Since when had Medith gone to ground? Whether every thread followed her loom, Harrison would likely never know. The only clear thing now was—

The Dusk Legion had truly torn its mask off before Eunomia. She knew striking at the Hexclaw Legion was a banner-to-banner challenge, a clash of front pieces, no room to yield.

That, too, sat inside Paris’s first draft of the war map. If Medith was here and joined the battle, mercy had no seat at the table; in theory, every piece moved under their hand.

Her open break even handed them a steel pretext—“forcible intervention in a foreign quarrel”—a key to swing a big sword. Only—

Though all this lay within the lines, though their strength still towered like a cliff—Segireneto’s reinforcements were almost upon them—Harrison’s hands still shook like leaves in a night wind.

When the giant you once gazed up at finally faces you, the pressure rolls in like a black tide; the weight presses like a mountain, and breath turns to glass.

“Duke… what do we… do?” Clive’s mind went blank, a kite cut loose. He’d come to farm some XP and walk away grinning; a hidden boss reared up from the fog.

“Don’t panic. Medith won’t dare do too much to us,” Harrison said, steadying his breath like anchoring a boat. “Her big hit is strongest in the opening wave; the surge fades after.

We keep distance like a ring of torches. We spread our formation so she can’t cast freely. The Magic Breaker, per her previous reports, caps at a two‑kilometer radius.

Only a few hundred meters are truly lethal, like the eye of a storm. If we weather that, our advantage stands like stone.

She won’t move yet either, because—strictly speaking—our skins aren’t torn open. We still have to walk the formal steps, like crossing a bridge by planks.

Make camp. Fall back thirty kilometers and rest tonight, like drawing the bow before the shot. Keep space between us and them. No one makes a rash move.”

He drew in a long breath, like swallowing ice, and forced calm onto his face. Clive nodded on instinct, then frowned and asked, unsure, “Duke, they’re in chaos inside, and we still have numbers like a forest.

If, as you say, Medith and the others are flagging…”

“Do it. Don’t ask more,” Harrison snapped, a lash of wind. “Sometimes strength isn’t counted by heads; one blade outweighs a thousand ants.”

Clive flinched and hushed. He didn’t notice it, but Harrison had already settled in his chest as a spine of iron.

…

“Medith… why… why did you come back?” Gerald mumbled through a cheek swollen like a bruised fruit. Iling and Yunita lifted their hands; Wind Magic moved like a cool breeze sewing skin, easing pain.

Bones, though, were stubborn roots and slow to knit. They said the Light Elves’ healing rose like a miracle dawn; a baptism of light could drag a body back from the brink. No one knew if that tale was seed or chaff. Since the Sprite tribes split to rule themselves in that bright era of peace, form stayed while spirit drifted apart.

Even within kin, contempt stacked like terraces; the “outside” fared worse. If not for Medith reshaping the rules of Xurenxus City, the place might still be a naïve little Sprite town, laughing at clouds.

“Heh… Gerald, if you think I—Medith—am a fool, a dullard, someone who flies off at three stray words, you’re wrong,” she said, voice cool as a shaded stream. “The day you rushed out the side gate, I traced the pattern.

And sure enough, you chose the safest path for us—and for your Radiant Knights—but you walked yourself to the edge of a bottomless ravine.

You really are… a hopelessly foolish man.” Her gaze on him was a lantern of mixed light; Gerald’s swollen face twitched, and he gave two helpless laughs, then sighed like a punctured bellows, half regret, half release.

“Hmph! At least you’ve got a shred of conscience. I was about to turn ghost and come back for you lady Sprites,” Norris said, face iron, voice cold as frost, yet a thread of relief warmed the chill.

Medith’s brows arced; her smile bloomed like sudden sun through rain. Something locked deep in Norris gave a quiet click.

“Put away the grins. It’s early to laugh,” she said, voice now a drawn string. “The Hexclaw Legion won’t let go like water through fingers. And you—

You think they’ll ignore what happened last night? You’re not like us. You have a clan—”

“I weighed it,” Medith cut in, calm as a still lake. “I can shield my people. I can shield you. There’ll be a price, like blood on the scale, but I can bear it. So I came back. That’s all.”

Nerves that had been pulled taut like bowstrings loosened across the group. Some mercenaries slumped where they stood and wept loud as summer rain. They weren’t the Southern Army with its almost mad faith, nor a kingdom with banners and backing. They served their own “lofty ideal,” held like a candle cupped in wind.

They joined the Radiant Knights with a tangle of motives, a field of faces—farmhand and rebel, lord and drifter, even a princess of a dead realm. What gathered them wasn’t blood or birth, but one thin thread: carry out justice.

Four hazy words, a mirage at noon. What is justice? Who decides? How do you do it?

No one said. No answer came. Whenever they asked, the upper ranks only smiled like old pines and said, “Ask the wind.”

Compared to that cloud-belief, more of them guarded their own dignity, their own line in the sand. Without a saint’s ideal, the thirst for life burned hotter, like coals under ash.

For them, a good day was simple: drink and meat, a full belly like a warm stone, banter with brothers, brag about last night’s darkhouse haunt, maybe an “extra course,” a troupe on stage with drums and silk. That was enough sun for most.

“Only… not everyone wants that life,” Gulo muttered, eyes dim as dusk, staring at Brick and the others, faces the color of ash. When Sais stormed in, red hair a splash of flame, black war-blade in hand, their courage cracked like thin ice.

The Lina Sisters arrived after, and any thought of resistance fell like cut wheat. In under a minute, weapons clattered to the ground and hands lifted skyward.

“How do you plan… to deal with them?” Medith asked Gerald, voice soft as dust.

Gerald’s eyes, red and puffy, held no warmth; a flicker of pity crossed like a cloud, then vanished. “I want to give our fallen brothers an answer,” he said, words like iron nails.

Medith shut her eyes for a heartbeat, as if she had seen this stone fall long ago. She said nothing more. The noon sun beat down like a white hammer. She lifted a hand to shade her gaze, eyes narrowed to slits, thoughts hidden like a bird in bamboo.

…

Afternoon of 9.12. After a short rest and a sweet, steady nap, they woke with spirits like fresh wind. Every mercenary in Dawnlight gathered; the broad square was packed with silver‑clad knights, a field of steel petals.

Backs straight, faces solemn, eyes sharp as spearpoints, they watched as Gerald and Gulo walked in front, one on each side of Brick, pressing him toward the block.

“Execution platform” was too grand a name. It was a butcher’s block, a slab of hardwood with a hollow just wide enough for a neck. They weren’t a regular army, not bound in scrolls of rules. If they’d had their way, they wouldn’t have bothered to carve this stump.

“Brick… it’s a pity we walked to this crossing,” Norris said, handsome face shadowed like a rainy day. “You always wore greed like armor, even stole your men’s merit to climb.

I’d long had a thorn in my eye, but I never thought you’d step this far.”

Brick’s face collapsed; tears rolled like beads breaking loose. The man who’d stood like a hill now knelt in dust, wearing rough brown cloth, mismatched shoes, beard-stubble and mud smeared into a single stain—utterly undone.

“I beg you… spare me… spare my life, please,” he sobbed, voice cracking like old wood. “I just… I just want to see my wife and daughter again… I… I’ve worked all these years, ate sneers and cold rice, only to bring more coin home…

I know… I know I went too far. I won’t ask you to spare me. Let me… let me go home to see my little girl once. Just once…

Gerald…”

Tears streamed; the man kneeling and pleading was worlds away from the demon of last night. The Lina Sisters’ noses stung; for no clear reason, both thought of their parents. Human kinship, at its root, was no different from theirs; only the hands could be more terrible than thought.

Gerald’s brows jumped, a trapped bird; his right hand trembled, a leaf in gusts. He’d always known Brick’s first intent, and so he’d looked away more than once. Hearing him plead now, he hesitated mid‑step, held fast by a net of feeling.

Medith watched from afar, still as stone. She felt little; Brick’s story drew sympathy like a passing cloud, but not enough to stay the blade.

“Gerald… do it. Everyone’s watching,” Gulo murmured, a reminder like a bell. Saying so, he himself could not lift his hand; his blunt, tender heart could never strike his own.

The mercenaries’ eyes were a storm of wants—some hoping for mercy, some calling for law.

Gerald drew a breath deep as a well. He pressed Brick’s head to the block. Brick knew the end had stepped into the room; he stopped sobbing, and said through tears, “Commander… please let me call you that once more.

If you ever meet my wife and daughter, tell them I died in battle. I don’t want them alone under a rain of gossip. It’s my last request. Will you promise?”

“I promise.” Gerald’s eyes shone like wet stone. He raised his greatsword high, the arc bright as noon, and chopped down. But a finger from the neck, the blade froze as if caught in ice. His grip creaked; that tiny gap was a winter that wouldn’t thaw.

After a long breath or ten, Gerald flung the greatsword aside, face twisted like a knot, turning away from the crowd’s intake of air.

“Gerald… I’ll… I’ll spend the rest of my life repay—”

A hum answered, a sword’s voice like a struck string. A slim figure flashed, eyes set like iron, and with one clean stroke, severed the thread of Brick’s life.