Night fell, deepened to midnight, thinned toward the small hours, then broke like a pale blade at dawn.

Time thus reached the day before Worship Day.

That was the day the Shadowspirit Legion planned drills on Temple Street in the Holy City’s outer district.

The drill proceeded like clockwork.

The street held no usual pedestrians; only Shadowspirit Legion soldiers and knights, the latter keeping order like stakes in the wind.

Among them, the units set to drill marched to the emptied center, like spears toward a target.

“Form ranks!!”

A seven‑knight squad, well‑drilled and formidable, their captain a Sky Rank Knight, led from the front like a banner.

Once the line was set, he shouted, “Salute the officers!!”

They turned toward the street’s far end, toward a nearby temple pavilion, and saluted like blades snapping up.

The Shadowspirit Legion officers were inside, a temporary command post lit like a shrine.

Besides those officers and the soldiers flanking the street, many onlookers gathered like birds on eaves.

Barred from approaching, they had permission to watch from distant temple pavilions like terraces above a sea.

Almost half the Holy City crowded the pavilion roofs around Temple Street, hungry to witness this rare drill.

The alleys emptied, and the scene was a tide of people.

Three minutes after the seven‑knight squad stood ready, the crowd’s roar ebbed a little.

Shelika arrived, piloting the Eternal War Armor like a falling star.

Seeing the Divine Warrior descend, the calmed surface roiled again like storm‑tossed water.

Citizens buzzed like bees; soldiers stared, some fearful, some hateful; officers wore knotted brows and heavy faces.

“Is it really this thing that dragged our warriors into hard fights?” a legion commander muttered.

On paper he was rear‑line, a man who’d never seen battle; he laughed at the Eternal War Armor’s bulk.

“With that heavy body? Here’s a joke—can an elephant beat a lion?”

The jab landed neat and plain, like a thrown pebble.

A small cluster in the command post laughed, like twigs crackling.

Then the ranking man spoke, cap low, his face lost in dim light like a moon behind cloud.

“Quiet,” he said. “Maintain order.”

Nothing special, just a plain reminder, like a bell tapped once.

Yet the laughter snapped shut, and the air sank back into weight and ceremony like a stone into water.

Back on the street, per the plan, Shelika exited the armor.

The breastplate opened; the cockpit showed; she leapt out, light as a petal.

She wore, as instructed, the scandalously revealing Holy Maiden garb, silk like mist and light like sin.

A beautiful, sanctified daughter of the Blood Clan stood before all like moonlight on dark water.

Eyes everywhere swung to her at once, like iron to a magnet; citizens and soldiers gasped.

“So beautiful!”

“That's Shelika, the third princess of the Dark Blood Clan?!”

“They say she saved Oriel City—she’s the Holy Maiden of us all!”

“Long live Her Highness the Holy Maiden!”

Her recent deeds and that carefully elevated beauty won almost every onlooker’s praise like a chorus rising.

After a minute, the noise subsided like a tide drawing back.

The drill’s sequence was public; once both sides took the field, they exchanged addresses like envoys.

First, the knight squad.

Their captain stepped up, solemn as stone.

“Fenris, captain of Gaia Legion 314 Special Knights.”

“It’s an honor to meet Your Highness the Holy Maiden, and a blessing to face you in a match!”

Though he kept his tone formal, excitement and worship flooded his face like sunrise.

His breath quickened, and his Battle Aura flickered, leaking like sparks.

Luckily the citizens were too far to see his clownish state, or the Shadowspirit Legion would have lost face like a dropped mask.

Maybe the others knew; the nearby soldiers snickered under their breath like grass in wind.

Once they were sure his words carried to all, it was Shelika’s turn.

Following procedure, but with steel in her voice, she said, “I, Shelika Rafield, pilot of the Eternal War Armor, will, for my mission, gladly cross hands with you today.”

On a pavilion beyond the cordon, Charlotte, perched on Menea’s shoulders, cheered like a skylark: “Big Sis is so cool!!”

Menea steadied the two little kicking feet, keeping the birdlike little sprite from falling like a dropped chick.

She sent a look toward Shelika on the street, shaded with admiration and envy like twin leaves.

Then she tilted her head at Rex beside her and smiled, casual as breeze: “Captain Rex, is this why you like Shelika?”

“You could say that,” Rex said, tamping down his thrill like a lid on boiling water, trying to stay serious.

“But what I like more is how she throws herself at her mission without looking back,” he added, eyes sincere as clear wells.

Menea’s smile thinned like a line of ink. “You mean what happened sixty years ago?”

“Mm,” Rex said, gaze deep. “And now—what she’s doing for all of us.”

Menea sighed, like wind through chimes. “You’re right.”

With both sides entered and done speaking, the announcer swept in like a stage curtain, a man with a rooster‑crest hairdo riding a cloud of rainbow hype.

Flashy smoke, ridiculous hair, and a voice that, despite the getup, held iron magnetism; he hooked every eye like a grapnel.

He boomed with hot‑blooded energy, drums in his chest: “Ladies and gentlemen, soldiers and citizens—it’s my honor to bring you this earthshaking bout!”

“Before we start, you know this is a drill. Let me lay out the sides!”

The field quieted like snow falling. People leaned into the voice.

“First, the Holy Maiden you all know—Shelika Rafield of the Dark Blood Clan’s royal line!”

The crowd’s cheer climbed like a wave.

“She’s of noble Blood Clan stock and a powerful mage.”

“But today, for this drill, she won’t stand as a Blood Clan mage.”

“She’ll play the enemy and pilot an enemy Divine Warrior—”

“To test whether our warriors can fight a Divine Warrior head‑on!”

Again the crowd roared like surf.

“On the other side, the Gaia Legion’s 314 Special Knights.”

“Each member is a hardened knight at Earth Tier or higher, steel in their bones.”

“They’ve bled in a hundred fights, and in today’s drill—”

As the playbill promised, this drill comes with a script.

“Suppose our Holy City is, tragically, breached by the enemy, gates broken like a dam.”

“They’ll play a knight squad sweeping the streets, when they stumble on a lone enemy Divine Warrior—”

“With no support on either side, facing a solitary Divine Warrior, does our knight squad have a real chance to win?!”