Feb 20, Kuso Guild headquarters.

“Herbert, don’t botch it again; two days without indulgence won’t kill you.” Gill’s words fell like stones into a still pond.

Herbert shrugged, helpless. His severed finger was fixed back on, a twig rejoined by luck.

...

“Medith, about last time—my apologies.” Herbert set out for Sass City with twenty B‑rank elites, a caravan of “gifts” clinking like coins in a river.

Among them was an S‑rank fighter Medith had seen—O’Neil, a bald man with bramble‑thick stubble, eyes crawling over Medith’s proud figure like ants.

Medith’s smile was a blade wrapped in silk. “Apology accepted. Keep your mouth clean, or the dead won’t just be your men.”

The women’s eyes were cold knives; they had more than enough reasons to cut him down—for themselves, and for those he kept trampling.

Herbert offered a dry smile, smoke at the corner of his lips. “Fine. Not like you’d understand. They owe us, we didn’t—”

“Had enough? Want to lose that freshly mended finger again?” Sais spoke with the chill of frost, itching to split this damned fool in two.

Herbert scoffed, head shaking like a rattle, and walked off with a calm face.

“Hey!” As he turned, Medith tossed him a coin, white light winking like moonlight on steel.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Herbert frowned at the bright coin, a pale star in his palm.

Medith pointed, face smooth as stone. “My custom Crimson Sun badge coin. You know what it means—deliver it to my guild.”

“I’ll be late getting back. If someone tries to squeeze in, this coin’s weight will keep them at bay.”

“And when things get tight, flash it. Might scare a few wolves off.”

Herbert pocketed it, smile taut as wire. “Much obliged, Guildmaster of the Crimson Sunset.”

“No need.” Medith flicked her hand, anger rising like heat from a kiln. “I’m thinking of my guild. And the Dusk Legion knows no guilds—only one body.”

“Lesson taken, Commander.” Herbert left with feet steady as drumbeats.

As they went, O’Neil licked his tongue, eyes gleaming. “Little sprites, once we truly shake hands, how about a mixer?”

“You’ll need the skill to get within arm’s reach first.” Medith’s stare was winter over water.

O’Neil chuckled, a low ripple, and followed Herbert toward Sass City.

...

The women carried Medith’s homing pigeon to Olivya’s room, wings whispering like paper fans.

“So… Medith won’t be back soon?” Olivya’s mood was a knot; she’d just returned from the higher‑ups’ grilling, smoke still in her lungs.

And Medith pulls another stunt, a pebble into the stream.

“I think the Commander isn’t the impulsive type; she’s weighed it all.” Nora’s voice was a pillar, steady as cedar.

Iling, Nira, and the rest nodded, heads bobbing like reeds in wind.

“I know. I’m just… scared.” The feeling came first; Olivya’s helpless look drew a wry smile from the room.

Those who’d long hidden in the city—like Nora—knew Olivya’s style like the lines in their palms.

She loved to roam, masking herself as a regular member to fish; with honeyed words and a striking face, she hooked plenty.

Loss was rare—until she reeled in Medith, a whale breaching in her net.

“But by the time she’s back, the guild’s nearly built. That lets me set down a heavy stone.” Olivya gazed at the grand frame rising, workers swarming like ants.

For Medith’s legendary guild, she begged her father; he sent crews in droves, the build ordered at a gallop.

Her father was Grand Guildmaster of the Western Expanse, yet among the four Priests his rank was the lowest, a lantern dimmer than the rest.

The Western Expanse is fog‑bound; even the Southern Kingdom’s Emperor won’t step in, that corner of the map humming with a ward that smothers the will to advance.

Power there is plenty and tangled, tiers uneven; she fled because the air itself felt sour.

If Medith’s guild stands, nominally under the East Expanse’s Grand Guildmaster, would Medith suffer fingers pointing at her?

Once that sign is hoisted, the city might slip all law and become “Medith City,” a banner on its own wind.

As his daughter, he’d pour out aid; if it works, his name and standing rise like dawn—why not?

...

Feb 21. Medith’s team formally recruited over two hundred members, the tide still rising, backed by raw strength and the Kuso Guild’s long shadow.

They planted their feet fast, roots gripping stone.

Feb 23. In a handful of days, Medith’s guild filled to the brim, yet more came, a motley stream, average skill higher than expected.

Can’t waste it. Medith’s mind sparked; send them straight to Dusk headquarters, where no one binds their hands.

They cheered like birds freed, rushing into free Sass City, eager to stand under the broad arm of the Crimson Sunset Guild.

Of course, other guilds threw thorns, but her people plucked them one by one and kept moving.

...

At dusk on Feb 23, Herbert’s group pushed on without rest, hooves of time pounding, until the “must‑pass” to Sass City—the Misty Gorge.

This stretch is the roughest and most perilous; the gorge guards the forks to east and north, an abyss yawning below, its head lost in cloud.

Thus the name—Misty Gorge, a blade in the sky.

It’s a road bound for abandonment; for trade and safety, they cut a new trunk, leaving this a side path, a thread used by special hands.

The iron bridge here sees only occasional mountain bandits; otherwise, the place is a quiet grave.

Above hangs a single wide, stout iron chain bridge, hundreds of meters long, a steel serpent over mist.

Herbert chose it to avoid the Southern Kingdom’s troops; the soldiers spread like grass, everywhere outside big borders.

Bandits, you can hit back; those soldiers grin and lift your gear, and you can’t swing a fist without lighting a fuse.

They were seasoned; feet light, they crossed the fearsome bridge like cats on a wall.

“Hm?” Herbert spotted a weed‑swaddled boulder, carved with words like scars in stone.

He leaned in. It read: “Dusk Legion, the ember never dies.” Beside it, the stark black sun emblem glared.

“Heh—hah, hah… those silly Dusk Elves.” Herbert grinned and cut a line beneath:

“↑ F the Dusk Elves.” Then he scratched in the Kuso Guild’s emblem—lion biting a rabbit, a crude sigil with bared teeth.

“Herbert, what’re you doing?” O’Neil’s voice carried over, impatient as snapping twigs.

Herbert answered, took in both “masterpieces,” and walked toward the team, step firm as a drum.

Just then, in the shadowed thicket, the dark green held its breath.

“Got you.

Big. Game.” A man with a grass stem between his teeth watched Herbert’s wicked upturned smile like a hunter sighting a stag.