“But… what do we win with? Don’t forget, they’ve got ten thousand elites. And more support will keep coming like a river.

More crucial, once we start, we’ll be walking against Eunomia.”

Her katana gripped tight, Fangge’s demon mask hid doubt and hunger behind its hollow eyes, like moonlight behind clouds.

Medith raised a pale, slender finger and let it sway, like a reed teasing the wind. “My samurai lady, you’re mistaken.

We’ll be against Paris, not Eunomia. The difference cuts to the bone.”

“Given what we face, does that really change much?” Pers sighed, a tired wave breaking on a cold shore.

Nameless nodded without meaning to. He backed Medith without condition, yet a buried selfishness tapped like winter rain.

He wanted her strength intact, her perfect legion to rise unblocked, to quench the war between the Dragon and Ghost nations.

Medith never plays by common rules. Yet her moves land within reason, leaving no clean edge to oppose.

Her gaze sharpened and pointed at scarred, bleeding Dawnlight Castle. “In your eyes, what is Dawnlight?”

“A friend?”

“An ally?”

“A tool?”

“A stepping stone?”

Answers tumbled like pebbles down a ravine. Medith shook her head. “All true. And not true.

It’s our future’s reflection, a warning before us and a teacher behind. When one lip freezes, the teeth follow.

That’s the jungle law. The weak are meat, the strong the knife.”

“Today we stand aside, and the invader grows bolder, like wildfire eating plains until even ash forgets its name.

Give it time. When we become the Radiant Knights, do you think I alone can win?

Can I kill ten thousand? A hundred thousand?”

“Can we stop a hundred thousand, stop a million?”

“No. Impossible. The strength of one scares, but in wide war it’s a spark in storm.

Even ten full transformations won’t change it. We must stand as one and keep every living blade of grass.

Only then does our plan have breath.”

“A plan?” Fangge and Nameless frowned. Medith had shared it with elder Sprites alone; the others remained in fog.

Milia nodded. Sais needed no words. The rest fell silent, a quiet that counted as consent.

They were human, after all. How could a heart not keep a private alcove?

For a breath Medith envied them. Somewhere along the path, she forgot what selfishness felt like,

no longer the girl whose hair bristled for her beloved, ready to burn a city for a smile.

If Sais were seized as a bargaining chip today, and war was the only way to take her back,

Medith might not go. The weight is too much, layers on layers, like orbiting light-wheels beyond the continent settling on her shoulders.

Her life stopped belonging to her.

After the council broke, Medith called Milia back before she could vanish into the corridor’s shadow.

Milia looked confused, eyes like pools catching starlight. Medith paused, wavered, then glanced at the girls.

No one tried to listen. In wind-speech she asked, “Milia, if one day I order you to slay a compatriot. Or a companion.

Can you do it?”

“?!” Milia blanched, hand over her lips, a gasp trapped like a bird in a cage. “You… mean it?”

“Ah… even if the reason isn’t clean, not a perfect excuse. If it’s only three words—‘Kill them.’

Would you do it?” Medith’s eyes turned strange, a star whirl widening, a black hole ready to swallow you whole.

“I will. I’ll pay any price to execute your order. I don’t trust myself, and I don’t trust creed or loyalty.

I trust you. I trust your judgment and your character.”

The speed of it surprised even the night. Milia had her answer ready like a blade in its sleeve.

Medith smiled, gentle warmth on winter stone, and patted her shoulder. “Then it’s fine. Close your eyes for a moment.

These days have cut you thin. While I’m gone, take care of those foolish girls.

They’ll never grow up. The only pillar I have is you…”

“I will.” Milia’s gaze held, steady as a lantern in rain.

Watching Milia’s back fade down the corridor, Medith’s smile cooled, and a odd color flickered in her eyes.

“Milia, one thing you got wrong.

I’ve never been… a good person.”

…

2:38 past midnight. Captain Brick walked out of the castle, face the color of ash, like bark after fire.

Behind him came dozens of mercenaries with heavy, tangled looks, a knot no blade could cut.

On any other night, someone would stop them and ask. Tonight, drawing breath was miracle enough.

Tomorrow might not exist. Who still policed others in a world already cracking?

There’d been infighting too. Gulo’s single sword stroke had pinned the wave.

But one shout would bring fear like a tide, drowning every corner.

In this dead-end, faith kept you from devouring yourself. It did nothing for the war’s teeth.

So watch the stars, let the moon rinse your lungs. Even one good breath was gold.

Nothing chills like counting minutes for death to arrive. Under a sky spilled with stars, mercenaries dreamed soft.

If they died, could they become one grain in that glittering sea, leaving a small trace on this continent?

“Captain Brick, where are you… headed?” The subcaptain at the rear gate looked at him with a fox’s doubt.

He was armored to the teeth, only a pair of pale blue eyes left to the night, emotionless as winter glass.

That gaze iced the spine like a white walker’s. He lifted his weapon on instinct.

Before he spoke, something hard punched through his throat. Warm blood ran like a spilled curtain.

The strangling came fast. He seemed to understand. He gurgled twice and sank, a puppet with cut strings.

“Ah?! Nis! What are you—”

“Ah! Ah—”

“Captain Brick, what are you doing? Stop! Stop—”

“Alarm—!!”

“Wooooom—”

Gerald was dozing on the windowsill, half-dreaming on a ledge of cold stone.

The war horn sliced the dream, and he jolted awake. He looked forward. The main army didn’t move.

Inside the castle, no sign of Blackblood War Chariots tearing through streets.

Perplexed, he turned to the side gate. The clash there roared—steel on steel, rage on confusion.

Breaker Light Pillars began to surge like spears of dawn.

Fire climbed the inner gate, voices howled like wolves. Gerald stood frozen.

…

“Open the gate—for our tomorrow!!!” Brick went wild, a storm with a greatsword, hacking at friends of old.

Men he’d laughed with, drunk with, even shared beds with—cut down like wheat.

Most mercenaries died in confusion, or in kindness that left them open.

Brick and the conspirators became demons, each stroke severing the last thread of their humanity.

Under that devil-driven assault, morale sagged, doubt spread like mold.

In twenty minutes they were forced to abandon their posts, emptiness pooling where duty should stand.

“Open the gate—send the signal—!!!” They didn’t wait for Brick.

Traitors seized the wall, hands yanking heavy levers. The ancient gate boomed open like a thousand-year bell.

Far away, thousands of iron hooves and war banners rushed in, a tide of metal and cloth.

Less than five kilometers. Minutes until arrival.

…

“Damn! Their internal rebellion’s too strong! I underestimated how hard survival burns!” Medith’s face drained, and she spurred her horse.

Everyone jolted. They burned mana, and with the Sprites’ flowing magic pouring over them, ten kilometers folded like a highway.

…

“Gerald—bad news—the back gate is…” Gulo, breath ragged, climbed to the top floor and found Gerald where he always stood.

Hands braced on the sill. Eyes empty, fixed on the rear gate like candles in a windless room.

That wall had held for trade and support, and to keep enemies out.

Attackers came in waves over years, carving scars that never broke through.

Today, gatekeepers destroyed it with their own hands. Absurdity so sharp it almost made you laugh.

“Gulo…” Gerald breathed the name, and Gulo’s heart stumbled.

A new look spread over Gerald’s face—helplessness, resentment, fury, self-blame, fear—woven into one bleak tapestry.

The man who seemed unreliable, yet stood straight when it mattered, looked hunched.

“Gulo, order Norris and the others. Stop resisting. Give up the struggle. Raise the white flag.”

Gulo thought his ears lied. “What did you say?”

“I said surrender. No more struggle. The gate’s open. The army’s spirit shattered.

The faith that mattered collapsed. If we keep at it, nothing changes.

Better raise the white flag. Maybe my life can buy your freedom.”

Gulo’s eyes bulged. His fist clenched like a mountain, and he smashed Gerald’s stern face.

Gerald didn’t dodge. Teeth cracked. He groaned twice, then staggered up.

“Done venting? I’m still useful. If I were you, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to kill me.”

“Gerald… why? You taught me never to admit defeat, and now you say give up… why?”

“Why?… There may never be an answer. I can offer a direction.

This world sometimes is cruel in ways that don’t blink.”

“I’ll fight to the last breath. I won’t give up!”

“Useless… struggle can’t—”

“Yaaahhh—”

“Re—gi—do—”

A familiar, ringing voice carried across the night, pure as heaven’s string.

Then the earth answered with a deafening roar.