On February 14th, a special guest stepped into Medith’s inn, like a shadow cutting across dusk.

Cecilia wore black dance shorts and a white-and-blue shirt; her long ponytail flicked like a whip as she sat in the women’s room.

“What are you here for?” Medith’s gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.

The women checked Medith’s info, and the visitor’s name surfaced like ink blooming in water.

Her hand was still injured, palm wrapped in gauze like a cocoon; she smiled wide. “I’m here with a ‘congratulatory gift’ for the Guildmaster.”

“What trick now?” Confusion rippled through Medith like wind across reeds.

Cecilia slapped down a contract, its “free assistance” clauses glinting like frost etched on glass.

“Trying to bribe me? I already belong to someone,” Medith said, voice cool as winter light.

Cecilia tapped the signature line like a metronome. “No need to worry, Guildmaster. His Highness regrets what was done to Herbert; the severed finger, don’t fret.”

“These terms help you found a sub-guild in this city, all free, our wind-borne respect to you.”

The women folded their arms, amusement curling like smoke; after all that, calling it pure kindness was a ghost’s tale.

“What do you really want?” Medith cut straight in, like an axe into kindling.

Cecilia spread her hands like wings. “We ask nothing. Sign it, and everything’s free; the Kuso Guild is generous like a river in flood.”

“We just want a friend—one who helps when storms break.”

Medith met her golden eyes; comprehension settled like dust. “Deal. May our friendship endure.”

Cecilia’s smile bloomed like sunrise, surprised at how easy Medith was. “May it endure.”

...

“Medith, why did you agree to that woman? Didn’t we say it’s better not to tangle with them?” Sais grumbled, voice like gravel skidding.

The others wore subtle looks, tension hanging like mist; none dared flare up like Sais.

“They just want to court me, like Uncle Serpent ‘investing’ in us—power flexing like a coiled python. We don’t need to do much; plant our flag by theirs, enough.”

“Know this: I’m tantamount to Eunomia now. At a word, even if not emptying coffers, aid will come like rain on command.”

“Their city looks fierce, but if national-level players move, it’s a storm they can’t withstand.”

“No matter how strong, they’re a small force. Anger nearby great nations, and a coalition rolls over them like a tide.”

“With me attached, at least the Liberty Army under the Southern Kingdom won’t dare act rash. That’s enough.” As Medith spoke, respect fell like kneeling shadows.

They hadn’t expected Medith—who seemed reckless—to see through it all like clear water; in the end, profit rules like iron weather.

“Put the rest aside. With their backing, influence and publicity will swell like a spring flood. We’ll grow fast here,” Lina said, smiling like sunlight on ripples.

“Not necessarily.” Melia lifted the contract; a clause capped Medith’s recruitment at five hundred, a gate slammed shut like iron on stone.

“Makes sense. Who wants what they foster to outgrow themselves?” Medith smiled, easy as drifting smoke.

“Alright—go wash up. Get ready to tour our new place.” Medith stretched, relaxing like a cat in the sun.

....

“Was it settled?” Gill asked in his room, voice flat as a blade’s spine.

Cecilia nodded like a sparrow’s peck. “She seems sensible. The young lord’s finger can be reattached. She’s a bit fiery, but long-term she’s a boon.”

“Mm...” Gill’s mouth tilted with hidden meaning, a crescent like a sickle. Medith had no idea: her one leverage—Herbert’s severed finger—could be restored.

It only takes asking his father to fetch a certain item from the Western Kingdom, no mountain to climb.

“It’s a pity about Herbert’s people. If his mouth and conduct weren’t so dirty, he might’ve been a good leader.” Gill looked like a smith lamenting cold iron.

Cecilia’s gaze fell like rain; she didn’t know what to say.

....

On February 15th, Medith’s group released carrier pigeons, words fluttering like white leaves, telling the women they might return late. Sais blessed them with a marching spell; at that pace, five days should do it—though they’d drop like spent arrows at the end.

...

That same day, at the Crimson Sun headquarters in the Free State, Iling and others laughed in the hall; a crowd ringed Iling, faces bright with worship like star maps.

Turns out Iling was recounting her glorious exploits, from Nessos to Sia City, tales spilling like a river after rain.

“Excuse me, is this Crimson Sunset Guild that Crimson Sun? The Dusk Legion under Medith Waheit?” Iling heard a familiar woman’s voice, soft as a reed flute.

Iling pushed through the crowd, looked to the doorway, and found an old close sister-in-arms, like a spring bloom remembered.

“Nira—” Iling sprinted and hugged her, like a swallow diving into warmth.

“Sister Iling… it really is you? Great… so great. I didn’t find the wrong people…” Nira’s words trembled like raindrops on leaves.

Nira clutched the Crimson Sun badge like a talisman; stumbling through stops and starts, she finally reached them, feet like stones skipping a stream.

“Medith… where’s Medith?” Nira wiped dew-like tears from her eyes, hope searching the room like a lantern in dusk.

The hall was full of familiar Crimson Sun attire, but aside from Iling, every face was strange, like masks drifting in fog.

“Long story… come, say hi to the members. And brag a little—no, show off our exploits.” Iling pulled Nira to the crowd’s center, leading her into firelight like a guide.

Nira watched the warm greetings, tears welling like spring rain. She tossed her shawl of hair, dragged a stool with swagger, and declared, “Ladies and gents, don’t miss this as you pass by.

The Nira Story Hour… History Hour, now begins—”

“Listen up—on the day of Sia City’s battle, we…”