A little earlier.

After handing out flyers, Yekase slipped back into the palace like a shadow sliding over stone. She pulled Dorothy from the tower toward the safehouse she’d marked last night, a lantern in the maze.

"There are two kinds of people in this world," she said, words drifting like steam off porridge. "Those who mix congee with fermented tofu and oil-braised bamboo shoots, and those who don’t and won’t. I’m the former."

As their feet found the floor, Yekase started rambling, pebbles tossed to break a heavy silence.

Dorothy knew she was steering the mood, smoothing rough edges first, so she listened like rain on paper.

"Try it once and everyone flips camps," Yekase went on, voice light as smoke. "That’s how you find your own taste. The difference is just whether you’ve found your fermented tofu and bamboo shoots... Do you know why I like calling myself a genius?"

"...Why?"

"Because over-modesty’s a kind of vanity," she said, a smile like a knife under silk. "Hiding skill and refusing to use it is like wearing brocade at midnight. Maybe that’s the one thing I’m bad at."

"..."

World-class bragging, Dorothy thought, a banner flapping in a windless room.

Why the sudden victory lap? Because Yekase had just warped the maid automaton’s shell into midair, ten centimeters off her body, a moon hanging a fingertip away.

After nearly a year of study, her quick tuning for array circuits felt as natural as her other Infinite Power circuits, a second pulse under the skin.

"This means I can pilot the doll at range now," she said, eyes bright as cold sparks. "The motion fidelity is trash. It wouldn’t beat a foot soldier. But the shell’s reinforced with Flash Energy. It’s tough."

"Using it as bait?"

"Yeah."

Yekase peered through the prep room’s tiny window, a keyhole into a storm. The Holy Crusaders had rolled into Paris, iron wheels biting cobbles, not to keep order but rushing straight for the royal palace.

Did Labyrinth City pull back... or is it a retreat that lunges forward like a tide?

"The Golden Apple gives us only hours," she said, time thinning like sand through fingers. "No way to clear the palace... So, next phase."

...

Yekase had wrestled with a question: The Kingdom of France is full of noble mages who sprint faster than anyone when battle starts. Common soldiers have no magic and poor gear. How did this hollow roar not crumble in four hundred years?

If there was only one answer, it would be this: France has a Sword Saint.

Back before massed weapons knocked elites off their shrines, a Sword Saint was a true hero unit, a bright single star. They said she could cleave mountains and split seas, one blade pushing the English back, a legend that kept neighbors wary and France intact for centuries.

The wise knew the tales were swollen like storm clouds. No one knew by how much. No one wanted to be first to test the lightning.

For the French, she was a figure of fog, all rumor. Even General Nicolas had never seen her, nor heard her true name.

Right then, in a secret chamber under the great hall with no door in or out, a stone coffin shuddered like an old beast drawing breath.

—Whoosh!

A sword tip punched through, then cut the coffin—and the room—clean in half, a white line through black slate.

A figure sat up through the break, a rapier in hand like a silver reed. Long hair pale as snow hid her face behind heavy bangs.

The Sword Saint of France was a frail woman, half-dead and half-dreaming, sleeping under stone like winter roots.

"You... finally stepped into this country."

She pushed herself upright with the sword, and looked through the ceiling crack toward the dim summer sky, peeking at dawn through torn cloth.

"...Newton... Isaac Newton..."

...

No one answered her call across time, a pebble dropped into a deep lake.

She staggered forward, the rapier in her grip like a weight of a thousand catties, its tip dragging behind her with a rasp like dry reeds.

She walked out through the rupture, a ghost slipping through concrete.

Around her spread a man-made dungeon, cold and damp. The wake of that one cut ran along the ceiling to the corridor’s end, splitting the entire prison into left and right like an opened book.

She dragged the blade, footsteps tapping wet tiles like rain.

"Is anyone still inside?"

A voice sounded behind her, homely as bread. A farmwife with a pitchfork raised like a wand shouted to her:

"The soldiers and police will be back soon. Quick, come out with me!"

"...?"

The woman felt the farmwife’s hand close on her wrist, warm as rope. They ran the other way, feet pounding like hooves, then merged with other rebels and burst into the night sky like sparks from a forge.

Under Dancing Light, a keen eye would catch the ancient spherical joints in her elbows and fingers, little planets turning.

"Are you from Paris? It’s dangerous everywhere now," the farmwife said, breath fogging like steam. "Come with us?"

"...I..."

Talking felt alien, like trying on someone else’s coat.

The woman remembered everything—

Four hundred years ago, she took France’s bargain. Their Alchemists remade her into a human-shaped weapon that obeyed orders only, a blade left to guard the Bastille when it was still a frontline fortress.

She demanded one price: the binding array fixed to her soul had to fail the instant a man named Isaac Newton set foot in Paris, letting her self rise again like spring sap.

He did come. The Alchemists, long gone to dust, kept their promise like carved oath-stones.

Four centuries later, he... no, now she? She had stepped into this city after all, footfalls crossing fate like threads.

"I need to... see her."

As memory returned, control flowed back into this automaton body like water filling a vessel.

And the most important thing, her own name—

Anne.

She dragged the rapier toward the burning streets, flames licking like foxes, and slipped into the dim night like a river.

...

...

"You’re saying... she wasn’t in the tower?"

Nicolas sat on a pile of hay in the stables, face dark as storm glass, and listened to the report like swallowing grit.

When they met that eerie maid automaton, all 294 who crossed the trapped corridor reacted in perfect synch, a wave breaking in formation. Half stayed to hold the rear. Half bolted.

...Those brothers are probably gone, he thought, a stone in the gut.

A thousand elites went in, neat as polished boots. Now barely a hundred ragged survivors remained, helmets lost like fallen leaves.

Thinking of it sent rage ripping through Nicolas, a fire he wanted to quench by taking Dorothy’s head with his own hands, blade to neck like winter steel.

He still had tens of thousands stationed outside the palace walls, a dark sea. If he could behead Dorothy here, he could still steer the tide.

So he made this stable a command post, straw and sweat for strategy, and sent men to hunt Dorothy’s trail, starting with the tower where she had spoken—only to find that tiny room as empty as a blown lantern.

Where did she go?

More than a hundred elite soldiers, and they couldn’t find a fifteen-year-old girl? Even if she had magic and powers, she couldn’t just vanish like mist!

"Keep looking!"

Right then another soldier ran into the stable, breath chopped like drumbeats. "Sir, we didn’t find Dorothy, but we spotted suspicious people who may know where she went!"

"Oh?!"

Nicolas sprang up with a crack like a snapped twig. "Tell me!"

"There’s a standalone latrine by the drill yard under the wall," the soldier said, eyes flicking like birds. "We saw two strange young women slip inside!"

A latrine...?

Nicolas sensed something off, a prickle like thorns, but there was no time to be a gentleman. He led a dozen men, boots pounding like hooves, and rushed to the drill yard.

They ringed the wooden latrine, phone-booth small, wolves around a coop.

Inside came a whispery murmur, words tangled like threads. Were those two schemers weaving a plot?

Nicolas stepped forward and raised his sword, ready to split the door like firewood—

He hesitated again, breath caught like a fishbone.

Two young women were inside. In this mad, dark age, they had found a sliver of peace where no one would intrude, even if it was a dry latrine. Did he really have to break it with his own hands?

In that instant he felt powerless in the flood of the times, a man on a raft.

"Forgive me... This is for France!"

Chack!

The lock snapped. The door swung open like a mouth.

The scene within unfolded in the soldiers’ eyes like a painted scroll...

"Mind Body Manipulation!"

"...Huh?"

Nicolas froze, thoughts slowing like thick honey.

What was that black-haired girl doing... What did she just shout? Some foreign charm?

Yet he felt warmth for her instantly, a kinship blooming like spring sun, like coming home on leave and seeing his daughter’s smile at the gate.

A feeling that he could do anything for her, even walk through fire.

"Hello, Mr. Nicolas?" Fujiwara Ningning said, voice soft as silk.

"What is it, miss? The palace is dangerous right now," Nicolas replied with a smile like sunlight on steel. "Do you need us to escort you out?"

Aside from Fujiwara, no one else was in the latrine. Nicolas’s gaze clung to her like ivy, so he didn’t notice the bat huddled in the corner, a small shadow.

"I’m looking for the Golden Apple," Fujiwara said, words bright as coins. "My personal ability’s limited. I need you and your men for muscle. Can you?"

"Of course! Glad to serve."

The soldiers around him felt something odd, a chill like a draft. But they were grunts; the commander’s word was iron, and obedience was the only road.

Fujiwara’s smile blossomed like a flower. She hopped out of the latrine and walked up to Nicolas, while the bat slipped onto her back, clinging like a brooch.

She glanced over the soldiers and frowned, eyebrows like strokes. "Why are you all so ragged, no swords even? Were you hit?"

"Yeah," Nicolas said, jaw tight as rope. "The traitor Dorothy used tricks and killed half our brothers. I want revenge but don’t know where she hides, so I’d rather help you first."

Fujiwara nodded, calm as a pond. "Before we go to the garden, we need to rearm you."

"Thanks for your understanding, miss."

"Where in the city are the closest, easiest weapons? Take us there."

"Right. Everything’s there. Follow me and rally!"

"Yes!"

The soldiers all thought the same thing, a flock turning: The boss is bewitched by a young Eastern girl... Is that even legal...

Nicolas led his men and Fujiwara into the castle, feet echoing like drums, and reached a dining hall on the first floor.

Then he strode straight into the kitchen, copper pans shining like moons.

"Hey," Fujiwara said, puzzled, voice like a bell. "I asked for weapons. Why the kitchen—"

Nicolas answered by yanking open a giant pantry, hinges groaning like old trees.

Bread. Bread. Bread.

Bread. Bread. Bread.

Bread. Bread. Bread.

A whole cabinet crammed with long baguette-like loaves, rows like spears in a rack.

"This is our final backup weapon!" Nicolas declared, eyes bright as flint. "Take one each and arm yourselves!"