Seeing Medith bite down hard on her lip, hate and helplessness clouding her face like frost over jade, Harrison felt a cool sweetness spill through his chest. He’d never thought the fearless Medith could wear that look.

“Believe in Eunomia? Isn’t today’s Eunomia called the Kingdom of Paris?” Sais spoke, voice like a cold blade drawn in moonlight.

“Hm?” Clive followed the voice. A stunning red‑haired woman stood tall upon the wall, a jade face rimed with ice shards and storm‑dark gloom. The danger rolling off her was a winter wind; even from a hundred meters away, it made him shiver.

Under his black armor, Manto’s eyes narrowed. It hadn’t been long, yet Medith’s group felt like a rising tide that had changed the shoreline. Their growth was frightening, no wonder Paris panicked.

The trade line Medith planned through Xurenxus City was open. Nobles from across the continent flocked like migratory birds, eager to glimpse the Elven Queen Fangge. They sought a taste of orthodox magic, hoping to take two sprite attendants home.

Paris was buried under tangled affairs, pinned like a stag under a thicket. Recently, the mess with Medith and King Segireneto had him scorched and frantic. He had no time to notice; by the time he did, it was too late.

Haidra, under a protection agreement, sent out ten thousand elite soldiers in broad daylight. The mountains are high and the throne is far; in today’s Eunomia, every extra blade shifts the balance—let alone ten thousand.

The best window had slipped. With major powers flooding in, Paris couldn’t move on Xurenxus City for a while. With Medith’s ability, that single trade vein could grow into a forest of influence.

And that was just a sliver of what she’d done. The name Medith itself was a thunderhead on the horizon. Her nature was uncanny, unreadable. She was walking damp gunpowder; you never knew when she’d spark.

Now… besides the familiar faces—Iling, Sais, Milia—there were newcomers who looked anything but gentle.

Nameless wore the Ancestor Master’s signature ponytail. Forget skill—on this continent, a foreigner who dared wear that tail and stayed unscathed was either already dead, or a monster.

The Ancestor Master’s legend had been twisted until it was a synonym for misfortune. Those who admired him were branded bearers of bad luck; wherever they passed, trouble followed like rainclouds.

Fangge stood in plain brown cloth, legs braced, arms crossed. A demon mask leered on her face, unnerving as a midnight whisper. A great tachi rode her back and a long katana hung at her hip—both breathed danger like hot iron.

Several female sprites stood nearby, faces unknown, posture sharp. They felt like elite cadres; not one of them looked soft.

“Sais, why say that? Dynasties shift like seasons. Innovation serves the kingdom. His Majesty Paris lost his father and brothers, and keeps walking under the pain of a queen and princess broken in spirit.” Harrison’s honeyed words dripped like syrup, making stomachs turn.

By now, the world knew Paris’s deeds. Eunomia was no longer the warm, hospitable land of old.

Medith leaned forward slightly, a furrow cutting her brow. “Dawnlight are my friends. No matter what they did, give me a reasonable account. Or I won’t stand aside.”

“Hmph. Haven’t you already made your move?” Clive thought it, but didn’t dare say it. Medith had branded him with an image two days ago—a lone rider tearing the horizon—that left him awed.

“I said this is a private matter, not for disclosure. But…” Harrison paused, eyes odd on Medith. “Since you’re our best ‘friend,’ I can make an exception.

“Fortress Lord Gerald had a minor clash with one of my men. Nothing grave. But the Radiant Knights blazed with righteousness, lost their temper, and killed my subordinate.

“You know how grave that is. I only upheld justice and stood up for my men. Yet the lord refused and set his doors shut, as if nothing had happened.

“So I had no choice. If you want war, I’ll give you war.”

“You’re lying!”

“We didn’t do anything!”

“Commander Medith, don’t buy his nonsense!”

Mercenaries erupted like a kettle boiling over. They’d thought the Southern Kingdom shameless. Turns out they’d been naïve.

“Quiet. I’ll decide.” Medith’s hand cut through the noise like a fan closing. Frost veiled her face. Her voice came slow and terrible, as if a glacier cracked. “My lord, I’ll ask once. Is this your idea, or Emperor Paris’s?”

Harrison’s brow jumped. A bad wind rose. “What are you saying? I’m telling you—”

“Stop circling. You know what I mean. Don’t take me for a fool!” Medith’s sudden roar hit like thunder on stone; chunks of the wall shed grit and fell.

Harrison’s professional smile froze, then chilled to a killing stare. “His Majesty Paris personally entrusted it to me. The Segireneto Legion has bent to us and now serves under our banner.

“His Majesty always says there are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests. On some matters, our interests aligned like twin rivers. That’s all.”

Medith listened, drew a long breath, and shook her head. Helplessness crossed her like cloud shadow. Harrison drank it in. Far off, Erig let out a dry sneer. He hadn’t expected to see Medith like this.

Watching what she dreaded unfold—and by her own hand—was a bitter sweetness. Unrivaled.

“Sinis, wait. Brother will avenge you soon…” Erig murmured, counting old blood and new like tally marks on bone.

Manto felt a wrong note. “Why is Medith like this? In my memory, she never flinches even if a mountain falls. Is it despair?

“Or… is she worried for her people?”

Back in Sia City, facing that despair, she didn’t break. She carved a way out of stone. If he hadn’t pulled a last‑second bait‑and‑switch, he would’ve lost to dust.

Powell helped then, but…

Before he could sort it, a distant, iron‑hard roar tore the air. “Then! Let! It! Be! War!”

Medith’s officers beside her, Gerald among them, reeled. Mercenaries broke into cold sweat. Steel trembled in their hands like reeds in a storm.

So it had come to this. War was no longer avoidable. They weren’t regulars. How would they keep their hearts steady under crushing power?

“General… His Majesty will be so disappointed…” Harrison wore grief like a wet cloak, but the smile beneath it glinted.

“I’ll grant you one last courtesy. Seven days. In seven days, we’ll launch a devastating strike. Believe me, this isn’t a matter for punitive raids.

“This is about the face of national strength. Pray for yourself. Even you won’t break my encirclement.” As he spoke, Harrison flicked a glance at Manto.

Manto didn’t budge. Losers eat dust. He knew that better than anyone.

Medith snapped her cloak. “Full alert! Lock the walls tight! We’re stocked for war. Princess Felica won’t watch this evil idly. We give our all, hold Dawnlight Castle, and wait for her reinforcements!

Justice will prevail—”

“Yaa‑ooo‑oo—”

The reply shook like a drumline. The walls bristled with watchful spears.

“Do we do what we did at the start—crossfire them and smash their nerves?” Clive wanted to reuse Bonecrusher Arrows and churn their insides.

Erig shook his head. “No need. Dawnlight’s walls use Imperial Capital‑grade material. Regular Bonecrusher Arrows won’t do much.

You don’t have many left anyway. Save that battlefield ripper for when it counts.

The enemy is Medith. With her there, forget mind games. They’re wasted.”

That rang true. Harrison nodded. For Erig, proud as a high peak, to yield, Medith’s invincibility gained another shade of credence.

“So we can only go hard? With her skill and the fortress works, I’m afraid…” Harrison tried to draw on Erig’s experience. Erig had faced Medith head‑on and won. He knew her ways and steel.

“Medith’s army won’t break, but it will waver. That’s the one thing she can’t reverse. She just announced reinforcements to steady hearts. In this noose, help can’t come. So we go the other way.

We spread word they’re besieged. That mercenary commander will read the lines between.

If they come, we pin and hit the relief. With our strength, we can chew those country levies up.

If they don’t, even better. The mercenaries inside will collapse in a heartbeat. Not even Medith can turn that tide.

Then the castle will be easy.” Erig’s analysis poured like clean water. Harrison lit up. “Brilliant. Brilliant, brilliant!”

“Do you think that duke meant it? Seven days?” Sais didn’t flinch at Medith’s declaration of war. It was a step in the script. The others played their parts like seasoned actors.

They must have swallowed it whole. Even Medith had no way out, right?

Medith now wore a victor’s smile. Candlelight danced over her cheek, painting her in warm crimson. There was no trace of despair.

“Counting their pin‑and‑relief play, seven days fits.” Medith’s words made Milia start. “You mean… they’ll strike at any support for the mercenary corps, then break our morale off that?”

“Mm. A very clever move. Too bad their opponent is me. They don’t know this plays right into my hand. It only makes my plan more believable.” Medith’s confidence flashed like steel catching sun.