[They were... hyacinths blooming on a land of hope...

We still don’t know—if that day had an if, how would it have ended?

This is for Melia, my dearest who carried me through the hardest nights. In our next life, I’ll cut down the world for one city-toppling smile from you — left by Medith Waheit.]

Wooooom... The horn droned, heavy as fog over marshland. Fish-belly white bled along the horizon, and dawn punched through the dark’s blockade, spilling pale gold across the earth.

Medith sealed herself in silver-bright plate. A helm hid her face; a silver-white pheasant plume brushed her waist. She gripped a silver greatsword, kicked her mount, and broke for the gate.

“Enemy attack—” Far off, Andrew’s war-band, long forewarned, blew their own horns. Men swarmed the wall like ants to sugar, snapping into a battle array.

Hundreds of archers in iron coats raised bows. Shield-men locked heavy shields. Behind them, light-armored throwers clenched long spears, coiled to hurl.

Past the gate, near ten thousand of the Black Iron host stood like a forest of spears. Long pikes needle-sharp. Greatswords cold as moonlight. Warhorses screamed behind, stamping the ground into a field of iron hoofprints.

Bloodhand banners snapped in the wind. High on the keep, Andrew stood with hands behind his back. Concubines laughed and chased one another at his side, the air scrubbed clean of any pre-battle dread.

His lip curled as he watched Medith charge, sword carving the air. Scorn tugged his mouth higher. “Seeking death... You think I’ll throw away the wall and meet you head-on?

“You’re wrong. The good at war don’t anger. I’m not you, letting rage leash the mind. As long as I sit this wall, even a hundred thousand can be held. And you’re just a little Sprite.

“You think you can—”

Whoosh—

Thoooom—

A green arrow wrapped in gale dropped from the sky. It hit the battlements and pitched a dozen archers into the endless blue. The wind howled, trying to empty its master’s grief and fury into the world.

Thooooom—

Wuuuu—

More Wind Magic Arrows fell, and the wall turned into a butcher’s block. Unbreakable heavy shields met Wind Magic and meant nothing; hands slipped, grips vanished, men were flung skyward, then slammed down to shatter.

Thooom—

Thooooom—

The heavens cracked with a detonating roar. Pillars of light speared upward, a forest of lances piercing the clouds. Each shimmered a different hue, each etched with different sigils, each breathing a different kind of menace. Medith yanked her reins, halted, and wheeled back, her blade batting aside black arrows that hammered like sleet.

With the gate drawing nearer, the numbers from the Kuso Guild felt thin in the bones. A few hundred meters had become a killing ground. Thick black arrows and razor javelins rained down. Before steel even kissed steel, bodies fell like cut wheat.

Their gear and grit weren’t in the same league. And with Magic Breakers on the wall, the archers and throwers could fire without fear. The last edge of the Wind Sprites—gone, scattered like petals in a storm.

When Medith herself pulled back, the line broke like a hillside of sand. The Kuso Guild and the rest turned in a rush, their earlier fury blown out. They never reached the wall. They were cut and scattered into rout.

“Heh... hahahahaha... hehahahaha—” On the battlements, Knier hauled his bow to the ear, face twisted. Seeing the famed one turn tail, not even daring to strike back, he let his laughter run wild.

His sharp, needling cackle bounced along the wall. The Bloodhand Gang’s spirits surged. They eased their shots and started a jeering chant. “Ruined dog, stray dog, all bark, no bite.

“Wind Sprite, lady Sprite, big chest, high hips, no brains!

“Hahahaha—”

“Heh... I’d say the Emperor worried for nothing. A little Sprite with three tricks to her name, and he’s shaken?” At the head of the army behind the gate stood a man in black-and-crimson plate, a crimson blood-whip hanging at his hip, a god of slaughter wearing a human smile.

The host rippled, weapons itching. The man glanced back to seek Andrew’s leave. Andrew watched Medith’s broken retreat, lips curved, wine swirling red as dawn in his cup, an arm around a beauty. He nodded once.

“Open the gate! Advance! Kill every ruined cur!

“Whoever takes Medith alive becomes a Count on the spot—one castle, hers breathing!

“Black Lions of the Empire, let your roar shake ten thousand miles—”

He bellowed. The gate leapt open. A flood of black-armored troops surged out under Bloodhand flags, racing for Medith and the beaten few beyond.