The two assassins who betrayed Plamia from behind were none other than spies personally chosen by Elsa and planted within Plamia’s group.

“My lady Elsa, look.”

One assassin picked up the Lait Magic Crystal and respectfully presented it to her.

Elsa gazed at the deep blue glow emanating from the crystal, captivated. She accepted it, felt the immense magical power within, and the corners of her mouth curled into a pronounced smile.

“An unexpected bonus… quite the treasure.”

“This Lait Magic Crystal belonged to Troll Chieftain Ulthos,” the assassin reported. “Under its power, the trolls’ strength doubled. We barely made it back alive to see you, Lady Elsa.”

“But you *are* alive, aren’t you?”

Elsa raised an eyebrow, glancing at the unconscious Plamia on the ground. “Which is precisely why she fell so easily to you—and her subordinates were dealt with too. Saved me considerable trouble… Hmm?”

She noticed the other assassin crouching to remove Plamia’s armor.

Without a word, Elsa slashed her sword. A wave of Sacred Flame severed his arm clean off.

“Aaargh—!”

Clutching his stump, the assassin writhed on the ground. “Lady Elsa! Why?!”

“Who gave you permission to touch her armor?” Elsa’s gaze turned icy. “Out of old sentiment… I wanted her to keep some dignity.”

She dismounted, extended a hand. A subordinate passed her two sets of shackles and a long iron chain.

Kneeling beside Plamia, Elsa removed the armor herself, revealing her slender frame. She shackled wrists and ankles, wrapped the chain tightly around her body, hoisted her up, and tossed her onto the warhorse’s back before mounting.

“Let’s go. Return.”

The traitor who’d handed over the crystal swallowed hard, eyeing his bleeding comrade. “Lady Elsa… him?”

“Bring him too. With these two corpses.” She gestured to the slain knight and priestess, a cold smile playing on her lips. “All three are crucial ‘evidence’ to convict Plamia.”

Rain began to fall—softly at first, then pouring heavily, as if trying to wash the truth away.

The Expeditionary Force marched off.

They took Suran’s Lait Magic Crystal.

…

*Squelch. Squelch.*

Elegant black leather shoes stepped through sticky mud mingled with blood and flesh. The stench of decay hung thick—but the poised maid didn’t flinch.

“What a brutal battle,” Suran murmured, entering the Valley of Putrid Winds and scanning the scene.

Recent rain had carved muddy streams, scattering unrecognizable corpses everywhere. She walked slowly, senses stretched wide, searching for the Lait Magic Crystal’s aura.

After nearly scouring the entire valley—only corpses and the ruined troll settlement remained.

“So it *was* taken as spoils…” Suran sighed softly.

She’d expected it. Still, confirmation brought quiet disappointment.

*Crunch. Crunch.*

Behind her, chewing sounds. She turned. Over a dozen small creatures feasted on a massive troll corpse.

Round heads with faint horns. Adorably ugly faces, big bead-like eyes. Crouched like dogs; standing, elongated like cats. Groundhog-like claws, tiny non-flying bat wings for gliding.

Suran recognized them: Carrion Imps.

Among demons, they posed little threat—never attacking the living, surviving solely on carrion. They’d evolved a talent: sensing conflict instantly, rushing to the scene, hiding to “watch the show” before feasting.

Bold ones once lurked near the thorny woods outside the Crimson Garden—only to nearly be annihilated by Nightmare Retainers. They never returned.

This “proactiveness” earned mixed reviews. Sometimes, they devoured remains meant for burial. Other times—like now—they turned abandoned battlefields into all-you-can-eat buffets, cleaning the valley while feasting.

“I recall… Carrion Imps learn other races’ languages to access corpses. In special cases, they can communicate…” Suran thought. “So… they must know Human—the most common tongue?”

If lucky, these first-arrivers might have seen the Expeditionary Force’s path. A single clue would help immensely.

She decided to try.

As she approached, most Imps sensed her aura and fled instantly. Only the plumpest, greediest one remained, still devouring.

It was “fortunate” enough to be chosen.

Only when Suran’s shadow fell over it did it freeze—too late.

*Shing. Shing. Shing.*

She lifted her skirt hem, revealing slender thighs sheathed in white thigh-highs, perfectly framed by the garter. Daggers flashed from her leg holster.

With flawless precision, they pinned the plump Imp in a cage of steel—unharmed, not a single hair touched.

“No need to fear, little one. Just a few questions.” Suran looked down at the trembling creature. “First—do you understand my language?”

It nodded shakily.

“Good. Can you *speak* it?”

Silence. It strained, recalling.

Then—

“Leng!”

Suran blinked. *Wow. Even with an accent?*