8 p.m., May 4th, Medith marched through the night like a river of steel and came within sight of the Southern Kingdom’s borderlands.
What befell the Eastern Nation left ash on the tongue, yet Medith had blood-debt work to do; the so-called Liberty Army had stolen a dearest sister-in-arms and almost tipped the world.
Gill had lost a brother as close as breath, and every thread at the Kuso Guild knotted back to one man in the South—Andrew, the weight on the scale.
Less than fifty kilometers from that iron wall, tents crowded the plain like winter fungi; a Black Sun standard and a Red Lion-with-Hare banner clawed at the night wind.
She would announce it to the continent with iron and frost: touch her friends or her kin, and the consequence would be carved like a thunder-split cliff.
In the command tent, Medith wore the Crimson Sun’s command garb; a gold badge burned in candlelight, yet her lovely face carried dusk-heavy fatigue and grief.
Regret first, like cold rain, then words: “I misjudged... I foresaw a mutiny and a man without scruple.
I didn’t foresee a heart that cold—he dared lay hands on his own father and brother...
I should’ve seen it: [Starshaker Hipo]. When Haidra told me that day, I should’ve marked the chance of betrayal; if he turned, the Royal Capital’s walls were paper.
Even the king would teeter, because when a Meteor hits, no one questions the crater.
And Paris stirred heaven and earth of late, disasters aimed straight at the Royal Capital, weaving the mood that ‘the East is doomed, Eunomia falls from grace.’
Now he has his hands around the Eastern Nation’s Royal Capital; for us that’s storm, not shelter, and by his ‘plan,’ becoming king is likely just the floor...” Medith, rare in this, admitted loss, her gaze a helpless skyline.
From the start, Paris led everyone by the nose; the thing she least wanted bloomed like mold, and she recalled how he stalled her with Eastern tales, then tripped over his own loose threads.
If I’d held tighter, pushed harder, maybe the river would’ve bent another way...
The sigh came like wind through pine: pity admits no pity; history’s wheel grinds on, and in the dim, everything feels cast—man or god, none steps off this board.
With the gods truly gone, Medith could lean only on herself, and on the shoulders standing within arm’s reach.
“It’s not on you... who could imagine a single mind webbing an entire kingdom,” Iling said, face set like stone; she’d met Elyu and Ostos a few times.
She’d liked Ostos—the big-hearted, carefree grandpa of a man; and Elyu, young and able, a prince without the crown’s poison, gentle in manner yet marked for rule.
Truth be told, even the Elf Clan struggles to shape hearts like that.
“What a waste... Elyu was a good king,” Sais murmured, her scarlet hair tossing in candle glow like flame-rain in wind.
“For now, we can’t say Paris did it for certain, right? What if it really was an accident?” Lina’s fingers knotted, worry fluttering like caged sparrows.
Relief like a breath, then iron: “Once is chance, twice is suspect, thrice is carved,” Medith said. “From the first tsunami at Sia City, I thought it strange that a ‘natural’ wave had a Collapse Point and could be broken by hands.
Who has the power to birth a tsunami by will?
Only today did I confirm the answer.”
“No... it can’t be... someone can trigger natural disasters in this world? If so, how do we stand?” Peggy’s small body trembled like a leaf, lately tempered by too many hard winds.
The best growth is born at the cliff-edge; cruel as frost, yet honest as stone.
Peggy thought: if one death-brush could grow me by half, even bump my Lawbreaking Ability, then what avalanches did Medith walk through to stand where she stands?
With that, Peggy’s eyes on Medith turned solemn, like a blade set back into its sheath.
“What will you do next? I heard you’ve got bad blood with that one from the East,” Gill asked, his lone right hand bracing the table, worry flickering like a candle’s last inch.
Medith’s eyes narrowed, edges keen enough to slice a soul: “Soldiers meet soldiers, water meets earth. From the moment Elyu died, Xurenxus City’s alliance died with him.
From now on, our wells and their rivers flow apart; if he dares touch my people...
His end will be Andrew’s end, today and again.”
She smashed the commander’s piece onto the sand table; it struck the mark of Andrew’s fortress, that iron behemoth that had turned so many feet away.
...
“Milord! She’s here...” Several scouts tumbled off their horses, rolling and scrambling to Andrew, who was inspecting drills under the midnight lamps.
“What is it?! Who?” Andrew asked, though his gut had already clenched; his brows hopped like struck drums.
“Medith... Medith’s here with the entire Kuso Guild, around ten thousand in all; about half are guild hands, and her own troops barely top two thousand.”
The scout sketched numbers, positions, and the scent of their war-readiness.
He could learn so much because Medith wasn’t hiding; she’d come to declare war, her posture pure challenge, naked insult.
I’m camping right here. My people are here. You’re dying soon. Do what you will.
Andrew’s pudgy right fist tightened; a man can be killed, not shamed; the Southern Kingdom holds half a continent and millions of spears—when did they ever swallow this bile?
“Medith... I thought you were thunder; turns out rumor was fog.
I’ve got a fifteen-meter Wall of Sighs, and twenty-three thousand blooded veterans; with your ragtag lot, you think you can challenge the continent’s Black Lion?
You’re just a proud child, riding your temper like a bad horse.”
Relief oozed in like warm wine; he’d lost sleep fearing she’d sweep in with the Dusk Legion, undefeated and relentless as the stories say.
But she came herself with ‘rabble,’ and the shadow lifted like morning mist.
“Medith, you don’t know war; you won a few small wars and lost the sky.
Segireneto has some bite, but he’s old-world dust; our new-world Liberty Army is another beast entirely. I’ll show you what war truly is.”
Andrew ordered harsher drills, clean kit, and tightened lines; stores of grain, mounts, and arms could feed a three-month storm; in his head, Medith had lost without a clash.
He straightened his clothes; sleep welled up like a tide—after months, he could finally sink into a whole night.
...
Tap— Iling dropped from a treetop like a swift shadow, alighting by Medith’s side. “Report, Commander: just as you predicted. The plan unfolds clean.”
Medith tipped her sword in a nod; far off, the first fish-belly white of dawn rose, and behind her the army’s eyes were flint, weapons itching toward the horizon.
Woooo— A deep horn rolled like thunder in a valley. Medith leveled her blade, and the host surged like a flood toward the Southern border less than five kilometers away.
