team wasn’t qualified—yet; the gate stayed half-closed like a temple door.

...

“Uncle Serpent, we’ll head over now. Thanks for taking care of us these days.” Medith spoke with true warmth, a candle steady in wind.

Uncle Serpent, back to her, polished a bottle, moonlight on glass. “Take care, Medith. We’ll have plenty of chances to meet again.”

“Huh?” Medith blinked, a ripple across still water.

Outside, the girls and their guide stood ready, urging her to get moving, boots tapping like drumbeats...

...

Medith’s group followed the guide toward the city’s heart, streets flowing like veins under stone.

After about an hour, they finally saw their guild.

It was a two-story house; more bar than guild, signboard missing like a face without a name.

Time was tight; only rough wooden floors and a loft greeted them, the exterior shabby as a coat washed too many times.

“Ah... this...” The Lina Sisters widened bright eyes, disbelief flickering like fish scales.

“Hey! What’s this supposed to mean? Is an epic guild just this sorry?” Sais kicked the shut wooden door, a dull thud in quiet air.

“Uh... any epic-or-above guild gets a custom building from us.

Time’s really tight; we couldn’t lock it in yet.

We’re already on it, but it’ll take months to finish.

So, Madam asks the General to bear with it for now...” The guide spoke, awkward smile like a crack in ice.

“That woman... holds grudges.” Medith cursed with a laugh, sparks in her tone.

“Forget it. Since we’re here, settle in.

We start gathering members this afternoon.” Her voice folded like a map.

She looked around; inside space wasn’t small, rooms like honeycomb—over a hundred—so the scale didn’t feel that shabby.

“Then I’ll take my leave. May the General ride to swift success.”

Watching the guide’s easy-going back vanish like a kite pulled by wind, Medith sighed and pressed down the urge to ask his name.

“Medith, what do we call it? Same as before?” the girls asked, eyes bright as lanterns.

Medith closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, a smile rising like dawn.

Longing and hope washed her face like morning light. “Let’s call it the Crimson Sunset Guild.”

...

At 13:52 that afternoon, Rita and the others gathered 48 who’d passed the entry test inside the city.

Only 40 answered; eight had vanished, poached or gone like leaves on wind.

Medith said nothing. She tallied basic data, then tasked them to clean, hands moving like brooms in rain.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t that dirty; someone had already put a polish on it, dust thinned like mist.

By 15:10, everyone finished tidying the quarters, then received their uniforms—cloth crisp like waves.

Thus, the first official batch of Dusk Legion members outside Medith’s old circle was born, torches lit in a new night.

“Guildmaster! Thank you for giving us this chance. We’ll live and die with you!” Nora led five who knelt on one knee, voices ringing like bells.

Medith’s tone stayed cool, a pond under moon. “Stand up.

I’m no king. We don’t do that here.

Remember this: this is our salute.”

She lifted her right hand, palm down, level with her chest, then drew it toward the lower right like cutting silk.

“Yes!!” Nora looked feverish with joy, almost shaking her arm off like a sparrow flapping too hard.