“Your Majesty?!” Hippo jolted like a struck drum, then shot forward like an arrow and tore the scroll free, while Paris came to, fingers trembling like wind-shaken leaves.
Hippo unfurled it, and an oil-painted story bloomed like a fever dream; the first panel showed Velledo lying in her beloved violet orchid field, bees and butterflies circling like drifting petals.
The flowers were stained a violent red like sunset on snow; her flawless face had no color, her eyes were empty pools, and blood dotted her lip like crushed berries.
Her hands lay weak over a pale belly like porcelain under moonlight; at her heart, a round wound gaped like a dark well, a three-centimeter radius of cold terror.
The second panel showed Ginsley, Fast, Rams, and the Heavenly Dragon Corps Commander unknown to the world, all blood-soaked like fallen banners, collapsed before the statue of Eunomia.
The maiden war-goddess stood serene like dawn on marble, while the bodies lay arranged like a diagram, forming their roles—Eye, Hand, and Leg—spelling rank in a language of death.
The third panel was Hippo himself; his iconic Black Spear snapped like a storm-broken pine, a hole bored through his chest like a hollowed gourd, his face blurred like fog.
The last panel placed Medith, sword in hand like a frozen lightning bolt, standing in a gilded hall like a sunlit shrine, facing Paris—and the painting cut off like a bitten thread.
The colors had depth like carved jade, the relief almost breathing; it felt like a prophecy caught in pigment, unsettling as cold water down the spine.
“Your Majesty, this…” Hippo’s voice shook like a plucked string as he rolled the scroll up, terror flooding his face like a winter tide, while Paris stared, stunned as stone.
After a long breath, Paris snatched the scroll like a man seizing a lifeline, strode three steps, and sparked flint; the canvas took flame with a hungry crackle.
They watched in silence like mourners by a pyre; when the fire died like an exhausted beast, the scroll lay unscathed, while within the painting, houses around Hippo burned crimson.
It was as if the blaze sank into the painted world like rain into sand; Paris’s heart sank first, then surged like a storm tide breaking a levee.
“So… is that it? It means I’ll never fulfill my vow, never save this continent?” His voice was hoarse, like gravel underfoot. “And all of it because of three letters—Medith?”
No. The word rose like a blade. “No— I won’t yield, not ever—” Paris’s golden hair bristled like a lion’s mane, and his roar rolled through the Royal Capital like thunder.
“Any news on Medith?” Paris’s face went cold as iron, his tone sharp as frost; Ginsley didn’t understand, but didn’t dare probe, and answered like a quick drumbeat.
“They’re heading north, just as you predicted,” he said, words crisp as snapping twigs. “Everything matches your expectations.”
“Does it?” Paris smiled oddly, a curve like a knife’s edge. “Then act. Whatever’s there, follow the plan.”
“And bring those beasts, just in case,” he added, the order landing like a thrown spear.
“But…” Velledo hesitated like a bird on a thin branch, then spoke after a beat like a slow tide. “We’re days short of the planned step.
“If we act now, our reputation may suffer like silk in smoke. Your Majesty, why the sudden—”
“Don’t ask,” Paris cut in, voice flat as a closed gate. “Long nights breed bad dreams. Our time is running like sand.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Confusion shadowed Velledo’s eyes like passing clouds, but she took the order like a sealed letter.
Paris left with Hippo in a blur, feet barely kissing the floor like dragonflies on water, and Velledo and the others stood stunned like statues left in a storm.
Time slipped by like drifting ash. Medith’s group plotted their route and moved north, steady as a caravan star, laughter rising like warm smoke, no taut chords of fear.
Medith had hinted that hard days lay ahead like winter beyond the ridge, but no one showed a trace of dread, their hearts steady as stones in a stream.
Somewhere along the road, Medith became their pillar like a lone pine on a cliff; with her present, even ten thousand troops felt like mist at sunrise.
Only Paris’s shifting stance cast a shadow like a hawk circling high, and that made hearts stir with unease like leaves in a gust.
“In two days, we should see that fortress, right?” Medith smiled, bright as flint. “I’m dying to meet the famous Radiant Knights.”
According to the map, a stretch more would bring them into mercenary lands like passing a milestone on an old road.
Across the continent, beyond thrones and crowns, other forces moved like rivers in the dark—Mountain Bandits, Sprites, mercenary groups, and guilds most renowned.
And there were hidden experts like deep wells—powers like Nameless and Jade, unknown yet dangerous as sheathed blades.
“A mercenary fortress, huh… Hey, do you think they’ll welcome us?” Milia’s doubt hovered like a thin mist. “What if it’s like with Gill and the others at the start?”
The memory of those meetings was sharp as a shard of glass; new alliances always carried distance like frost on a window.
“People grow,” Medith said with a shrug, light as a falling leaf. “I’ve made enough mistakes. From now on, I won’t lose anything again.”
Sais nodded, trust clear as a lantern flame, while Yunita’s fine brows knit like willow leaves in rain, sorrow folding her gaze like a damp veil.
Nameless kept his shoulder-length ponytail tied like a warrior readying for dawn; in white clothes and an Eastern-cast, handsome face, he looked like a [Martialist] from an old compendium.
Seeing him, Medith felt a soft ache like the scent of old paper; it was as if she’d stepped back to the beginning, memories rising like birds to the sky.
Pers came along as well, his thin frame brittle as a dry reed, as if a wind might wither him like a late autumn leaf.
His eyes, though, shone like twin stars; with a Book of Wisdom in hand, he looked every inch the scholar, steady as a lectern.
Medith had urged him to remain in Sass City like a housecat by the hearth, but he insisted on following, not wishing to miss any clue about Medith.
She could only shake her head, helpless as a wave on shore; if he was that curious about her power, she might as well test it under his gaze.
In truth, understanding would profit her too, like a craftsman learning his own tools.
“By the way,” Pers asked suddenly, voice bright as a bell, “have you heard the secret legends of Eastern martialists?”
Everyone turned, surprised as deer in a glade, and Pers chuckled like a page turning. “I read widely in the academies of the Southern Kingdom.
“They say when the continent was chaos, demons ran wild like wolves, and humankind lived without dawn like a night without stars.
“But a man called Ancestor Master fell to the continent with the Divine Lance, Meteor, like a shooting star, and in near a day swept the demons clean.
“They say his Divine Lance held the power to create and to end worlds, like a brushstroke birthing mountains and another wiping them away.
“A light tap could crack the earth like a dry crust, and tear the sky like silk—and he looked much like this gentleman here.”
“And then?” Nameless leaned in, interest bright as firelight; for the first time, desire to hear more lit his gaze like embers.
The Lina Sisters pouted, jealous as cats, lips jutting high as a hill; so their charms lost to a myth older than dust?
“On that day,” Pers went on, eyes glowing like sunrise, “Eastern martialists under Ancestor Master, and the Eastern Island’s ghost warriors and ninjas, earned immortal fame.
“It’s said one could fight a hundred like a tiger in tall grass, and a general of a hundred could match a hundred-thousand troops like a dam against flood.
“Eastern martialists were famed for the sword, keen as frost; the island nation for the spear and sword arts, long as rain.
“They were true martialists, names echoing through the ages like bells in a mountain temple.” Pers’s face shone with longing, bright as polished bronze.
