Morning, 9/11.

Boom—

K-thunk—

The mercenaries of Dawnlight hadn’t slept a wink; the Reaper’s giant arrows flew on a timer, tolling like a death bell, hammering fragile hearts again and again.

Their proud walls, after a night of pounding, were split like dried riverbeds, cratered and scarred; Gerald rubbed his tired eyes, twin bruised moons advertising his exhaustion.

He looked years older after one night in the storm; Gulo, once tall as a pine, seemed bent like winter reeds, hair in disarray, face smeared with earth telling the tale of a night without dawn.

Clive had read the gap in strength and chose to encircle without assault, using super‑long‑range “cannons” to harass; shameless, yes, but the safest line under a cold sky.

At this rate, in three days morale would scatter like leaves in a gale, then the walls would crumble from within; they’d harvest their victory after spending only camp time and a few hundred Bonecrusher Arrows.

“Commander, this can’t go on—we need a way out!” Norris burned with fury, his anger aimed at the Hexclaw Legion like a drawn bow.

“If there was a way, you think we’d be like this?” another bearded brute growled; Gerald slapped his cheeks for focus, and just then a massive Bonecrusher Arrow slammed into the spire of Dawnlight Castle.

Dead center—it struck the Radiant Knights’ statue, the crest of morale and honor; it had been specially reinforced, yet even so the base cracked, and minutes more would see it pierced.

The spire guards shouted down the wind; Gerald blanched: “Send shields up there! Pay any price—hold that point! If the spire falls, we’re done!”

The runner retreated with taut breath; Gerald sagged into his chair, while captains around the round table wore the ash‑gray of doomsday, lips sealed because no one could find a breakout line in this fog.

They prized faith over victory; the statue atop the spire was that faith, the lone pillar in a midnight ravine—if it collapsed, the inside would roil and cave; holding the spire was urgent, but—

K-thunk—

Aaaah—

Screams and shouts from above braided with the wind; under this gulf of despair, how long could their backs hold like stubborn cliffs?

Sometime after, the sun slid down the western hills; the enemy’s death‑chariot barrage eased after ten long hours, but the outer ring was a field of wounds, and the castle took on a stranger’s face, arrows sunk deep into Impado steel like iron thorns.

The stone hadn’t failed yet, but hearts had shattered first; they watched familiar things torn like old maps, powerless beneath the storm, worst of all without a reason.

They remembered dancing with Sprite maidens days ago, palms still tasting that smooth silk from last night’s dreams; the drop from spring to winter bred a sullen heat.

“Why? Why do we deserve this? Just because we didn’t obey their word?”

“Maybe… we should defect…”

“Yeah, if death’s the only road, then switch banners—maybe they’ll spare us and fold us in.”

“What did you say?! I’ll detain you by law—you’re sowing panic!” A sub‑captain named Ed ripped out his greatsword, storming toward the whispering knot like thunder chasing geese.

The murmuring mercs hadn’t expected the squall; panic froze them like deer in lantern‑light.

Two still found their hands and drew steel, eyes hard as flint: “Sowing panic? Sub‑captain Ed, look around—do I need to sow anything in this wasteland?

Our faith won’t waver, that’s true, but change the method—raise a white flag, send envoys to their commander; we might save lives in this black tide.”

“Right! If we’d surrendered at the start, we’d be breathing!”

“Shut it! One more word, and I’ll execute you for demoralization and desertion!” Ed lifted his blade like a thunderhead ready to break.

“Hmph! So this is your faith—offer a compromise and you bare fangs; you think everyone loves dying?

Dying for nothing, without a name or cause! Whoever loves it, go—because I sure—”

Squelch—

A heavy greatsword burst through his chest; the merc’s eyes went dark like snuffed lamps, and his body pitched forward like a felled log.

Gulo pulled his blade from the husk, face winter‑cold; behind him, dozens of mercs drew silver greatswords in perfect chorus, a bright chime carrying the taste of death and steel.

“Anyone who dares keep yapping, try me; emergency isn’t license for chaos. If you wear this armor and bear the seal of a Ranger Knight—

I don’t care if you were Mountain Bandits, criminals, or rebels—you’ll follow our rules. If you’ve got objections, step forward; I’ll purge in one sweep.” Gulo set his stance, both hands on the hilt, a predator’s aura rolling off him like frost‑wind.

In moments, ranks of mercs drew their blades, tilting them to the sky, boots stomping the ground like war drums.

Dust rose in banners, the earth rumbled, iron boots hammered a heavy cadence that shook the air.

“No… no…” Those who’d been shouting to defect wilted like leaves, not daring a breath.

“Grab the agitators! When this storm passes, I’ll deal with them.

Hear me! Today won’t be our last day, nor Dawnlight’s end; the sun rises in the east and sinks in the west—clouds may shroud her, gales may scatter her, but she never drowns; for justice—!”

Gulo slashed the air and roared; the ranks lifted swords and answered, voices like a tide against rock.

Outside the walls, Clive and Harrison heard and let out steady breaths; such calls to courage felt like a dying flare, bright and brief against dusk.

“Congratulations, Duke—first battle, a clean win without a single fallen man; I learned much,” Clive said, polishing his shoes like a student straightening notes.

Harrison smiled with a ripple of unease beneath: “You flatter me, Commander Clive; I only gave the idea—the hand that executes matters most. Rest easy, I’ll report your work truthfully.”

Clive beamed: “Thank you, Duke!”

“Still… don’t relax yet; a beast’s last thrash is the cut that truly bites,” Harrison said, eyes like winter water.

Ten kilometers from Dawnlight, in a forest of shadows—

“Medith, what now? Dawnlight won’t last days; if we don’t move, it’s over!” Sais paced like a caged hawk; they’d been staking the place for over a day—on a time‑tight field, that felt like a wildfire.

Medith had her own plan, yet kept the lid on; even Milia’s brow gathered cold sweat. “Never thought Bonecrusher Arrows paired with our Wind Magic would hit this hard; we really played the tiger’s helper. Medith, what do we do?”

Medith watched them spin like ants on hot stone, yet her tone stayed calm and heavy like rain: “Learn to think alone; don’t ask me every time the sky darkens. One day I won’t be at your side.

What then? Will you freeze again like before, waiting for the flood to take you?”

She didn’t name it, but they all knew she meant the Kuso Guild’s betrayal raid—small currents joining into a sudden whirlpool.

If Medith hadn’t left; if Gill hadn’t let anger blind him; if the girls had found a way out sooner after Medith left—

Too many ifs could have saved them; cruelly, those ifs were exactly their missing skills.

Milia heard and felt the knife of guilt; if she’d been there, she’d have found a better road, and maybe Melia wouldn’t have fallen.

Heads lowered in full admission, even Fangge and Nameless were stunned; these Sprite girls, backed by Medith, usually walked like wind with blades hidden, each deadly in her own right—Fangge wasn’t sure he could beat even one.

Yet before Medith, they were children beneath a maple. “Let me think…” Milia set her mind to the grindstone and tugged Iling aside. “Iling, remember what Elyu told us then?”

“Huh? Which time—the negotiation with Medith?” Iling blinked; Milia nodded.

“Let me recall… Elyu said we only needed to contribute a set amount of Wind Magic inscriptions every three months.

Three months per batch, counting our first lot… ah!” Iling’s eyes lit like lanterns.

Medith nodded, a quiet blossom of approval; there was talent there, only waiting for sun.

“Right. Inscription making is brutal; it drains the Queen’s mana and brushes our magic’s secrets, so we add seals—the difficulty multiplies like ice under weight.

The Queen won’t supply many; for them it’s precious ore, not something to loose like chaff.”

Milia’s gaze swept the circle like a teacher’s pointer.

“So… so…” Lina felt it, the fish biting the line, then slipping away.

“These pieces aren’t plentiful; with relations frozen and trade near dead, every shot is one less in the chest—Paris won’t hand them out easily.

They likely had Wind Magic Bonecrusher Arrows only at the start; after that, just ordinary shafts, still enough to scar the mind.”

“This is the tactic Medith used at Sia City, right? Interlacing Wind Magic Arrows with normal arrows, painting the illusion of bottomless power.”

Understanding poured over them like warm tea; no wonder Medith waited—she’s poised to strike the instant they think the scales of victory tip their way, and cut for the heart.