On the 26th, Medith and her party set out for the Sanctuary of Freedom. They’d just made enemies and didn’t sidestep; they struck first—knew the mountain held tigers, and still climbed toward their jaws.

Medith flicked open a map, parchment rustling like dry leaves. The destination lay more than ten days away at a hard march. No need to rush. Star-like markers dotted the route—three chest sites along the way. Another tidy haul.

“Peggy, how did you all meet? I mean, how did the five of you end up together?” Medith asked, her smile a warm lamp in the wind.

Peggy’s eyes were wary, a cat at the threshold, then her shoulders eased. “Peggy... Peggy joined the Hunting Corps with Nora. Then we met Martina and her people. After that incident, we fled together and kept fleeing.”

A soft sigh rippled through the women, like a leaf drifting down. Peggy guarded herself against strangers; to earn her trust would take careful hands and time.

“Do you know why the Hunting Corps does all this?” Medith paced on horseback, the hooves tapping drums across the plain.

Peggy’s expression tangled like knotted thread. “The Emperor—orders. And the lords’ orders. They... like Sprites most.”

“Orders? The Southern Kingdom’s Emperor ordered them to seize Sprites?” Medith’s willow-slim brows snapped upward.

“No. The Emperor wants Divine Stones, so he formed the Hunting Corps. On the surface, they hunt, ‘punish the wicked,’ keep order. In truth, they scour the land for Divine Stones, wearing a mask while gripping a blade.

“If other factions collide, they talk first and parley after. If it fails, they gather troops, storm brewing on the horizon.

“Some truly hunt—rare as rain in a drought.

“They chase rare beasts; the Elf Clan takes up three-tenths of their targets, a ledger heavy as rock.

“We belonged to the Hunting Corps. Most of the rest are the Divine Stone Corps—two rivers flowing, but one feeds the sea.

“The Hunting Corps is run by vassals under local lords. The Divine Stone Corps answers straight to the Emperor, power broad as the sea and teeth sharp as iron.

“These are inside words. Much of it, Kridy told me,” Peggy said slowly, her voice the color of dusk.

“Good grief... it’s that tangled inside?” the women said almost in chorus, threads crossing in a loom.

Medith’s gaze weighed heavy, like rain before a storm. “How many in the Hunting Corps—both branches together?”

Fear frosted Peggy’s face. “Many. Kridy said his records of the units he’s seen alone reached three hundred thousand. A lot he hasn’t seen. The total’s not under six hundred thousand.”

“What?! Are you kidding?” Iling almost tumbled from her saddle, heart pitching like a boat in squall. If a single Hunting Corps held six hundred thousand, what did the core power look like? A north wind slid down her spine; goosebumps pricked her skin and stayed.

“Peggy, in your eyes, what’s the combat level of your Hunting Corps—leave the Divine Stone Corps aside,” Medith asked, face set like carved stone.

Peggy’s eyes steadied, bright as flint. “Most in the Hunting Corps are ungifted. Combat ability—average. The Divine Stone Corps is terrifying. Much scarier than the Liberty Army.”

“Liberty Army?” Medith’s memory coiled up like smoke. She recalled that Southern Army squad leader who besieged a mercenary band—he’d drawn a line from the Hunting Corps and called himself Liberty Army.

“Liberty Army is the lords’ men. After they formalize the units, they’re called Liberty Army. The Southern Kingdom’s rule is an alliance of many powers. The Emperor is simply the lord with the most mercenaries,” Peggy said coolly, water kept in shade.

Medith brooded, silence pooling like ink. In the women’s hearts, a gray pall spread like a low cloud. How do you shatter an enemy whose troop strength rivals a nation?

...

On the 26th at 17:23, after ten days of waiting, Paris finally got his answer.

Duke Hudson, Duke Ted, and Duke Harrison all arrived at Paris’s manor, carriages crawling in like beetles under lacquered light.

“Where’s Archduke William?” the young Hudson asked, eyes flitting like restless birds. He’d thought William would come first.

“Archduke William is unwell. He asked me to bring you a letter,” Duke Ted said, holding it in both hands, deference folded like wings.

Paris tore the seal, quick fingers and quick breath, eyes skimming like swallows. Formal pleasantries, then a promise: three chests of gold and jewels in days, to show support for his ambition.

“Hmph. A sly old fox—spreads his favors like rain across every field...” Paris smiled without warmth, a blade wrapped in silk. The balance he strikes is neat: keep his own seat, keep Paris from resentment, and settle accounts later—ledger waiting for autumn.

For Paris, it was near-perfect. He’d get the money, and the Archduke wouldn’t dive overboard at the crucial hour. In Eunomia, an Archduke’s sway is vast as a lake at dusk.

As long as he stays still, it’s help as big as the sky.

“Please, sit,” Paris said, tucking the letter away, his hand slicing the air like a fan.

The three sat, nerves fluttering like moths against glass.

After a few light courtesies, Paris offered his hint, bait on a silver hook. “What business brings you three here today?”

Ted and Harrison traded a glance, a nod subtle as a tremor, and drew a scroll from their breast.

Hunger lit Paris’s eyes—a flame behind glass.

“Your Highness, this is our family’s heritage mural. We present it to you—a small strength for your great dream,” Harrison and Ted said, offering the scrolls with reverence, palms steady as still water.

Hudson, flustered, shoved his own scroll forward, waves clumsy against a dock.

Paris swept all three scrolls into his arms and let out a pleased sound. “I accept your goodwill. The return gifts go out at once. Tonight, we don’t leave sober.”

“Then we thank Your Highness for the hospitality,” the three replied in unison, voices braided like cords.

Paris clapped once. The dance troupe with flowing grace swept in again—not with instruments this time, but with bathing kits, scent like rain on stone.

“You must be tired from the long road. Let the servants wash the dust off you first,” Paris said, smiling with meaning veiled like fine silk.

The troupe’s women understood, took the dukes by the hands left and right, and led them toward the great bath, steps rippling like water.

Paris gazed at the scrolls that could command a whole house, and the wildfire in his chest leaped high. “A few more, and the time ripens. Don’t say I never gave you a chance—one last time to align our hearts, my dear father and brother...”