A frail boy plunged from the sky like a spent leaf, landing in a half-crouch before Lina.

“Go!” He barely breathed a word; he seized Lina and Rita and tore into a headlong sprint like a storm breaking.

The world smeared and spun; a cyclone of air knifed their cheeks, stinging hot.

Now and then, city guards and Kuso Guild members were hurled skyward like rag dolls...

...

“Ha... ha... too long... too long since I ran... I’m dead tired...” He lay on the ground, sucking air like a beached fish.

The women scanned the hill path near the city, ridges curled like sleeping beasts.

It wasn’t far, yet it wasn’t close.

He had run almost thirty kilometers in half an hour.

“Who are you? Why did you save us?” Lina asked, doubt pooling like mist in her eyes.

He wore a tumble of messy hair; his face was smudged, his clothes in tatters. Only his eyes held worth—deep as the cosmos, bright as a full moon.

“Ah... I just... crave family...” The boy looked up like a child. The pale moon strained through the clouds with a thin light, and he seemed to speak to himself...

...

At dawn, a blade of rosy light cut the long night.

The sun, no matter what happens, still climbs.

“Hyah—hyah—!” Medith drove her horse down the mountain path like an arrow. She still didn’t know what lay ahead, yet a shadow knotted between her brows.

Medith knew it; a metallic tang of blood crept through the wind like rust after rain.

“Whuff—whuff—!” Medith hauled on the reins. “Not an illusion?”

Her nostrils brimmed with heavy iron, a river of metal on the wind. She spurred on, following the smell deeper into the trees.

Around her, the grasses woke and drank the newborn sun. Little heads peeped from branches, staring at Medith, strange yet familiar.

Rustle... The grass shivered.

Medith tore out her greatsword and sprang, the blade falling like a thunderbolt.

“Ah—!” A terrified cry burst out. He shoved Lina aside; the greatsword hung like a guillotine, a hair from his groin. One more centimeter, and regret for life.

Medith ignored the boy. Her eyes fixed on Peggy, swaddled in heavy green leaves, as Rita poured herself into the healing.

“Rita, Lina? Peggy? What happened...” Medith’s heart hammered like a war drum. That bad omen from the road was ripening.

The two stirred from trance at the sound. At the sight of Medith, tears broke like a flood; the night’s grievance and grief surged.

“Medith! Medith—!” Rita dove into her arms like a child, sobbing in sheets of rain.

Lina’s tears spilled too. Only with Medith standing before them did the tight dread melt, like fog under rising sun.

“Alright... don’t cry first. Tell me what happened.” Medith smiled and stroked their heads, tenderness soft as silk, while the storm between her brows swelled.

The boy blinked at Medith. “She’s a bit off from the rumors... Still, is this little girl really the newcomer storming the Eastern Nation?”

....

“Go! Come back with me! Don’t worry, Mei-jie will be fine, for sure!” Medith’s voice rose like a war horn and settled the Lita Sisters.

Yet in Medith’s bright eyes, a monsoon churned. They read it—the fiercest anger she had ever held was about to break...

...

A curse ripped out. “It’s Medith! Medith is back!” The city guards stared at the white silhouette surging from afar like winter lightning, and their knees went watery.

Kuso Guild had strutted last night, spitting vows to kill her. Now, at the sight, an icy hand gripped their hearts.

Not long after, Medith swept to the gate with the Lita Sisters, badly wounded Peggy, and the boy.

Her face was frost; her eyes were loaded guns, cold to the bone. “I’ll say it once. I just want to go back. Get out of my way.” Her tone was simple, almost casual.

Without knowing why, under that world-shaking gaze, the crowd parted like a tide and let her through.

...

March 1st, 10:24 a.m.

[A ruin somewhere in the Eastern Nation]

“Watch over me.” Paris wore a splendid dragon robe; the white dragon on his chest stared like a descending god, its gaze terrifying.

Ka-chak. Two ranks of warriors in White Dragon armor lined the ruin, greatswords upright like cold teeth.

This place was barren; even the bright sun dulled here, as if gnawed by something unseen.

Paris stepped down through the ruin to a battered bronze gate, scarred like an old turtle shell.

“Come... come...”

He heard the white dragon on his chest calling him. The dragon etched on the gate lacked its two crucial eyes—like a dragon painted without pupils, form without breath.

So he drew a deep breath, drew a dagger, and leveled its cold star at his golden eyes.

Then a wailing scream rang through the dead city, echoing like wind through bones, and it did not end for a long time...