Inside the Eastern Royal Capital, night pooled like ink in a jade bowl.

Talant pored over Medith’s notes, pressing them into her mind like a seal stamping wet clay.

She’d once thought them equals, two blades balancing on one scale.

Now she saw the gulf—different planes, sky to abyss, never to meet.

Medith’s warcraft carved formations like a ghost’s chisel biting stone.

Her fragmentary scroll on movement was a moonlit lure; the “Errant March,” a pure‑intent footwork she forged, blew Talant’s mind open like a stormed door.

These days Talant sank into it like a leaf caught in eddies.

That wraithlike drift, with her frost‑sharp strikes, fit like water around fish, like sudden wings on a tiger.

Her worst flaw had been bare skin—no guard at all.

It hadn’t mattered; when her spear shot out, no wall stood.

But against someone like Medith, attrition alone could kill you by inches, like sand wearing stone.

By accident or design, Medith stitched her fatal seam, and Talant’s killing power doubled like a wildfire catching wind.

With a life‑line, damage flows like rain; without it, a fire snuffs.

Whether Medith meant it or laid the track long ago, the wind kept its secret.

“Talant, he’s moving.”

Haidra, sweat beading like dew on a blade, shoved her door open.

Talant jolted, snapped the secret scrolls shut, and asked, breath tight, “Target?”

“As we guessed—Dawnlight.” Haidra stabbed a finger at the red flag on the sand table, blood bright on pale sand.

“Dawnlight... why? Isn’t he afraid of burning bridges with Felica? The Radiant Knights aren’t a force you shrug off.”

Talant couldn’t fathom it; Paris had been a rock for years, then turned wildfire.

He’d endured so long; a few more breaths wouldn’t break him, yet now he battered the city like thunder.

Rumors rolled from every quarter like dust storms—war.

“Whatever the why, the move is real.

Fast already took ten thousand Hexclaw elites and marched north a few days ago.

And...” Haidra drew a letter like a knife from cloth.

“This...” Talant took the letter and skimmed it like a hawk over fields.

A black sun sigil bloomed at the end, naming the sender.

“The Southern Kingdom is making that thing... and our intel says similar weapons have already surfaced inside the city.”

“This continent is a crossbow drawn to the last inch.”

She moved to burn the letter; Haidra’s hand barred her like a gate.

“No need. Medith sent it as a notice to the entire continent; by now every hearth knows.”

Talant froze, then understood, and a quiet praise rippled through her chest like warm tea.

A little earlier—

“Your Majesty! The Southern Kingdom’s Emperor beat us to the Lamenting Blade.

Our only remaining Lamenting Blade was snatched by Tianensai on Dreamtouch day.

Without a sample, forging another is a mountain climb; if they mass‑produce meanwhile...” Ginsley’s voice shook like leaves in wind.

Bang—

Paris’s palm slammed the White Dragon Throne; Impado and Regido sang under the blow, the seat trembling like a caged beast sensing wrath.

“This damned Emperor... they started years ago, and decades of patience were for this dawn.”

“Medith... I see your play.

This round, you win.

But I’ll repay double, soon.”

“Fast!

Carry my order.

Pull ten thousand Hexclaw and drive them north.

We can’t wait.

We can’t let Medith keep rising; her growth already outran my map.”

Kill‑intent poured from Paris like a black river in winter.

A sub‑commander of the Southern Kingdom King Corps, Tsunami‑rank, carrying one of the continent’s strongest weapons, struck by ambush.

Even so, Medith turned the blade and killed him.

In single combat, no one may pin her now.

Clashes are fated; Medith’s stance toward Paris is clear as a banner.

“This time, I’ll offer her one last chance.

If not, don’t blame my iron hand.

No one blocks our grand design.

No one! No one—”

His roar rolled over the Royal Capital like storm drums, echoing long.

“Emperor... Robert lost...”

A purple‑robed girl clenched a letter, shaking like a reed in rain.

The Emperor was a still lake, as if he had foreseen the shower.

“I see.

So, in pure individual quality, besides me, none can check her anymore.”

“We can,” said another girl, her mirror, voice like flint.

“If you wish, we’ll end it.”

The Emperor shook his head and walked into the great hall like a shadow crossing tiles.

“Don’t.

You wouldn’t understand.

The board’s just been set; you don’t swallow the king on the first move.”

“Carry my command.

For the next three months, whenever you see the Crimson Sun banner, regardless of rank, retreat at full tilt.

She enjoys her recruitment game; let her play.

We’ll pour everything into the Lamenting Blade and aim to arm the whole army within three years.”

“Don’t forget, our target is the Divine Child, the one the Ancestor Master foretold would upend the continent.

Outside the Eastern Nation’s one, there isn’t a second.

No extra entanglements.”

“But...” The two girls bit cherry lips, unwilling, then bowed.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

The Emperor stroked the gold ring on his right middle finger, a smile like a knife’s glint.

“Ancestor Master, I don’t know your tie to that woman, but hear this: you’ve lost.

You wagered the lone hope of countless planes on the wrong piece.

Once I deal with your Divine Child, I’ll reclaim the pieces you gifted her.

Then I’ll be the true god, the true player.”

He laughed, a raven storm over the hall, and the sound did not end.