On the way back, Yekase snagged a flyer like catching a drifting leaf.

At home she dropped her bags, glanced at it—an equestrian… dragon-riding club ad, a gaudy fish on paper.

Looks like our Western friends finally tamed dragons, like roping lightning.

Yekase folded the flyer into a paper plane and flicked it toward the trash, a gull gliding into a dark bin.

Dragons carry different truths East and West, constellations charted by rival priests.

In the East, reptile-type dragons were eaten to extinction centuries ago; horns ground into a cough remedy called Longjiao-san, ash in a teacup.

And Westerners… how to say… they’re not much for eating, like hunters wary of their own shadow.

In this satellite-sown age, many rural Western towns still lack net coverage; their sharpest tech is the tractor, iron ox on clay.

Add some well-known religious history, and folk countermeasures against Sinister Organizations and disasters line up as one—magic, candles against storm.

They say even rednecks with middle-school diplomas can learn magic; rumor or truth, beer talk under stars.

If there’s a chance, Yekase still wants to train Ling Yi in more skills, braid East and West; more tools, fewer graves.

…Damn, I sound like a mom signing kids up for clubs, a sparrow fretting in rain.

She roasted herself with a mutter, a pebble dropped into a well.

Yekase sprawled on the rental’s floor as on countless nights, eyes on ink-dark window sky.

Train Ling Yi till she stands on her own, a hero who doesn’t die easy; then…

Then what? A lantern with no oil.

Why does Ling Yi want to be a hero anyway? A seed with no name tag.

She never said, did she? Silence falling like snow.

Realizing she’d chased a task without its first spark, Yekase slipped into a heartbeat of chaos, a boat lost in fog.

Knock-knock-knock-knock! Sharp as woodpeckers on bark.

"I’m Crimson Field!" The voice pushed through the door like a cold draft.

Yekase cracked the door like a shell; Crimson Field pinched her card and waved, a crescent smile.

"I brought the Dragon God Core."

"You brought… what?" The words fell like marbles on tile.

A bad premonition rose like floodwater; Yekase looked past him in despair.

That wasn’t night draping the city but a ship’s shadow, a steel cloud over brick.

In independent-operation mode, the Dragon God Core is a red-and-black fighter; now it hovered above the rental, a hawk over prey.

How a jet hovers, we’ll shelve that storm; no concealment at all, a torch in dark.

"You want this building bombed?" Her voice cracked like ice in a river.

"Shouldn’t happen; no one tailed me," he said, easy as summer wind.

"You parked a jet over homes in broad view; no tail needed to smell trouble, blood in water!"

Yekase almost dropped to her knees, a reed bent in wind.

In the mall his brain spun fast, nimble responses; she thought she’d lucked into a Red above average IQ—now the mask slid like wet paint.

"Oh… you’re right." His shrug drifted down like a feather.

Right, my ass, she thought, thunder without rain.

Crimson Field scratched his head, sheepish as a pup. "Sorry. If I don’t refill honey mustard on schedule, my brain runs low on sugar and stalls."

"Didn’t you just eat a mountain at dinner?" Her words snapped like chopsticks.

"That was a cheat meal," he purred, a cat on a warm sill.

"You’ve given cheat meal a new meaning… Whatever. The longer we linger, the sharper the blades. Let’s move. How do we board?"

"Direct teleport." Crimson Field pulled a red cube from his tracksuit pocket—the one he used to transform and cast—and held it up, a cherry ember.

Light burst from the cube and wrapped them, a silk cocoon; a blink later the glow peeled away, and the cockpit held them like a steel womb.

If this even counted as a cockpit, a hollow shell under sky.

Dragon God Pioneer and its scattered limbs used panoramic visuals like other humanoid war machines; through the spherical shield, outside looked glass-close, clear as lake water.

Inside, no seats, no sticks, no buttons or gauges, a blank shrine.

More striking than that, what hooked Yekase’s mind was this:

"Instant live teleport…" Her voice fluttered like a moth to flame.

During development of her Schrödinger’s Inventory, she tried teleporting ants; it ended in dead ants, tiny coffins.

Yet the squad’s robot did living teleport as if breathing, a miracle like dew on grass.

"Flashblade Red’s first outing—we talked a lot in the team," Crimson Field said. "That armor was so cool. The doctor who built it—you’re amazing."

Sincere as a clear bell; but knowing a little meant seeing the canyon between herself and a real squad doctor; Yekase’s smile turned wry, a scar under light.

"Offer technical support?" she thought. "I’ll be lucky if they don’t mind me," a guest at a feast.

Crimson Field stood in the center, raised his hands like a crane, told her she could sit anywhere, then widened his eyes and focused on piloting, pupils black suns.

At noon, watching them fight, Yekase already wondered: their robots could fight solo, transform and combine, fire single-target finishers, and even seemed to operate others—his last cannon used a lion’s head, not his own core.

So many operations—it was hard to believe one console managed it, a hand juggling thunderballs.

Turns out there wasn’t even a console, just air and will.

How did they pilot these machines? A riddle like a sealed stone gate.

Solve this knot, and the Flashblade series could field giant humanoids too, a forest of iron.

"Takeoff! Target [Quarry]!" His shout cracked like a whip.

…Direct voice control, huh? A spell braided into steel.

And why a quarry, anyway? Questions pooling like rainwater.

Crimson Field caught her frown and answered, "Our base sits in an abandoned suburban quarry. Good concealment, wide territory—valley cupped in palms."

"Makes sense," she said, the thought settling like dust.

Giant robots hit hard, but they’re too eye-catching in peacetime; safety bleeds, a red ribbon in snow.

Speaking of hero safety, the Sinister Organization Management Act holds this: if a hero thwarts a D-level plot or destroys an E-level group, they’re recognized by the Act.

Lower-level groups and branches can’t launch targeted exterminations under that pretext; the law draws a circle, chalk against wolves.

In essence, it treats a hero as a small organization, free to join regional power struggles, a lone banner in wind.

Enforcement fades as you leave big cities, ink washing out; but when groups devour each other, it’s a tidy legal casus belli, a clean blade.

The Dragon God Core flew smooth as silk, with no engine roar, only quiet wind; Crimson Field pulled a hidden cabinet from a nook and found Yekase a folding stool, a heron’s perch.

She saw the cabinet’s upper shelf stuffed with snacks, bright wrappers like autumn leaves.

After half an hour of flight, the Dragon God Core reached a hill with its guts mined out, a hollowed yam.

She pressed to the panoramic screen and peered down; inside and around the abandoned-looking quarry, seven or eight lights glowed low like stars, shy fireflies.

Trees and rock covered them; you’d sweat to notice, a hunter in brush.

"Mining—the firelight of my flesh," she hummed, sparks in ash.

"We’re here, Beast King Squadron’s secret base, [Quarry]," Crimson Field said, guiding the Core to descend toward the pit’s center like a falling leaf. "Are you humming?"

"Ah, nothing," she said, waving it off like mist.

Yekase helped fold the stool, hands neat as origami.

Crimson Field didn’t lift the transform cube as he had when boarding; when the display went dark, he pushed open the hatch on the cockpit’s top, a skylight in steel.

"Rare chance. Want to stand on the Dragon God Core’s head and see the Quarry from within, a bird’s-eye under stone?"

"Sure," she said, curiosity a cat at a window.

The floor under the hatch rose and lifted Yekase halfway outside; she gripped the railing and looked up, eyes drinking in starlight.

"…" Her breath paused, a deer in snow.

Lamp-lit tunnels, veins in rock.

Man-cut cliffs, stairs carved from bone.

Slat huts, a village of boxes.

A hidden corner of the base under a rocky overhang, shadow like a cave mouth.

And beyond the rough edge, a night sky unpolluted by city light, a jeweled bowl.

"Set the new world in motion—the mirage of forward rush," she murmured, river foam slipping away.

Thunk.

Just a gentle tap; the Dragon God Core settled at the pit’s bottom, a steady roost.

"Our base is pretty big. As a fellow hero, you and Flashblade Red are always welcome," Crimson Field said, warmth like a campfire. "But tonight, let’s meet our professor first."

He raised the cube through the hatch gap with effort—seems you must hold it like that to bring someone—then the two returned to civilization, a spacious steel room clean as a blade.

It was late; the other four weren’t around. Only a woman in a lab coat stood in a far corner, directing two robots as they serviced the green Dragon God’s Foot, a mechanic’s ballet.

"Professor! I’m back!" Crimson Field yelled, a flare in quiet air.

The woman he called Professor turned and glanced at them, then returned to her work, calm as moonlight on stone.

"She uses the codename Omega F, so we call her Professor F," Crimson Field said. "Don’t let that stern look fool you; her heart burns with passion and justice. Dragon God Pioneer, from design to build, she did it all."

"One person designed a robot that big?" Yekase said, shock a cracked bell. "That’s…"

What kind of overtime beast… a tiger that never sleeps.

Her estimate for a Flashblade System giant was two to three years, and that just for Ling Yi alone, no transform, no combine; if she had to design this… she’d bolt at the bid, a cat from water.

"Crimson Field," Professor F said when she was still ten meters away, voice a polished blade.

"Yes, ma’am!" Crimson Field snapped to attention, straight as a spear.

That scared? His fear hummed like distant thunder.

"Today’s decision error. Write a reflection. Deliver it the day after tomorrow," she said, each word a stamp in wet clay.

"Got it!"

"Now you may go."

"Professor, remember to rest!" he called, a kite tail on wind.

Under Yekase’s horrified gaze, Crimson Field turned and left without a blink, leaving her alone before Professor F, a leaf before a cliff.

Professor F’s curves showed even under the lab coat, dunes under linen; especially those half-exposed, white-bright headlights—clearly xenon—dazzling Yekase to squint.

She folded her arms, twirled a lock of hair at her temple, playing with her own nerves like silk.

"Um… Professor F? I’m Flashblade Red’s supporter. Name’s Yekase," she said, voice a small bell.

"Flashblade System, right?" Professor F’s words dropped like stones into a pond.

"…Yes!" She answered without thinking, matching Crimson Field’s crisp drumbeat.

"In the Flash Energy field, I know only one person—Dr Ika of Unrecognized Consortium X," Professor F said. "He stood on the enemy side, but I heard he perished in flames recently. A pity, a burned library."

Uh?

"Aren’t we discussing the Flashblade System? Why bring up that mad scientist?" Her thought flickered like a moth at glass.

"Your design language echoes his," Professor F said. "Since it’s used on the right path, I won’t point fingers, rain without thunder."

Professor F made two gestures; the robots that had been waxing the Dragon God’s Foot brought over a table and chairs. After they sat, the bots set a tea set, steam a small cloud.

"Red tea or coffee?" she asked, eyes cool as a lake.

Cola okay? Yekase swallowed the words and smiled weakly. "Red tea," she said, politeness a paper fan.

She lifted the cup after it was poured, inhaled—no clear note—then took a sip, a leaf touching water.

"Hu…" Warmth seeped in, different from milk tea, sunlight on frost.

"Perhaps it’s late," Professor F said, taking a light sip and meeting Yekase’s eyes, gaze a steady star. Her expression brewed, then finally pressed out a smile, thin as dawn.

"Thank you for fighting for justice, Dr Yekase."