[The gods have fallen, and no chronicle keeps the days...]
On June 2, Medith and her column marched like a river of steel and reached the Sanctuary of Freedom—Sass City.
When people saw Medith return unharmed, carrying Andrew’s broken Bloodhand banner, a tide of shouts crashed like surf, and by nightfall the continent buzzed with: “Southern Kingdom’s border shattered,” “Medith the Severed Hand,” “The Southern Kingdom’s first loss in a century.”
News grew wings and, within three days, swept the continent like a storm front; countless onlookers rushed to the Southern border, and the ending matched the rumor—ten kilometers beyond the gate lay a bald wasteland.
A colossal crater was branded into the earth like a god’s thumbprint; the Southern folk masked and sealed it, but sheer scale and ruin still bled through the veil.
The old City Lord’s Bloodhand sigil had been torn down for a Blood Eagle, and the fields bristled with spear-like guardposts; patrols doubled on the walls as the legend of the iron behemoth toppled with a thunderous crash.
In a breath, the Southern Kingdom’s arrogance was scraped into a medal on the Dusk Legion’s chest, and people marveled at the grinding wheel of history; since ancient days, troubled times breed yingxiong.
Even in an age of peace, a warlord like this walks the earth like a storm—heaven and soil should count themselves lucky.
Their foe had been the Southern border itself, the Iron Behemoth of cities, the face of the continent; Medith used no ruse, only raw steel, and crushed the whole Bloodhand Gang head-on.
After this campaign, the Dusk Legion’s name rang like a bell across the land, and every road they took drew eyes like moths to flame.
As for Medith, her very name became a war drum; such iron-blooded will didn’t flinch before the Southern Kingdom, and “Medith” thundered across the continent.
...
“Trash—you useless trash—” The brawny man in an iron crown spat the words like sparks, face twisted, iron fists popping like cracking ice.
His eyes burned like coals, ready to turn the kneeling men before him into ash on the wind.
“Do you have anything to say for not sending reinforcements?” Rage hit first, then his voice, as two grandees in scarlet robes—embroidered with a human-bodied, lion-headed roar at the sky—held their scrolls and looked down coldly.
“My lord… Dragon Officer… we were wronged… we spoke with Duke Andrew, warned him not to take it lightly; we tried to reinforce him, but he refused us!”
“At this point? You’re still quibbling? You think I know nothing?” The iron-crowned man stepped forward, right hand itching like a drawn bow, and if not for a restraining arm, a slap would’ve ended a life.
“My lord… we never thought it would spiral like this… Medith’s a Sprite, but she wields a Lawbreaking Ability, vast and brutal—her reach covered a full kilometer, and many brothers turned to ash before they even touched her…” The thin, sharp-faced man babbled, fear first, then words.
“You kidding me? You dare feed me that childish excuse?” One kick lashed out like a Meteor; the thin man flew, spat blood, twitched on the stone for a heartbeat, then dropped into stillness.
“Duke Needham, please, stay your hand and don’t put me in a bind.” The Priest in red spoke with a chilly frown that cut like a knife.
The blood-hungry gleam in Needham’s eyes dimmed by half; he muttered an apology and shoved the two remaining men toward the Priest.
“Take it to the Emperor and say it all, down to the grit,” the Priest said, voice steady as rain on bronze. “Every detail of Medith—her ability and her character. As for Duke Needham and the outraged lords of the Liberty Army… until the Emperor decides, you’ll hold the line. This matter is heavy; I trust you understand.”
He bowed; the nobles traded looks like shadows crossing water, then nodded, stiff and grudging.
“Then come with me. This is your only road to redemption, [Disgraced Ones]…” The Priest snapped cold shackles onto their wrists like coiling snakes and led them inward, toward the mountain that loomed like a sleeping titan in the deep.
