By the time they reached the scene, the port was gone. In its place lay toppled ruins, and rows of ships flaring like sky-piercing torches.

“Port... how...” Hermans dropped to his knees with a dull thump, as if the earth had punched the breath from him.

In the Committee of Victory’s eyes, if they couldn’t seize Newkaster, they’d rather bury it. Their will turned sharp as a knife.

The port was Newkaster’s lifeline, a blue artery to the sea. So they planted bigger charges and blew the vein to ash.

Without a port, the city would bleed out. They snapped the net and let the catch drift dead on black water.

But the city’s death came faster than Lance had guessed, like a storm arriving before the warning wind.

After the port blast, a spell unit reached the outskirts. Their banners snapped like crows over wheat.

Strictly speaking, they weren’t the Government Army proper. They were the Joint Legion the great nations kept on the Republic’s front line.

They had come because the Government Army had asked days ago. They came to hunt a Shadowspirit Legion hiding in the city’s bones.

They had also come because their lines had gone silent. The city looked seized by the Shadowspirit Legion, like a lantern gulped by night.

So the unit kept its pact like a winter oath. Dozens of sixth-circle battle mages raised their hands and cast as one.

They launched a massive arcane shell, a comet of runes howling from hundreds of meters away.

It burst over Newkaster like a thunderhead and split into thousands of “Fireball” seeds.

Red dots fell like monsoon rain, thick and pitiless.

Roofs caught like dry grass. Streets rolled and roared into a sea of flame.

The fire that turned the city to rubble burned for three days, a sun that refused to set.

The crying of the homeless outside the walls carried three nights, a tide that beat the stones and didn’t ebb.

When the embers died and a sighing waste was all that remained, Newkaster vanished like a name blown off a gravestone.

“This is too much... it’s too cruel!” Yuna stared at the wasteland and wept, her grief a rain that wouldn’t fall.

“Because they couldn’t have it, they chose to destroy it,” Violette said, shaking her head like a willow in wind. “They dragged the innocent into fire.”

“I’m sorry, everyone. This is my homeland, the Mephis Republic.” Crick’s face was half stone, half water.

While gloom pooled, Lance tried a crooked smile. “Look on the bright side. We’re all still in one piece, aren’t we?”

Several Celestial Spirits lifted their faces into a shard of light. “Yeah... thanks to you, Sir Knight, we’re alive.”

But more gazes drifted like lost boats. “Alive, sure. What do we do now?”

Lance answered and lifted them like a hand under a wing. “We find another ship. The Republic’s got more ports than Newkaster. We still have chances.”

Violette frowned, puzzled. “There are other ports? Where?”

“Here.” Lance spread a map for all to see and tapped a mark a little to the north, like pointing at a star.

“Midway Port Valtan,” Crick said, his expression turning solemn as a closed gate. He spoke the name like a bell.

“Midway?” Violette tilted her head, her confusion a small bird.

“Yes, Midway Port Valtan.” Yuna straightened from her sadness and spoke smooth as a clear stream. “The route’s long.

“Supply ships from many nations stop at Valtan first, then head to the front after the crews restock. It’s the transfer hub of frontline goods.

“It’s also the Republic’s biggest, busiest port city now, a market that hums like summer cicadas.”

“Hah. Girl, you’re impressive. You know more than me, and I’m the one from the Republic.” Crick laughed loud, like a log crackling.

“As my master’s maid, I should,” Yuna said, modest as dew.

“But,” Crick’s smile faded like smoke, and worry drew lines. “By land, we have to pass Crescent Pass to reach Midway.”

Lance slid his finger to the midpoint between here and Valtan, a canyon carved like a scythe. “Right, Crescent Pass. What’s the problem?”

“Crescent Pass...” Crick gazed back through time. He spoke of a key choke point of the Republic, a mouth that swallowed men.

The Government Army blocks northern front men trying to flee south. It also stops southern movements from slipping north to stir trouble.

“In short, it’s the Government Army’s stronghold,” Crick said, neat as a sword stroke.

“The Government Army...” Lance fell thoughtful, his mind a millstone. On paper, they serve the Republic’s Elder Council.

In practice, they take orders from the Joint Legion at the front and manage the Republic’s rear like stewards with iron keys.

When no duty binds them, they’re a warlord force. The one who runs them is called the General, a warlord in all but name.

Not long ago, that General tried to conscript Lance from afar. Lance had refused, like a cliff refusing the tide.

“If our Blazing Fire Knight gets grabbed at the pass, we’re in trouble,” Violette said, worry fluttering like moths.

Other Celestial Spirits chimed in, their voices thin as reeds. “Sir Knight, you won’t ditch us halfway, will you?”

Seeing their worry knot, Lance thumped his chest. “Relax. I’ll deliver you to the Empire myself.”

The young knight sounded solid as an oak. Faces unknotted, and breaths flowed like wind through pine.

Shelika watched with a small regret, like a petal falling. She let it go, closed her eyes, and breathed.

“I’ll cherish these days,” she whispered. “Thank you... Lance Morrison.”

So they set out again, feet on dust and hope. The road unrolled like a gray ribbon.

They met only refugees blown loose like leaves, and soldiers marching like rain lines across a field.

The journey pressed on them like low clouds. Their moods sank with every mile.

“Like the sea needs wind, like morning needs sunlight...” One day on the road, Yuna sang a gentle tune, soft as dawn.

“What’s that song?” Lance walked in front. He felt a peace unlike the barren days, and curiosity rose like a spark.

“It’s a ballad I heard back in the Republic,” Yuna said, walking and weaving memory. Her voice carried her father’s warm shadow.

She’d heard it outside the consulate in the capital, a folk song drifting like incense over stone steps.

“I see...” To be honest, Lance didn’t care much for such things. Yet he was surprised this war-ripped land held such quiet romance.

“Brings back memories,” Crick said. “How many years since I last heard it?” His sigh moved like wind over old roofs.

“And there’s a legend with it,” Yuna added, her words bright as a candle in fog.

“What legend?”

“As long as everyone sings this song, war in the world will cease,” Yuna said, like she was wishing to a clear sky.

They all stared, astonished. In a country this ragged, such a beautiful tale rose like a lotus from mud.

The legend itself lacked brag or blade. It felt like a pure blessing, calm and good as spring water.

The Celestial Spirits lowered their heads when they heard it, as if listening to rain on eaves.

A few minutes later, Lance called out, “Break’s over. Pick up the pace, everyone.” His voice was a steady drum.

They set off again, steps lighter for the pause, like packs had lost a stone.

That lightness held. It carried them like a steady wind— all the way to Crescent Pass.