Fulin wasn’t surprised she could keep her cool; her heart lay like a still pond under windless sky.

Those years in the 996 grind—nine to nine, six days a week—were a millstone; endless overtime, emergency meetings with boardroom eyes like knives, and cleaning up bosses’ messes in front of sharks.

Compared to that, this felt like a small stage with cheap curtains; she could breathe without the crowd’s glare.

But the situation still carried a storm’s breath at her neck; it wasn’t gentle by any measure.

The arrow tower’s gaze swept the station like a hawk over fields; the low barracks glowed with torches, teeth in the dark, leaving only the blind spot right under the lantern.

With the lamp casting shadow at its own feet, Lance had no clean way to sneak; the tower bandits had to fall first, like rotten fruit cut from a branch.

If the enemy had half a brain, the men in the yard would watch the tower like cats watch rafters, so once Lance struck, speed had to outrun the ripple before it touched shore.

Time couldn’t drag; at dusk she’d seen columns of signal smoke unroll like gray banners, the wolf-smoke calling across the hills.

Those beacons reached the Lionheart Legion’s main camp east of Mubay City, so soldiers were likely already armor-clad and marching, drums beating under iron.

If their mobilization ran tight, they’d set out soon after the smoke rose, a blade drawn without hesitation.

That meant Fulin had twenty minutes, sand sliding through a narrow hourglass.

‘Oh, for the love of turtles… old man, why didn’t you value your own life? If you hadn’t waited, I could’ve bolted first—ugh.’

The ticking pricked resentment like sparks under her ribs, but the ex-996 in her shaped a plan under pressure, steel tempered in a hot forge.

She had it—no more dithering; the bowstring was drawn.

Fulin, wearing Lance’s shadow, began to move, a ripple slipping under torchlight.

…

Fitch’s voice cracked like a whip in the barracks. “Boys, count everything worth coin; post guards on the girls. We move at first light. When we roll into Golden Bay City, you’ll all be men of means.”

“Yes, boss!” the replies rang, rough as gravel under boots.

Fitch and his crew were mercenaries fattened by local nobles in Golden Bay City, hounds fed on scraps to keep the villages calm.

They lived by stipends thin as gruel, herding peasants to plow and sleep, helping with taxes and beast-hunts, iron and sweat in their daily bread.

Only when nobles fought nobles did they taste true mercenary blood, steel clashing like thunder over fields.

It was a sparse life, monk’s hunger with soldier’s blisters; low pay made some men’s eyes turn wolfish.

Those who preyed on their lord’s land usually met knights like storm-driven blades; more than one fool bled out in ditch-water.

So an unwritten rule scrawled across tavern walls took root: paid well, be as good as a knight; paid poorly, don’t bite the hand or the peasants—bite strangers.

Away from their employer’s soil, mercenaries turned bandits with easy grins, lighting fires and spilling blood, eager to rob a house already smoking.

Mubay City’s outskirts looked like ripe fruit on an unguarded branch to Golden Bay’s mercenaries.

They once feared the Iron Duke’s iron-hoofed legions and kept their hands in pockets; now rumors of vampires drifted like cold mist, and the Lionheart Legion had pulled teeth inward to guard Mubay, leaving the edges blind.

Fools with no thought swarmed like moths into the flame, calling it opportunity.

Fitch didn’t count himself a fool; he felt luck ride his shoulder like a bright bird.

At the border of Mubay’s fief, the Gray Wolf Mercenary Band stumbled on a small castle with soft defenses, a scarecrow without a spear.

He’d thought it a military outpost, a place with only dust and orders, until the scouts brought back news that hit like a slap.

Carts groaned under high-value cargo: salt white as river stones, spices red as desert dust, beer amber as late sun, silk flowing like water.

There were noble maidens traveling together, and the one leading them looked unreal, like a painted goddess stepped off lacquer.

Loot the goods, fence them in the black market—the coins would fall like rain; the girls he’d sell to brothels or maybe an opera house in Golden Bay City, masks and red lamps in their future.

If it worked, Fitch would stand on life’s peak, wind clean in his lungs and pockets heavy.

He’d already done half; unlucky men swung from the walls like scarecrows, and dawn was a gate near at hand; success smelled sweet as ripe fruit.

Not everything was smooth; he scowled at the three corpses on the opposite barracks, faces drained pale like wax in moonlight.

Those three went rabid at the sight of girls, mouths frothing like dogs chasing meat, deaf to warnings.

Everyone knew noble maidens fetched the highest price; comfort raised them like hothouse flowers—white skin, bright talents—and virginity was a crown of glass.

Beauty drew coin, but maidenhood drew ransom; keep it intact and prices doubled or tripled, a scale tipping into greed.

Sell one noble maiden untouched, and you held one gold coin in your palm, bright as a sun.

That coin could buy, from the Church of Light, a title, a small fief, and a few serfs—chains of duty and parchment laid at your feet.

Days might not be lush as vineyards, but war between the Heavenly Spirit Empire and the Dark Spirit Empire was a storm that didn’t end.

The Heavenly Spirit Empire shoved its four vassal states forward like pawns, naming it a common front; Doran Kingdom’s dukes had to bleed.

The Iron Duke played it straight and sent the Golden Eagle Legion; the Vanilla Duke of Golden Bay City looked worse than swine, snout buried in the tax trough.

That pig kept drafting serfs and freemen and planned to throw mercenaries onto the front, bodies stacked like cordwood.

Fitch felt a chill like a reaper’s hand—if they didn’t shed the mercenary skin soon, monsters would tear them apart.

So he hammered caution into his men, words beating like drums: guard the noble maidens; don’t touch them.

Especially that radiant-haired beauty; her color was a banner in sunlight, and he wouldn’t lose another good blade to lust.

The afternoon fight had cost the Gray Wolf Band dearly; though fewer in number, the other side held a few bones of steel.

Two guards from the ladies’ entourage called themselves formal knights of the Duke’s order; with short blades and no full plate, they still cut down nine of his brothers, a red tally on dirt.

Then the brothers swarmed them; now the knights lay hacked into limbless sticks, torsos tossed like timber; Fitch hated peacocks who spread tails in front of beauties.

He smiled, thin as a knife’s edge.

He settled into a rocking chair not yet warmed by his backside, and drank barley beer, bitter as rainwater from a rusted bucket.

A lieutenant pushed in, boots crunching grit like dry seeds.

Fitch swallowed the bitter and snapped, impatience like a gnat in the ear. “What?”

“Boss, the blonde little miss wants to see you,” the words flicked like a spark.

Fitch unwrapped the coarse cloth from his battle axe, an iron tooth gleaming like a crescent.

“Let her in. Don’t loose the shackles. Two brothers, hang behind her like shadows.”

“Yes!”

His aide left; men heaved the door, wood groaning like a tired ox; under two mercenaries’ eyes, the golden-haired girl stepped in, chains dragging like winter rain.

Fitch checked the axe within reach and studied the girl, gaze a hunter’s under torchlight.

“Stunner” fit; maybe mid-teens, hair a sheet of sunlit gold, smooth as poured honey.

Her skin shone white and taut, polished stone under soft light; she had a girl’s frame, yet woman’s signs were round as ripe fruit.

Filth stained her from the afternoon’s chaos, but the dress—its cut was noble, the silk a river that caught flame.

Her face, he dared not hold in his eyes; he knew why three fools now dangled in the yard, and a boss couldn’t trip on his own pride.

He remembered the most dangerous detail—this girl could cast; magic hung around her like faint ozone.

If she hadn’t thrown a spell earlier, those two formal knights would never have held flesh against dozens for so long, a wall against a tide.

Fitch checked the axe again and feigned boredom, a cat pretending sleep. “Talk. What do you want?”

Given leave, the golden-haired girl stepped forward and offered a perfect curtsy, a swan’s dip on still water.

“Honored mercenary, how much to ransom me and my friends?”

Yes, that was the song he wanted to hear, but he wouldn’t rush; patience sat on his shoulder like a cold crow.

Smart men never ask family for ransom directly; you go through a middleman, sell her to a brothel and let them front coin like a bank.

Fitch waved lazily, refusal falling light as ash. “Ransom’s priceless. With that face, girl, know your worth.”

Panic flickered in the blonde’s eyes, a candle shoved by wind. “I’m Alice Murphy. If you don’t release me, my father won’t forgive you! And the Lionheart Legion’s soldiers are already on the road!”

Fitch and his men blinked, then burst laughing, stones plopping into muddy water.

“Ha—ha! Miss, that means we can’t let you go even more,” Fitch said, grin like a clamp.

“What do you mean?”

“Hang you on the gate, and your father’s men won’t dare a rush,” he drawled, voice smooth as oil. “My boys sleep easy, eat and drink from the carts, and gather strength like coals banking. When your camp’s sentries outside grow weary, I counterattack—the Gray Wolf Mercenary Band won’t mind taking another load of spoils from Daddy.”

“You, you, you!” Alice trembled, anger boiling like a covered pot, steam hunting a seam.

She felt these bandits were ignorant and wildly proud; they had no measure for the Lionheart Legion’s weight.

Using her as a threat might work briefly, but it only handed the army mages a stage, veils of air ready for tricks.

They’d cast invisibility like morning mist and slip soldiers into camp to cut chains, even if that meant bandits yanking up other hostages as shields.

Trained men of the Legion wouldn’t flinch; even if these thugs matched Dark Spirit Empire cruelty and strapped limbless torsos to shields, blades would still leave scabbards like lightning.

These bandits were dead men walking, blind to the cliff under their feet.

Fitch didn’t care to guess Alice’s thoughts; he saw a lady cracking under a small squeeze and found it funny, a porcelain cup rattling on wood.

“Take her down,” he ordered, cautious eyes on her fingers like a snake-charmer’s. He watched for any strange weave of magic, then told his aide, “Later tonight, move them to the barracks across the yard. Watch them tight, knots on knots.”

“Okay.” The mercenary started to go, then pivoted back, words like a tossed pebble. “Boss, the men—what do we do?”

Fitch smiled without warmth, velvet over steel. “The old way. If soldiers really come, we use them as meat shields.”

Crude as club-work, but it stretched time like taffy; the details were recipes only villains traded in whispers.

The aide nodded. “Understood, boss.”

Alice heard and her clear eyes blew wide, starlight smudged by storm; indignation surged like a high tide. She cried, voice a plucked string shaking, “You can’t do that! You’re evil! Scum! Filth! Shameful!”

Her scolding hit like rain on stone; Fitch only grinned wider, wolf teeth flashing in torchlight. “They say the Iron Duke cuts clean and shakes the four corners, but look at you—you’re in my hands. Ugly truth? You’ll only shame your old man.”

Alice burned with anger and hurt, fire eating rope; she would not forgive this bandit who spat at her and her father.

In Mubay City, no one thought she shamed the Iron Duke; she agreed to marry into House Morrison to steady the times, a candle lit against wind.

She knew the Morrison family’s second son stank like stagnant water; even if she wouldn’t wed him, friends praised her courage and selflessness, and she herself felt proud as a banner.

So when Fitch mocked her, she tasted only raw refusal and iron.

‘Why should a mere bandit say I bring shame? Why, why, why?’

‘These leeches who only know pillage—aren’t they the ones without shame?’

‘I’m so mad, so mad!’

Her fury ran its course like a summer storm; what remained was a fine, cold drizzle, sorrow seeping in like fog.

Her day was meant to be light as a spring breeze.

At the waystation camp, fate slammed into them: foolish, cruel bandits.

Two full-fledged knights were butchered before them, lives cut like reed-stalks.

Powerlessness weighed on Alice like wet sand, drowning her father’s old mantra.

Her father always said, “Make your own way,” like a lantern in fog.

She’d been proud of her natural magic, a spring she’d tended with constant meditation.

She even hired a battle mage to teach Breath of Resilience and Blessing.

Both were rank-one spells, small shields in a storm, useful in the clash.

But the worst was, neither could strike; no blade in this night.

If the hourglass kept bleeding sand, the Lionheart Legion would come for her.

They might save only her, like a lone boat lifted from a wreck.

Despair wrapped her like damp burlap as she stepped from the barracks, heavy-footed.

She kept her head down, staring at dust like ashes, dodging lantern-like eyes.

She didn’t dare meet her friends’ earnest gazes, arrows humming toward her heart.

Guilt rose like a dark tide; she felt she’d doomed them, however wrong that was.

Right now, she wanted a hero to stand up, a torch in this wind.

And a hero came, thunder cracking the dusk as if a drumhead split.

At the gate, a red-haired youth dropped like a falling star onto earth.

He moved quick as a cat, eyes bright as coals, frame upright like bamboo.

Silk on his shoulders waved like water, shouting noble blood more loudly than words.

With a blazing punch, he flattened a mercenary, sparks leaping like fireflies.

Every gaze snapped to him, iron filings pulled to a lodestone at once.

The mercenaries didn’t dare close; the leader and cronies whooshed out with steel, bracing like sailors for a storm.

Hostages’ eyes flickered like candlelight, some shocked, some worshipful, heat shimmering in air.

Alice’s girlfriends lit up like dawn; seeing such a dashing youth, their shy looks blossomed.

With one more blink at him, their gazes sprouted little hearts, a white-horse prince moment.

He stepped forward once, and the air tightened like drumskin; everyone held their breath.

Anxious and eager, they watched his next move, like field mice eyeing a hawk.

He walked and spoke, words skimming fast like pebbles over water, a laughing grin.

“Ah, sorry, sirs. I’m a passing Charge Knight, drifting like the wind, looking for an old man named Brook.”

His pace and patter sped up, dizzying, like rain rattling a tin roof.

He lunged toward a butler-dressed elder and chirped, “Oh! Brook, you’re here.”

“All right then, that’s fine—I’m taking him. Farewell,” a breeze cutting through reeds.

Before the last word fell, he hoisted the old man and charged, feet drumming.

They sprinted off, a streak through grass, vanishing like minnows into night.

By the time the crowd came back to itself, the pair were night-swallowed.

Almost everyone stood adrift like boats in fog; Alice went pure blank—Who am I, where am I, what just happened?

Her poise froze like a blossom in frost; she was stunned on the spot.