“Drop it, alright~!” Shelika groaned, her voice fluttering like a torn banner in the wind.

“Fine~~” Menea gave a fox-sly smile, then steadied her tone like steel. “Since the Holy Maiden won’t revisit her brave deed, let’s get to business.”

The moment the next matter was named, noise fell like leaves. The room settled, calm pooling like dusk water.

Shelika asked again, her courtesy smooth as silk. “May I ask, Lady Menea, why you sought me out specifically?”

Seeing the air was right, Menea’s gaze swept the room like twin blades. Then she spoke solemnly, each word placed like stone. “I want you and one of my knight squads to run a mock battle.”

One Dark Blood Clan against a whole squad of the Demonic Human Race? Shelika felt the words drop like stones; for a heartbeat, she thought she’d misheard.

Menea added at once, her tone weighing fairness like scales. “Of course, you must pilot that enemy weapon. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

At that, relief and trouble braided in Shelika’s chest like rain over fire.

Still, before deciding, she wanted clean light on the road, a lantern in fog. “Lady Menea, is this a drill with the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s Divine Warrior as the mock enemy?”

“As you said,” Menea admitted, crisp as frost.

“Why hold this drill,” Shelika pressed, her questions flying like arrows, “and is it even meaningful?”

Menea countered gently, her words rippling like a stream. “Miss Shelika, how could a drill be meaningless?”

“From what I know, those iron giant puppets—the enemy’s Divine Warriors—don’t fight alone,” Shelika said, her tone cool as moonlight.

“On the battlefield, a single Divine Warrior is often backed by three Nordland human phalanxes. At least one Celestial Spirit knight order rides with it to crush the enemy.”

“So I believe this drill doesn’t match reality,” she continued, her logic clear as a blade. “Aside from ‘everyone bullying a lone iron man’ to stir morale, it won’t help the war.”

Menea’s eyes widened a shade, and quiet respect rose like a hidden spring behind her steady gaze.

She praised with restraint, her smile light as dawn. “As expected of the Blood Clan queen’s third child. I thought your prized ‘upbringing’ was just old noble manners, but it reaches into warcraft. One sentence, straight to the heart—remarkable.”

“Spare the courtesies,” Shelika said, her words sharp as a clipped ribbon. “Tell me your true intent.”

Menea owned it with open palms, her honesty clear as glass. “As you, Holy Maiden, said—we want to ‘bully a lone iron man.’”

“Why? Doesn’t that remain pointless?” Shelika’s doubt rose like a pale mist. “If it makes legionaries think Divine Warriors are easy prey, they’ll get careless, and the drill backfires.”

Eyes around the room flickered in surprise, like lanterns jolted by wind. Her bluntness rolled through them like thunder across a plain.

Menea blinked once, then sighed with resolve, breath steady as a drawn bow. “Even so, our army must run this drill.”

“Why?” Shelika asked, the single word clean as a bell.

“You know why,” Menea said, voice hard as a mountain spine. “Our proud Gaia Legion has been collapsing like a landslide since the enemy loosed those profane contraptions they call ‘Divine Warriors.’”

“Many knights and soldiers now fear the enemy, especially those so-called ‘Divine Warriors.’ A timid legion can’t carry Phase Three of the Hymn Project.”

“Phase Three means committing the Wasteland Deity to war,” she continued, cadence ritual-sure as drumbeats. “Phase One was discovery and descent. Phase Two, choosing its bearer.”

“Many soldiers even doubt they can shoulder that grand vow,” she said, the room’s air heavy as cloud.

“That’s why we need you as tomorrow’s mock enemy, to rally our hearts like a rising banner.”

“I see…” Shelika’s answer drifted like mist, her lashes lowering like soft wings.

Under that earnest telling, Menea’s intent unfurled for Shelika like a painted scroll. Yet questions still clung like fog to pine.

“Is this only your idea?” she asked, voice calm as still water.

“Of course not.” Menea’s reply came firm as a stamp. “It’s a joint decision by several high officers, myself included.”

Caution tightened in Shelika’s chest like a bowstring, though her face stayed smooth as jade. She glanced at Rex; his bitter look sat on him like winter frost. She understood—the matter ran deeper than Menea said.

“May I refuse?” Shelika asked, the polite words thin as a blade’s edge.

“Best not.” Menea wrapped iron in silk, her tone gentle as a veil. “Refusal would trouble many. The Empire marches under heavy burdens. We’d rather not let the Earth Mother weep. We hope you’ll continue as the Holy Maiden. It’s my personal plea—please understand.”

“…Alright,” Shelika sighed, her breath falling like a lone leaf.

“I’m glad you agree,” Menea said, her face blooming like sunrise. “More in the Empire will be proud of you!” She looked every inch a knight-maiden, pure in bearing and blade.

Shelika’s feelings tangled like twin rivers, not sure to frown or smile.

“May I ask one more thing?”

“Go ahead~” Menea’s assent rippled like a small pond.

Now Shelika’s gaze circled the room like a steady lantern, weighing each face with quiet care.

“Battles always draw blood,” she said, the truth plain as stone. “If our knights get hurt under a thousand eyes, or if my prized Divine Warrior is damaged, what happens then?”

It was a hard knot of a problem. If the knights failed, morale would collapse like a tent. If the Eternal War Armor was wrecked, Shelika paid dearly. She wanted to know if they had counted these costs on their abacus.

“Rest easy. We’ll follow a script,” Menea soothed, her words laying a rail like ink lines on paper.

“Like a play?” Shelika asked, a wry image flashing like stage lights. “The classic ‘Please, stop fighting!’ scene?”

“More or less,” Menea said, eyes steady as lantern glass. “But you know the Demonic Human Race finds it hard to hold back in battle. Damage may still happen. If your machine suffers for it, our logistics and the academies will repair it.”

“Can they repair it well?” Shelika asked, questions sprouting like bamboo shoots—especially where her Eternal War Armor was concerned.

To others, the Eternal War Armor was a cold, pitiless engine, iron without a heartbeat.

But to Shelika—or rather, to Fulin—the truth sat warm as a hidden ember.

The Eternal War Armor has a heart.

Menea read Shelika’s care as a knight’s tenderness for her beloved blade, a hand lingering on a sword hilt like a vow.

To soothe her thoroughly, Menea explained in detail, words crisp as schematics. “From what we know, the enemy’s Divine Warrior is an iron puppet built on a special alchemical skeleton and an alchemical power furnace. They bolt armor plates and all kinds of attachments onto that frame.”

“In other words, if the skeleton and power furnace stay intact, our academy artisans can mend it,” she said, confidence steady as a craftsman’s grip.

In logistics, the Dark Spirit Empire’s great magic academies stand behind the Shadowspirit Legion, offering support like pillars when needed.

The Mobile Fortress—this earth-rooted colossus hauling men and materiel—was the alchemical fruit of those academies’ foundries, a mountain set on wheels.

Shelika followed the thread, her question gliding like a needle. “If you have that tech, why not make weapons identical to the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s Divine Warriors?”

Though she graduated from a magic academy, she’d never joined alchemy. Like most mages, she trained to store mana and shape spells; alchemy’s gears were fog to her.

Menea gave a wry smile, the corners of her mouth bending like a bowed reed. “Holy Maiden, that’s a sharp question~~”

“What do you mean?” Shelika tilted her head, a brow lifting like a feather.

Rex spoke in, his tone lazy as smoke curling from a brazier. “Those white spirits…the Celestial Spirit call them Divine Warriors for a reason.”

“Exactly, Squad Leader Rex,” Menea said, her grimace easing like thaw. Then her focus returned, tight as a knot. “To make an alchemical frame strong like a giant yet nimble like a night demon, the power-furnace craft must be both lofty and precise.”

“Sadly, no matter how we strive, the technique won’t yield. We still can’t build a Divine Warrior fit for a knight.”

“I see…” Shelika’s reply fell like fine rain on stone.

“And there’s more,” Menea went on, the words heavy as altars. “The Heavenly Spirit Divine Warrior’s power furnace reportedly runs on a ‘Godsoul Core.’ Priests say a Godsoul Core is a sacred relic only a god can make. To receive a similar relic from the Earth Mother, we’d need many offerings. The Heavenly Spirit command all Nordland’s resources; we have only our homeland.”

“In short, we can’t build one, and our national strength can’t afford one,” she said, the finality closing like a gate.

“I see…” Shelika’s answer drifted, quiet as snow.

A long sigh settled over the room like cloud shadow on hills.

“So I’m curious, Holy Maiden,” Menea asked suddenly, her gaze keen as a needle. “Intelligence says you don’t have a Godsoul Core. How does your Divine Warrior move?”