"Enter."
Kingdom of Olan.
Inside a hall of pitch-black granite, torches guttered in the cold wind, casting shadows that writhed like monstrous beasts.
There was none of the Imperial Capital's deep-rooted elegance here — only the iron-blooded stench of a power hungry to expand, bordering on the pathological.
Seated upon the throne was the ruler of the Kingdom of Olan — Queen Tina-Kris.
She was past forty, with a sharp, close-cropped hairstyle and eyes that harbored a ferocity buried deep within them.
To her mind, Olan — already one of the North's foremost powers — was still nothing more than a supplicant before the colossal Imperial Capital. She bowed her head only because she had no choice.
Her life's singular ambition was to swallow every exploitable resource around her, and amass a tide powerful enough to overturn the Imperial throne.
"Your Majesty, the training range over in Saen has been completely destroyed by the Mason people," an Olan general reported, kneeling on the cold stone floor, sweat beading on his forehead. "The auxiliary force stationed there was wiped out entirely, and the surviving Saen miners… were taken away by that Mason Queen."
Tina listened to the end, then idly toyed with the poison blade at her fingertip. She flicked her wrist dismissively, her tone dripping with contempt for Mason.
"It was only Saen. If the training range is gone, we'll build another one in some other country. That girl in Mason — the one called Sophia — is nothing more than a flea with a bit more spring in her legs."
The corners of the Queen's mouth curled into a sneer.
"The cavalry we sent out suffered losses, yes, but they also successfully probed Mason's true capabilities. In all that powder-keg chaos, Mason must have taken serious internal damage as well. I hear that little queen's best general is still walking around like a living corpse. Mason is barely holding together on a few vials of Alchemy Potion salvaged from the ruins of Jasu. If I turned my attention to her now, I'd only be slowing my own march on the Imperial Capital."
"When an eagle is preparing to hunt an elephant, there's no need to pause for a flea's provocation. Since she enjoys picking through trash, let her play in the ruins of Yurilland and Saen. She won't be jumping for much longer."
Tina-Kris rose from her throne and strode to the massive continental relief map before her.
Across its surface, the flag of the Kingdom of Olan had already been planted over the territories of more than a dozen nations. Some were vassals, some had been forced into submission by military might — but to Tina, every single one of them was a chip to be staked against the Imperial Capital.
At present, Olan's alliances and annexations encompassed Yurilland, Vala, Saen, and twelve other city-states and principalities in total.
With the Kingdom of Olan as its core, this snowball kept rolling, growing until it would have the mass to stand toe-to-toe with the Imperial Capital.
Mason had only taken Yurilland, and at great cost. Olan had already assembled a force ten times its size.
"Take a look."
Tina pointed at the almost invisibly small patch of Mason territory on the map and let out a cold laugh toward the retainers behind her.
"That naive little girl has been busy all this time, and she's barely managed to gnaw off one bone from Yurilland. That's the ceiling of her ability and her vision. At this pace, by the time she reaches Olan's borders, I'll already be standing atop the walls of the Imperial Capital."
Meanwhile, in the study of Yurilland's Royal City, Victoria was leafing through the latest military reports.
The intelligence densely packed onto the sheepskin parchment caused the fingertips of this princess — renowned for her elegance — to pale involuntarily, her heartbeat quickening by several degrees.
She knew the woman on Olan's throne far too well.
Tina-Kris. The iron-fisted queen, ruthless and cunning, capable of crushing even her own blood relatives for the sake of power.
The news of her own betrayal — of how she had switched sides and even helped Mason take Yurilland — had certainly already landed on Tina's desk by now.
An uncontrollable dread crept up Victoria's spine.
If Mason lost. If Sophia were trampled flat beneath Olan's iron cavalry — then as a double traitor, her fate would be a hundred times more wretched than those Saen miners. Tina would have her skin peeled off and hung on the walls of Eagle's Nest Mountain to dry in the wind.
"...Hah."
Victoria drew a long breath, forcing herself calm. She snapped the ivory fan in her hand shut with a sharp crack.
There was no going back now. The arrow had left the bow.
Since she had staked every chip she had on that monster Sophia, the only thing she could do now was serve her to the absolute best of her ability, and use every means at her disposal to make Mason win.
Victoria strode quickly to the study's map, her pale-gold eyes gleaming with the sharp, ruthless intelligence unique to politicians, as her mind began running through the current situation at full speed.
Knowing Tina as she did, that woman's arrogance was carved into her very bones. In Tina's logic, Mason at this moment was nothing more than a stray cat that had seized the opportunity to take a bite out of Yurilland. Without a direct clash of absolute interests, Tina's gaze would remain locked on the Imperial Capital — she would never spare her main forces to encircle and annihilate Mason.
"This is our only window..."
Victoria murmured to herself.
Mason's black muskets possessed a cross-generational, dimensional suppression strike capability — but this continent still needed human beings to actually occupy it. Several months ago, Olan's standing elite forces alone had already exceeded twenty thousand. And now Tina had gone on a frenzied annexation spree, swallowing over a dozen more principalities? Olan's current military strength, conservatively estimated, was an absolutely terrifying number.
And Mason? When all was said and done, the core soldiers who had been truly forged in the fires of war were still desperately thin on the ground. No matter how powerful the black muskets were, if there weren't enough people to pull the triggers — if Olan simply ground them down with sheer waves of bodies until the ammunition ran dry — Mason's defensive line would collapse in an instant.
"We must exploit this window of opportunity — while Tina still hasn't recognized Mason as a genuine threat — and expand our troop numbers like mad!"
A flash of cold resolve crossed Victoria's eyes.
Where would the recruits come from? Well, wasn't there a ready-made batch right in front of her?
The eight-hundred-odd surviving able-bodied men from Saen already harbored a blood-soaked vendetta against Olan. With just a bit of military formation drilling, they could be transformed instantly into the most fearlessly suicidal shock troops imaginable.
Then there were the four thousand-plus garrison soldiers captured from Yurilland, plus the prisoners of war taken earlier from Avalon and other places.
Though these people had once been enemies, faced with Sophia's cold yet absolutely impartial work-point system, old-world loyalty crumbled to dust. Give them Mason's Black Bread to eat, let them smell the meat broth of Mason's soldiers, then tell them that killing Olan soldiers could earn them clean water and an official identity card...
This kind of carrot-and-stick indoctrination was more effective than any divine official's sermon.
"Sophia... the reason you kept those prisoners alive and had Bardess polish them with iron discipline — you'd already prepared to turn them into cogs in Mason's war machine, hadn't you?"
"With the cheapest possible food costs, you can wash away their old souls and pour in Mason's Order anew."
The more Victoria thought about it, the more her heart raced. Sophia's ruling efficiency — every single step calculated to the absolute limit — was utterly intoxicating.
She immediately sat back down at her desk, picked up a quill, and began drafting at breakneck speed — a plan for the reorganization and indoctrination training of prisoners of war and auxiliary personnel.
"Bardess handles discipline, Daphne handles the branding, and I... can handle rebuilding their terror of Olan and their fanaticism for Mason."
A cold smile tugged at the corner of Victoria's mouth.
There was no retreat left. They had to win. Absolutely.
In the Council Hall of Yurilland's Royal City, the core members of Mason had assembled around the great white marble conference table.
Sophia sat at the head, her silver hair casting a cold gleam in the firelight, her pale-gold pupils as still as a deep well undisturbed by wind.
To her left, Victoria had just set down her quill. After a half-hour of intense non-stop presentation, her voice had grown slightly hoarse — but the sharp light in her eyes had only grown keener.
"...In summary, as long as we make proper use of the Saen people's hatred and the Yurilland people's will to survive, these several thousand prisoners of war will become Mason's first iron gate within two weeks."
Victoria swept her gaze around the room, finally landing on Sophia.
"Your Majesty, the war with Olan is accelerating. We have no time to slowly cultivate loyalists."
A brief silence fell over the Council Hall. Then the air filled with the mingled currents of several different perspectives.
Bardess was the first to break the silence. She reached out with her calloused fingers and straightened a draft sketch on the table that had gone slightly askew — a habitual reflex — and her brows knitted tightly.
"Third Princess, I don't doubt your indoctrination methods. But what I'm worried about is the character and competence of this bunch of country bumpkins. There are at least five thousand exploitable people among these prisoners — and that means five thousand different bad habits. Mason's soldiers are a ruler; let any single graduation mark go crooked and it'll dirty Her Majesty's Order."
"I understand what's on Her Majesty's mind. The reason she's having the Third Princess lay out this plan here is probably to see whether this rotten timber can be trimmed into serviceable firewood. As long as they can form a proper ranked-volley formation — even if they're thinking about their wives and children the whole time — as long as the trigger fingers are aligned, they're a usable resource. Looks like I'll need to figure out how to straighten out their heads at the same time as the indoctrination."
Delilah sat to one side. Her complexion was still somewhat pallid from her previous injuries, but even seated, her spine was ramrod straight. Her hand rested on the longsword at her hip.
"The benefits are obvious — Mason needs a vanguard to absorb Olan's arrows. But the drawback is that loyalty cannot be quantified in a short time. If Olan offers them a better deal, or if these people break down on the battlefield and turn on us, it could disrupt Her Majesty's campaign tempo."
Delilah looked toward Sophia. Her voice was weak but resolute.
"Your Majesty, I recommend embedding absolutely loyal military supervisors within their units. Logically speaking, the only thing separating a deathsworn from a traitor is one bowl of meat broth and one blade held to the neck."
Willow set down the cutlery she had been toying with, producing a crisp clatter.
"From a financial perspective, five thousand mouths consuming Black Bread and salted meat jerky every day is a staggering cost. They'd need to eat even if they weren't fighting — but fighting only means they eat more. If they fail to produce results within the first month, the National Treasury will contract rapidly. Using prisoners of war is a high-risk investment; we must ensure their output exceeds their consumption."
Daphne wore a gentle, compassionate smile. She looked over the rosters, the holy light reflected in her jade-green pupils.
"The fluctuations of the branding won't place pressure on their souls. I can cooperate with the Third Princess on the psychological soothing and indoctrination. As long as they feel that following Her Majesty not only lets them survive but also washes away the stigma of defeat, their mental state will be more stable. But this will require substantial expenditure."
"Hey, is everyone forgetting the single most important thing?"
Irene was idly fiddling with an unassembled black musket component and casually handed it off to the curious Hailey and Tulan beside her.
"Five thousand people — what if some of them try to steal black muskets? Or steal other things? This many people aren't easy to manage. Even with the generals and Captains keeping watch, accidents are bound to happen. I'm not worried about them eating and drinking — I'm worried that there might be hidden spies mixed in among them."
Sophia had been listening quietly the entire time.
She did not rush to take a position. Instead, she swept through her mind at speed, stripping away every emotional variable until only the purest cost-to-output ratio remained.
The manpower gap was indeed a major problem — one Sophia had been privately weighing for days. As for the weapons issue, she had no intention of letting new recruits touch the black muskets. They only needed to be equipped with standard long spears, long knives, and long swords.
Sophia slowly rose to her feet, silver hair sweeping past the back of her chair.
In that instant, every noise in the Council Hall vanished. Even Hailey and Tulan, who had still been playing with the components a moment ago, immediately snapped to attention.
"Victoria's plan is logically sound."
Sophia's tone was clear and cold, as if she were stamping a final official seal on the entire proposal.
"In Mason's Order, there are no absolute enemies — only labor force placed in the wrong positions. Since Olan has not yet taken any extreme measures against us, that does indeed confirm what Victoria described: the current Olan has not placed us in their sights. This is a good thing. We can make use of this opportunity to develop our strength."
She looked toward Victoria. Within her pale-gold pupils burned a self-assurance so absolute it was mesmerizing.
"No black muskets. Give those five thousand prisoners spears and shields. As for the black muskets and fire bottles — those remain exclusive to our original soldiers. They don't need to be as precise as Mason soldiers. They only need to stand at the very front and become a wall — a moving wall, wreathed in fire."
Victoria's heart lurched.
Sophia. You never had any intention of making them into real soldiers.
With the most effortless method possible, you've solved Irene's production capacity problem and Bardess's training dilemma in one stroke. Once the flames rise, Olan's formation will fall into chaos — and only then will Mason's true elite strike.
This ruthless wisdom — recycling discarded resources and maximizing their use to the absolute limit — is more captivating than any conspiracy.
Sophia, you're not just waging war. You're smelting every life on this entire continent as your alchemical raw material.
"Dismissed."
Sophia turned to look out the window at the horizon gradually brightening to a pale blue.
"Three days from now, this Queen wants to see those five thousand souls — each bearing a Black Rose brand — lined up beneath the walls of Whitestone City, straight as a ruler."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
The square of Whitestone City. The biting wind still howled — but within the prisoner formation that had been as still as standing water, something stirred. Like a great stone cast into a deep pool, ripples of barely-suppressed agitation spread in all directions.
Bardess sat tall on her warhorse, holding the roll of reorganization orders drafted by Victoria and personally approved by Sophia.
Her obsessively perfectionist eyes swept downward. Even a single prisoner with a shoe tip out of alignment with the flagstones was enough to make her brow twitch violently.
"All of you, shut your mouths!"
"Listen up, you country bumpkins!"
Bardess bellowed, her voice amplified by Daphne's voice amplification magic, detonating above the square like a thunderclap.
"Her Majesty in her mercy has shown you worthless trash — you lot who do nothing but waste grain — a way forward! From this day on, you are no longer just laborers who dig in the dirt. You have been enlisted into the Mason Vanguard Retribution Army!"
As Bardess finished reading out the details of the work-point accumulation system and the process for obtaining official identity cards, the entire square held its breath for three full seconds — then erupted in a tidal wave of murmuring.
Several Yurilland veterans who had already resigned themselves to death huddled together, their eyes blazing with an incredulous fervor.
"Hey — did I hear that right? We... we can still carry swords? We don't have to get buried alive in those godforsaken mine shafts?"
"The Commander said that if we earn merit, we can get official Mason identity cards? Is that for real? I heard that official Mason residents get to collect bread with sugar in it every day!"
"Who cares whether it's real or not — it's still better than being used by those Olan bastards for target practice! Did you hear? Her Majesty said Olan's people are illegitimate, they're illegal labor — kill one Olan soldier and it cancels out a whole week of hard labor!"
"I've been sick of dying for that fat pig king anyway. Look at what Mason's soldiers eat, then look at what we used to eat... By the Holy Spirit, I'd throw my life away for a bowl of that meat broth."
"It's not just the meat broth — didn't you see how those musketeer lords looked at us? That wasn't the look of men watching slaves. It was the look of... of men watching a batch of tools being calibrated."
"Tools is fine! As long as I can live, as long as my family can get those work-points too — who cares if I sell my life to the Queen?"
The man in the crowd who had been referred to as 'the fat pig king' opened his mouth but said nothing.
Victoria stood on the high platform of the Council Hall, toying with her elegant ivory fan.
She watched the prisoners below — those who had been so listless and hollow just moments ago, now burning with fierce, hope-lit eyes — and the curve of a confident smile settled at the corner of her mouth.
This is what human beings are. This is the most important thing about ordinary people.
Give them a single spark of light in the darkness and they'll clutch it like a lifeline — they'll willingly offer up their very souls for it.
All I did was slightly alter their mode of survival, swapping 'dying in battle for the king' for 'fighting for work-points' — and their will to fight has tripled.
That woman Tina-Kris always believed violence could conquer everything, never understanding that this kind of poison — the promise of crossing class barriers — is the most irresistible temptation of all.
Sophia, you didn't even need to personally reassure them. You simply set a rule, and in doing so, turned five thousand people who should have been executed — a walking liability — into a blade pointed at Olan's heart.
This cold ruthlessness of yours, squeezing every last drop of value from every resource, both frightens and fascinates me.
Bardess surveyed the prisoners — who were now all cheering and shouting — and rather than softening, her expression grew even sterner.
"Don't celebrate too early!"
"In Mason, only qualified components are entitled to work-points! In the days ahead, I will make you understand what Mason's discipline means. If anyone's step can't keep up, or their formation falls out of alignment — if they prove themselves completely useless — then they can crawl back to the dungeon and count the rats!"
These people have enough enthusiasm, alright — but still no discipline to speak of.
Since Her Majesty said to turn them into a moving wall, then I'll have to break every bone in their bodies and re-align them from scratch.
The Third Princess handles the pest control in their heads; I handle the structural corrections in their bodies.
Three days from now, these five thousand people — whether they're walking or fighting — had better look the part. Otherwise they'd be a disgrace to Mason's name.
Sophia still stood before the floor-length window, the frenzied scene below reflected in her pale-gold pupils.
In her mind, she struck through a red risk indicator and replaced it with a smooth, upward-trending green arc.
Since Olan's Tina was still intoxicated by the illusory expansion on her map, the days ahead would be used to completely finish the resource integration of the Yurilland region.
"Willow."
Sophia spoke without turning around, her tone cool.
"Count out all the copper coins from those several hundred chests of treasure and distribute them to Mason's soldiers as the first batch of prepaid work-points. I want these new recruits to feel the first weight of Mason's Order before they even put on their armor."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Willow's eyes were filled with deep admiration.
Three days later. Beneath the walls of Whitestone City.
When the dawn light came again, those five thousand prisoners of war were no longer the scattered, disordered captives they had been.
They stood straight, spines unbowed. On their chests gleamed the Black Rose brand — personally imbued with magic by Daphne. The long spears in their hands caught the sunlight and fractured it into cold, killing gleams.
They looked up at the silver figure on the high tower, and in their eyes was not only fear — there was also a fierce, desperate hunger for the future.
The morning mist over Whitestone City had not yet fully lifted when the five thousand newly formed Mason vanguard soldiers had already assembled in neat formations across the vast square, to Bardess's exacting standards.
Though the weapons in their hands were nothing more than ordinary refined-iron spears, the Black Rose brand on their chests — faintly pulsing with a dim light — combined with three days of meat broth and copper coins nursing them back to vitality, meant they no longer looked like a flock of lambs awaiting slaughter. They looked, at last, like wild beasts baring their fangs for the first time.
However, when a slender and slightly lean figure slowly walked up onto the instructor's platform, a subtle and dissonant murmur rippled through the formation.
It was Delilah.
From her previous severe injuries, her normally golden complexion had taken on a sickly pallor. She wore a wide black coat over her frame, which made her look even more slight. Her crisp short hair and hawk-sharp eyes were as fierce as ever — but to these new recruits, who had only seen Bardess's iron-fisted methods, this woman who had been recuperating inside a carriage looked more like a decorative vase kept around because she was favored by the Queen.
Even with Bardess patrolling just up ahead, some of the Yurilland veterans at the back of the formation couldn't help but lower their voices and squeeze a few filthy words out between their teeth:
"Tch, so this is the legendary First General of Mason? More like First Beauty, if you ask me."
"Look at that tiny frame — a strong gust of wind could probably knock her over. And Her Majesty is actually putting her in charge of us?"
"Hey, what do you know. Some women can't cut it on the battlefield, but they sure know how to earn the Queen's favor."
"Shh, keep it down! But honestly, going into battle following someone like this — I just can't feel confident about it. Can she even lift a sword?"
The scattered whispers and stifled laughter spread through the rear ranks.
In their old-world logic, a commander's authority had to be built on bulging muscles and hideous battle scars.
Delilah before them was beautiful, yes — but far too soft.
Delilah stood on the high platform, her pale-red eyes sweeping slowly downward.
Her hearing was acutely sharp; every malicious remark reached her ears without missing a single word.
She did not grow angry. She didn't even bat an eyelid.
Logical bias.
Delilah silently repeated the phrase Sophia often used.
Since this trash believed that power equated to size, then — the most direct method possible would show them what true strength actually looked like.
Delilah stepped slowly down from the platform, ignoring Bardess's questioning glance, and walked straight to the edge of the square where a massive granite boulder lay.
It had been brought in specifically for repairing the city wall — a rock weighing several hundred catties.
"Worthless trash, lift your heads."
Delilah's voice was not loud, but it carried a frigid, penetrating force.
The next instant — without any telegraphing movement or wind-up — her slender leg snapped out sideways in a sweeping arc.
The sole of her boot dragged a shrieking crack from the air as it struck the dead center of that hundred-catty boulder.
"BOOM—!!"
Before the horrified eyes of five thousand people, that massive slab of granite — as if struck head-on by a heavy siege engine — instantly split from the point of impact, spiderweb fractures radiating outward in all directions. Then, with a thunderous crack, it collapsed into a carpet of rubble.
Dust billowed in all directions.
The vanguard soldiers who had been whispering and smirking just a moment ago were instantly silenced — like roosters with their throats grabbed, not a sound left in them.
Bardess stared at the rubble scattered with extraordinary uniformity across the ground, and a look of profound satisfaction and deep reverence for Delilah swept through her eyes.
Good lord, so this is a general's power?!
General Delilah may be injured, but that force and angle of attack — it's even more precise than the accuracy of a black musket!
Just look at those fragments — almost identical in size. That kind of absolute mastery over force is the true beauty of Order.
What in the world do those country bumpkins understand about any of this?!
They think the General was just kicking a rock. What she was actually kicking apart was the rotten prejudice sitting at the bottom of their hearts!
With that single kick, Her Majesty's strategic puzzle has finally clicked into place, every piece locked tight.
As expected of the woman who has stood by Her Majesty's side the longest. This elegance within violence... exhilarating!
Victoria stood at the top of the high tower, watching the scene on the training ground from a distance. The ivory fan in her hand trembled almost imperceptibly.
Delilah... is this just a show of force to you?
You're declaring sovereignty on Sophia's behalf.
What that kick shattered wasn't just a rock — it was the last shred of wishful thinking inside these five thousand people.
Watch. From this day forward, these people won't only revere Sophia's divine authority — they'll fear the raw violence of you, the God of Death.
This perfect closed loop of divine power and martial force is the most terrifying thing about Mason.
But... how is this woman so strong?
Is she even human?
Or rather... is there actually a single normal person anywhere near Sophia?
Sophia still stood at the window. In her pale-gold pupils, she watched the pale but resolute silhouette of Delilah retracting her long leg.
Well done.
An almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Sophia's mouth.
Delilah had been eating well and sleeping well these past few days, supplemented by rehabilitation training — her body had recovered to roughly seventy or eighty percent of its peak. That was why the task of drilling these five thousand new recruits had been entrusted to her.
Delilah had been overjoyed. She had assumed Bardess would take her place — but to her surprise, Sophia had still given the most important assignment to her.
And so today, Delilah was brimming with an almost electric energy.
She could feel Sophia's gaze from behind, watching her — and she felt as though she could go ahead and kick apart another boulder on the spot.
"Delilah."
Sophia's lips parted softly, her tone cool as ever. Even across this distance, Delilah seemed to sense something — she spun around sharply, looked up toward the tower, and dropped to one knee.
"Go train them."
"Before the next time the black muskets fire, I want to see those five thousand people — piercing the enemy's chest like your sword does. Without fail. Without hesitation."
"This minister receives Her Majesty's decree!"
Delilah's voice rang across the square.
And those five thousand new recruits — at this moment, kneeling amid the rubble — didn't dare raise their heads even a fraction.
If someone had warned you by punching a rock with their fist, you could still argue with them.
But what if that person could punch a boulder weighing several hundred catties into pieces?
In that case, you'd undoubtedly become the most enthusiastic advocate for calm, rational dialogue.
That was exactly the state of the new recruits right now — every single one of them had shrunk down like a quail.
At the edge of the square, several Mason veterans who had been moving crates of spare black musket components stopped what they were doing. They looked at the pale-faced new recruits huddled like quails, and broke into entirely unrestrained laughter.
"Hey, look at these ignorant country bumpkins — where'd all that chirping bravado go from just a moment ago?"
One veteran spat out the grass stalk in his mouth, chuckling away.
"They actually dared to look down on General Delilah? Every soul in Mason knows — apart from Her Majesty, the General's fists hit the hardest."
"Hilarious — they actually thought the General was a decorative vase? She is a divine weapon personally forged by Sophia, Her Majesty — built specifically to put an end to the old age."
"Count yourselves lucky. If the General's kick just now had been off by half an inch, they'd already be lying there all neatly lined up alongside that rock — in fragments."
"Just you wait. Judging by the General's attitude, the days ahead for them are going to make cleaning out latrines look like a vacation."
The veterans' mocking laughter landed like a series of resounding slaps across the new recruits' burning faces.
Heads bowed, they stared at the pile of rubble at their feet — fragments so evenly sized they were almost eerily uniform — and felt their calf muscles cramping with every passing second.
Delilah walked back up onto the instructor's platform.
Her coat billowed behind her in the wind. To these new recruits, her pallid complexion was no longer a sign of frailty — it was the harbinger of the God of Death coming to knock at the door.
"Since you've already learned to keep your mouths shut, the logic from here is simple."
Delilah rested one hand on the hilt of her sword. Her voice was clear and cold, reverberating across the silent square.
"From this day forward, your existence has exactly three purposes: obedience, strength, precision."
"Physical training: every morning, fully armed, run twenty laps around the outer wall of Whitestone City. Stragglers forfeit that day's meat broth."
"Every afternoon, load-march carrying fifty catties of ore, until your steps are as precise as a ruler."
"Every evening, hold a standing stance on broken-stone ground for two full hours. Anyone who sways — Commander Bardess's horsewhip will help you find your balance again."
Delilah paused. A bone-chilling glint flashed through her pale-red eyes.
"There is no such word as 'exhaustion' in my training. There is only 'scrap.' If you feel like you can't keep going, you're welcome to request a transfer to the logistics department to clean out latrines."
As Delilah finished reading out this nightmare of a training schedule, five thousand new recruits shuddered in perfect unison, their complexions transitioning seamlessly from deathly white to an ashen iron-grey.
Twenty laps around the wall... and then carrying fifty catties of stone for a two-hour standing stance?
This isn't enlisting in an army — this is being used as Irene's alchemical raw material to be forged!
Back when we served in Yurilland, you could bribe your commanding officer with a few copper coins and sleep in the tent all day.
But now... that rock's fate is right there in front of our eyes.
Maybe I should just go clean latrines after all? At least the smell in there is a little kinder than this ice-cold General.
However — when they raised their heads and met Bardess's eyes, blazing with a rage born of sheer irritation at their slovenliness, her hand ceaselessly rubbing the grip of her whip — every last one of them immediately snuffed out whatever faint, unrealistic fantasies they'd been harboring.
In Mason, there were only two paths: either become a precise tool in Her Majesty's hands, or become dust ground beneath the wheels of Order.
Bardess listened to Delilah's training plan, and the obsessive-compulsive soul within her resonated with it on a level she had never before experienced.
A General is a General, after all!
Just look at this plan — running laps, load-marching, stance training. From pulmonary respiration to the explosive force of individual muscle fibers, every element has been precisely quantified.
Her Majesty entrusted the General to lead these new recruits specifically to use this extreme regimen to forcibly break and purge the laziness that runs through their bones, didn't she?
This kind of around-the-clock, zero-blind-spot training — it's the absolute pinnacle of military aesthetics!
Once these people are fully forged, when five thousand of them charge at once, their heartbeats will probably all be synchronized to the exact same frequency.
This Order born of violence — that is the truest form of devotion to Her Majesty!
The dull thunder of war drums beat like heavy hammers, crashing through the icy morning mist over Whitestone City.
"Move! Steps aligned! Anyone who dares fall behind — tonight's meat broth goes to the dogs!"
Bardess rode her tall warhorse back and forth along both flanks of the formation, cracking her whip.
Under her roared commands and the weight of Delilah's ever-present, bone-piercing cold gaze, the five thousand newly formed vanguard soldiers surged — stumbling and lurching — toward the track that circled the outer walls of Whitestone City, like a flock of sheep being driven by the lash.
At first, the sound of their footsteps was as chaotic as a farce — the heavy gasping of Yurilland veterans, the coarse, raw bellowing of Saen miners.
But as the laps accumulated and the burning in their lungs slowly stripped away their capacity for thought, fear and exhaustion and desperate craving for that one piece of sweetened Black Bread fused together — miraculously, in the crucible of that extreme physical torment — into a single mechanical inertia.
"One, two! One, two!"
No one could say who started it first — someone began calling out Mason's distinctive cadence chant. Gradually, those five thousand pairs of mismatched boots striking the cobblestones began to coincide.
The chaotic footfalls slowly became one unified rhythm — like a massive engine struggling to turn over, at last finding the frequency at which its gears locked together — rumbling and grinding out a new road that belonged to Mason in this Royal City that had once smelled of nothing but rot and decay.
____
________________________________________
🌸 Help Love Bloom!
Our girls need a little push... and you can help!
💖 Gift for Everyone: Once we hit 250 Powerstones, I'll release +1 bonus chapter to warm your hearts.
🚀 Community Reward: If we reach 20 supporting members, we'll have a +5 chapter marathon across all stories! The romance won't stop.
👻 Come to our secret corner: Search for GirlsLove on (P). You know that's where the magic happens... 😉