After the grievance-sharing meeting ended, Fro seized a moment alone with Aelina. He lifted his helmet, revealing a sorrowful face, and whispered, "Aelina, why did they suddenly gain courage after crying?"

"A community of shared sorrow," Aelina tossed out another term Fro didn't grasp. "They all have similar experiences. By sharing grievances, they evoke empathy, build bonds, and form a true sisterhood. Honestly, I wasn't sure it would work. I borrowed this method from a twentieth-century power that united a nation's poor and seized control. I simply copied it—unexpectedly effective. By the way, they all mentioned a war during their laments. What war?"

"This is a just war," Fro declared firmly. "A Nofia Empire lord coveted my people's beauty, imprisoning several Elf women as sex slaves. The great Elven Queen, enraged, launched a punitive war against Nofia, calling us to fight for our dignity."

"Oh, I see," Aelina said. "Their selling price must have been six gold coins."

Fro blushed and turned away. "I... don't know."

"One more question: do you Elves need a supremely intelligent human for war?"

"Her Majesty thirsts for talent, regardless of race or birth."

"Good." Aelina smiled. Fro shivered, sensing a hidden scheme in that grin. He blurted, "What are you planning?"

"You wouldn't understand. Simply put, I'll build a magnificent palace for the Elven Queen." Then fill it with long-eared maids, and you can guard the gate.

"A palace?"

Aelina patted his shoulder. "Don't overthink it. Go train those poor women to thrust spears."

In the smoky camp, Aelina gathered spoils: two carts of food—cured meats, a basket of potatoes, bags of wheat, hard cheese, and two perfectly roasted mules. Eight horses, four mules, and four oxen stood nearby—precious assets in wartime. The apes' currency totaled over a hundred gold coins, hundreds of silver, and a pile of copper bits. Aelina didn't grasp its worth, but when she gave Fro fifty gold coins, he danced with joy, marveling at the slave trade's profits.

Aelina cared most about magic. She craved power beyond this frail body. Sadly, she found nothing. The only magical item—a spellbook—had died with its ceramic-turned owner.

The girls now wore chainmail under blue-and-gold cloaks, gripping spears and blue shields, longswords at their waists. They chatted eagerly, ready for training.

That day's drill was chaotic. When Fro, fully armored in the cloak Aelina had just "washed," approached the recruits, they stifled laughter at first. But the plump, comical bee on his cloak—swaying in the wind—made a red-haired girl with baby fat burst out laughing.

The Elf snapped to attention, pointing. "You! Step forward!"

She stepped out, bright-eyed, her smile struggling to fade. Fro's brows knotted deeply.

"Name?"

"Ronnie."

"Call me 'sir'!" Fro barked, resolved to punish her. "Again."

"Sir, I'm Ronnie."

"Louder!"

"Sir! I'm Ronnie!"

"Report! Why were you laughing?"

"Because..." She stared at his wind-dancing cloak, the bee's uncanny grin provoking her. Her smile rekindled. "Sorry, sir, your cloak's bee is just... hahaha."

Ronnie doubled over. A shadow loomed; she looked up to see Fro towering over her—face grim, veins bulging. "Soldier! Why are you laughing?"

"Reporting, sir! Your bee looks... cheerful!"

Fro seethed. This cloak was his father's legacy, the bee painted by his mother—though poorly. He meant to punish Ronnie harshly, but glancing down, he forgave her instantly. Unbeknownst to him, the faint bee had been replaced with a bright, plump one wearing a cheerful grin.

His face darkened. "AELINA!!!" echoed across the camp.

Fro found Aelina atop the new tower. Her calm, star-like eyes surveyed him like a queen hearing a subject. "What is it?"

Her unruffled golden gaze dissolved his anger. "Can you change my cloak's bee back?"

Aelina's lips curled. "This grin is a 7,983-year-old lucky symbol in my world. It brings fortune to the wearer."

"Is... is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then..." His voice faltered.

"If you're unhappy, I'll change it."

"No—sorry, I misunderstood." Fro slunk away.

Watching him go, Aelina's system prompted: "Golden Ape taming level +1."

By evening, many girls had blistered palms. Aelina was satisfied—they could barely thrust spears, enough for cannon fodder. She gathered them, handing out ale and bread.

"Fro," she said, "your father was an Elven warrior. Soldiers feast before big battles. Lead them."

Girls circled the fire. Aelina set up two mules, cleaned of soot and char by the Molecular Reconstructor. Flames licked the meat. "This will witness warriors' birth," she declared, shoving Fro to the eager recruits to teach "feasting."

The Elf knew little. His father said armies drank blood-red wine before expeditions—more wine meant more blood to survive until medics came. Fro substituted sour ale. At first, girls kept distance from the helmeted instructor. But when he removed it, revealing a young, shy face that blushed after one cup, they cheered, feeding him ale nonstop. Laughter filled the air as they debated roasting mule meat like warriors.

Their joy infected Fro. He tried multiple roasting methods, giving the mules over a dozen flavors—half so awful they made you gag. As commander, he handed out portions.

"My dad said," he hiccuped, "when giving meat, play heroic music on a zither. And dance."

They scrambled for instruments. Someone thrust a warped lute at the Elf. Grimacing, he played an Elven war song—badly off-key. Everyone roared with laughter. Red-haired Ronnie danced clumsily by the fire. Others joined. Fro watched her beam in the flames, beautiful as a fleeting firework.

But alcohol blurred his vision: blood, flowers crushed in mud. Fatigue washed over him. He lay down, watching girls by the fire—not warriors. They mimicked legends: legs spread, gulping ale and meat, voices rough.

Fro knew their weakness. They only knew where to thrust to kill. Today, no spear broke his defense. Their formation was limp. Riding a pack horse, he charged and swung his sword; one girl dropped her spear, others scattered in panic.

Feasting lasted until the fire died. Drunk girls slept. Aelina sat on the wooden tower's edge, a coarse-cloth-covered "secret weapon" behind her. She watched embers fade to a wisp of smoke, eyes narrowing into standby mode, guarding the camp.

"Visitor: the Golden Ape you're taming."

Her system notified her. Aelina opened her eyes. Soon, Fro climbed up, his round helmet bobbing. His dirty cloak made the comical bee even funnier. He approached the Silverhaired Maiden. "Can I sit beside you?"

"Sit. What is it?"

Fro sat. He studied her: slender legs dangling, brown leather boots gleaming. Her belt, gloves, and pouches were brown leather. A rapier hung in a brown scabbard. Her shortened dress made her look like a capable adventurer, not a pampered noble.

Nervous beside Aelina—she toyed with a wooden pinwheel—he took a breath. "Aelina, they're unfit for battle. Worse than green farmers. After today's drill, if Durant attacks tomorrow, their arms will ache. They won't last."

"Want to run?" Aelina set the pinwheel down.

"No—I'm not scared. But I can't watch those girls die. Use your magic to dig a tunnel. We'll vanish; Durant won't find us."

"Run? Take them home? In this chaos, a group of women is just meat. Without fighting spirit, they'll face fates worse than death." Her voice turned icy. "Find them a kinder slave master."

"Aelina, I—"

"Think it over. Prepare for battle." Wind whirred the pinwheel. "Tomorrow, Durant will be... pleasantly surprised by my gift."

Above her, twin moons converged, casting faint red light.