Priests were present, and though they couldn’t name the art, they felt a cold ripple of divine power, like wind skimming a dark lake.

That familiar pulse hit them, and judgment fell into place like a blade into its sheath.

“It’s divine art!”

The mohawk commentator, lost a moment ago, found his tongue again. His voice flared like a torch. “Didn’t think this Divine Warrior carries divine art too. No wonder the Whitespirits call it a ‘Divine Warrior’—makes sense!”

At that, the Dark Spirits in the crowd, used to such power, let the haze in their eyes thin like fog at sunrise.

In truth, nearly every Imperial Divine Warrior runs on a soul-core. Their strikes carry a braid of divine art, more or less, like iron laced with silver.

Inside the command post, generals felt their doubts line up like soldiers on parade.

“Captain Leman, can you still claim the Whitespirit’s Divine Warrior is easy prey?” The highest-ranked among them spoke from under a peaked cap. Its visor cut off the shrine’s dim light like an eclipse, leaving his face unreadable.

“General Shulke…” The officer who mocked the war armor five minutes ago bowed, shame heavy as wet cloth. “I misspoke.”

“That’s enough.” General Shulke kept it plain, like stone underfoot. “The exercise continues. Everything must be ready.”

“Sir, by ‘everything’—” another officer hesitated, words sticking like burrs, “—does that include that matter?”

“It does.”

“But that man isn’t ours. We can’t ensure he’ll follow your intent.” His urgency kept low, like thunder held behind clouds.

Those present shared the thought in silence. If the plan broke its rails, they all knew what would follow, like a flood behind a cracked dam.

General Shulke said, “It doesn’t matter.” His calm sat there like a rock in a river. “If it wins us the people’s support for this war, we pay the price.”

Another officer closed his eyes, conscience pricking like thorns. He forced the words out. “You’re right. To drive out the Whitespirits that stain the earth, we must accept sacrifice.”

“Good.”

Daemon Knights were Daemon Knights. Even after two lance-thrust punches from the Eternal War Armor hit them like twin comets, they lay there breathing steady, bodies tough as ironwood. The pair lived.

The afro commentator, a circus clown with a grin like greasepaint, mocked the two as they were carried off. “Ooh~~ these two just shamed the Legion!”

Melon rinds and rotten eggs flew like a messy storm. “So many knights against one weak girl and it’s still this hard—what’s wrong with you?!”

A part of the crowd swung hard for Shelika. Applause popped like firecrackers. “Well done! Maybe the Dark Blood Clan should take over the Legion!”

Support tilted Shelika’s way, yet the exercise stayed within the reins, like a horse still on the bit.

The five remaining knights suffered for it. Under the spit and curses, pressure pressed down like a mountain. Hands tightened. Breaths shortened. They had watched friends die to Divine Warriors. Even knowing Shelika was inside the armor, war’s ghosts reached up like cold hands.

Under trauma and nerves, the 314 Special Squad’s five began to falter. Movements lost their edge, like blades dulled by grit.

They still fought the war armor, clash for clash, but any sharp eye could see the shine fading.

A worried officer in the command post whispered, “General, maybe… we should end it?”

“Wait.” He said it steady, but worry crept in like frost. If the exercise that couldn’t fail went sideways, the plan was ash.

Shelika, riding the war armor, felt relief as their assault eased, yet joy stuck in her throat like a sweet too thick. She couldn’t win outright. To keep trust in the Legion, as today’s mock enemy, she had to lose.

But how to lose clean? The thought gnawed at her like a mouse behind a wall.

She didn’t think long. A spark caught. Her hologram blossomed before the five knights—hands folded at her chest, a prayer like warm rain.

“Brave ones, whatever hardship you face, don’t fear.”

“Maybe the enemy is truly strong, and your struggle won’t change the world. Still, don’t forget—”

“The ones you wish to protect stand with you, always.”

She spoke like a true Holy Maiden, words like balm over raw wounds.

The five knights wept on the spot. “Your Highness, Holy Maiden, we… we…”

It struck more than them. Tens of thousands watched with wet eyes, tears shining like dew under morning light.

Even the ones who sneered earlier began to wonder if their mouths had gone too far.

Then Shelika’s hologram vanished. Not just vanished—switched, like a curtain whipped aside.

A new figure stood there, no one had expected it. The Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison. Hated and feared by the Shadowspirit Legion for his slaughter of Daemon Knights.

“Heh heh heh. A real enemy never pulls punches on the field!”

“When you nasty warriors lie dead, I’ll strip your treasures, and steal your women and your children!”

“Your women will stand bare as statues, displayed in public like art, under open sky.”

“Your children will wear chains, slaves forever, just like our humans. You’ll be slaves for all time!”

“If you don’t get serious, then soon enough, everything I said will be true. Ha ha ha!”

Shelika made the hologram of “Lance” as loathsome as carrion in summer heat.

His laugh curdled, and the image snapped off.

“Curse that Blazing Fire Knight!!” The five knights burned up, anger turning to steel, rage hardening into will.

On that fierce will, they surged. Their counterattack roared like a tide.

The crowd rose, a sea of voices, tears hot as sparks.

“Go, knights!!”

“Don’t you lose to the humans of Nordland!!”

“Win! Our future hangs on you!!”

The place stood as one heart, one beat. The five rode that wave, breaking their limits. Shelika didn’t even need to order the war armor to fake defeat. The armor got hammered, battered to a wreck, like a banner torn in storm-wind.

Only when Shelika stepped out of the armor did the five pull back, shocked and ashamed at whether they had gone too far.

With the result clear, the judge general announced the outcome.

The mohawk commentator stoked the flames. “A battle for the ages! Backed by the Holy Maiden’s call, our warriors took a beautiful win!”

He wasn’t wrong. Without Shelika’s deft spark, the five might have lost heart and the fight, and the aftermath would’ve been ruin. She kept the line from breaking.

The five—especially the squad leader—still floated in the warmth she’d given, like men held in a soft current.

Tears streaked his rough face. “Your Highness, Holy Maiden, you’re the pearl given by the Earth Mother! We swear we’ll protect you!”

“Ahaha…” Shelika laughed, awkward as a cough in silence. “You knights should be guarding the Empire, right?”

“Ah…” He froze, then blinked awake. “Right! Yes! We’ll swear to guard you—no, guard the Empire!”

“Do you want to guard us or not?!” Making a fool of himself in front of Shelika, the knight drew more melon rinds and rotten eggs, a petty hail from the peanut gallery.

Off to the side, Menea watched with a smile like moonlight, graceful as a crane. “Seems heroes always stumble before a beauty~~”

She glanced, sly, at Rex, who stood there confused, like a man who’d been cheated on. “Rex, are you like that too?”

“I…” Rex’s voice shook, earnest as a blade held straight. “I just love her. That’s all.”

The commentator cut in at the right time. “Alright, our knights have cleanly beaten the Divine Warrior. Thank you, everyone. The exercise ends here!”

“Dismiss!”

The crowd lingered, then streamed away like leaves on a slow river.

As people thinned, legion soldiers tasked with order began to pull back, lines loosening like belts after a meal. Shelika and the five knights waited, not yet leaving.

Suddenly—

A man in a black, high-end trench coat appeared on Temple Street, a shadow cutting across the dusk.