Rand lay in the canvas chair, serene as a dusk lake, like he’d simply fallen asleep.

The desk before him was strewn like fallen leaves—maps of the Holy Crusaders and Labyrinth City’s monster ranks, plus letters doubting if Arcadia threatened France.

He would never read them again; his right hand, warm from the coffee moments ago, now rested on cold iron at his chest like winter frost.

His eyes were shut, his face calm; the blood at his lip looked staged, a scarlet petal brushed on by makeup.

“Old man…”

Dorothy called in a hush, a reed bending in wind.

No one answered; the tent felt hollow, like a shell washed by tide.

Lymriel had little history with him, so she stepped into evidence like a cat through reeds, circling the hilt jutting from the chair back to the desk’s far side.

She lowered her gaze like a lantern dipping, studying the neatly signed papers.

“…Master.”

“Eh? Ah! What is it?”

The roleplay net still held; Dorothy’s grief paused like rain easing, half a smile, half a sob.

“Is Adjutant Rand left‑handed or right‑handed?”

“…Left‑handed.”

“Lymriel agrees. His teacup sits to the right like a small moon. The ink on these lines is smudged, as if a left palm slid over wet strokes.”

She glanced down; his idle left hand lay on his abdomen, the heel stained with black like soot.

“Why would a lefty stab himself with his right? A sternum isn’t tofu in water. If he sought death, he’d use the hand with his strongest tide.”

“…?!”

“And his face is too calm. Even a soul that lets go will have a body that balks—some spasm, some stiffening, a ripple before the river closes.”

“But he…”

“I don’t mean I wish him pain.”

“…I know.”

What do these threads knot into?

A spark flashed in Dorothy’s mind like lightning over a field. “He was assassinated, then staged to trick us…!”

“No, likely not.”

“?”

“The blood spread from the wound like ink in paper—he died right here. Clothes are tidy, no other wounds, no struggle, no marks of dragging. A killer slipping into camp on the eve of war is wind in long grass; he wouldn’t waste time on theater.”

This wasn’t one of those orthodox Japanese mysteries with OCD killers; war drums were beating, and corpses don’t wait for clever puzzles.

…Japan?

Lightning flashed in Lymriel’s mind again—Japan, onmyoji, a name like a seal on water.

She knew someone, and a method soft as silk, eerie as mist: Mind Body Manipulation.

Fujiwara Ningning, is it you?

“Lymriel understands. This is the real fruit of a brainwashing spell…”

“Brainwashing?! Then the other soldiers—”

“Tell everyone: if asked their name, don’t answer. Report to a superior at once.”

“A true‑name spell? Got it!”

Dorothy was still pale, a moon behind cloud, yet she moved fast—she warned the soldiers outside, then called the medics to carry Rand’s body.

She stood long at the tent door like a sentinel stone, watched the troops disperse, then glanced back at the darkened room.

“Lymriel, we’ll let France see dawn.”

“Yes, Master. Your will is the path.”

……

……

By late morning, Labyrinth City’s monster army blew the horn, a storm-carved conch echoing over fields.

From tree bark, river reeds, soil seams, and straw bales bound like hay suns—things that flew, ran, and swam burst out like guerrillas from every thicket, gathered, then charged the World Tree.

As if they’d waited for this pretext like tinder for spark, the Holy Crusaders answered at once. Not toward Paris, but toward those loose monster rows—they needed a reason like a fig leaf to touch a sovereign capital.

The monsters were their fig leaf.

Cull them outside, then march in under “suspected monster collusion,” and France could only watch like a house in rain.

But Labyrinth City had fenced with the Church for years and knew their rhythm; the siege was smoke. As the Crusaders moved, every monster pivoted like fish turning under sun—the textbook flank became a straight‑on clash.

The refurbished Silver Demon Idol MK II flashed in by teleportation, a moon of steel in the center ranks, staring down two Twelve Apostles‑class mechs in the Crusaders’ rear.

Those pure‑white giants bore names “Peter” and “Andre,” strongest of their choir, one with a bulwark like a cliff, one with a cannon like thunder.

The armies collided outside Paris like two storm fronts slamming, shield to fang, hymn to howl.

In the royal palace, within a tower stricken from patrol routes like a dead branch, Dorothy watched the clash through war glass.

She raised a communication crystal, and her voice unfurled like a banner to five hundred hidden retainers across the wards:

“Everyone, Rand has gone ahead of us; we must not fear the night. Four hundred years have rushed by like a river. We break magic’s stagnant shell today—”

“Ancient France takes its first step!”

“All units, hold the Royal Way and the West Tower to the death. Until the last soul falls, nothing passes—no beast, no shadow!”

[Received!] [Orders acknowledged!]

“Lymriel, how are the traps?”

“All set,” the maid automaton replied with a garden smile.

“Good. I’m safe here, for now, and the Cosmic Wizard will watch over me. Go patrol the city. Stop anyone slipping in early to sow ruin.”

“Yes, Master.”

Lymriel inclined her head like a willow, then slipped out through the collapsed corridor, a quiet gait through dust.

Even at her fastest, she kept a lady’s poise, a swan in quick water; the black‑and‑white maid dress swayed in summer wind like a soft flag, just another doll in a city of masks.

The maid automaton didn’t know the storm today; she simply carried out her orders like a clock under glass.

Anyone tense for upheaval looked inward, not at a dull, sad construct passing by; the red gem eyes hid a line of sight like a needle behind velvet.

Alchemy born things are common in magic‑rich France’s high society, tossed in trash heaps like cracked teacups.

Lymriel moved through streets brewing a tight hush, a kettle before boil.

Paris had moved once. Before the World Tree sprouted, it sat further north on the Seine like a gull by water; now it lay in the nation’s belly, the Central Plateau’s heart.

Rain fell here three days out of five, a gray shawl; without the World Tree’s deep blessing powering public arcane works almost without end, floods would swallow months like ink.

That’s inside the fourth ring, the high quarter; outside, for common folk and slums, you can drop the “almost.”

Lymriel stepped into the slums, a hollow where roofs sag like tired shoulders.

Her glossy heels tapped wet stone, then wore mud like bruises; her black skirt and white lace apron picked up stain like fallen ash.

A child at the curb stretched soot‑dark fingers like twigs toward her; a mother yanked him back like a tide snatching a shell.

The doll stopped, a lamp stilled in wind.

“V‑very sorry! The child meant no offense to the maid lady! If there’s punishment, please lay it on me for failing to teach!”

……

She’d seen this scene in many Western fantasy light novels, like old plays behind thin paper.

Heroes with conscience often help. Then come massacres by villains, lectures on half‑measures, or mobs to “prove” the bottom’s rot, like mold glossed with light.

Inside the shell, Yekase smiled, a spark behind porcelain.

“By order of Princess Dorothy, Lymriel will teach you the art of magic,” she said, a bell laid on a table.

“Not only here—the city and the nation will gain basic magic education, step by step, like dawn spreading.”

Before the growing crowd, she conjured a heap of handouts like fresh leaves, and used the Levitation Spell to pass them out, pages floating like birds.

“The handouts include linking to the base network via Celestial Speech, and five basic spells: Levitation Spell, Oz Floating Disc, Flame Burst Spell, Dancing Light, and Calm Mind Spell. Learn them, then pass the handouts on.”

People took the papers like hot stones, but didn’t open them; fear hung like fog.

“Maid lady, we feel Princess Dorothy’s grace—truly, from the heart,” one said, palms wringing like rags. “But we don’t dare learn. We’ll be punished.”

“Why?”

“We’re second‑class folk; just being sheltered by the Great Barrier of Paris is enough grace for a lifetime.”

The Great Barrier of Paris—an unseen dome, a question like a knot. Dorothy hadn’t mentioned it, or Yekase had let it slip; outside, two armies weighed charge like wolves.

“…Lymriel bears her Master’s vow: from today, that crime is gone,” she said, a seal pressed on wax.

……

“You heard that?” “We heard.” “It’s the Princess’s promise.” “We can learn magic!”

Lymriel watched the bold ones open the handouts first, then everyone, pages fluttering like early snow.

Magic books free to borrow in Huaxia were outlaw tinder here; once, Yekase wouldn’t have believed such backward logic, a shadow behind silk.

Beyond the known exploitation, how much dark gloss hides under bright paint? You only learn by walking, feet on stone.

How many can she help with Infinite Power, and how far can she burn the old rot?

Yekase’s answer was a coal: she would burn until enough ash fell. Help as many as she could. Push as far as she could.

Where her hands couldn’t reach, those once helped would become extensions like branches; yes, some stale minds and bent morals would birth new thorns, but that’s inner conflict—don’t keep a tumor for fear of pain.

“Maid lady,” a man in a shirt and jeans wiped his hands like rain from stone, leaned close, voice low as ember. “I have news for Her Highness. After overtime last night, I saw a sneaky fellow slip over the wall. He means sabotage.”

“Where?”

“Paris’s far south prison—the New Bastille at the foot of the Central Plateau.”