"Willow, bring paper and a pen."
Sophia's clear, cool voice rang out. Willow, standing ready at the back of the room, immediately produced what was needed and set it on the table.
Something so routine, so unremarkable — and yet it had been so long since things had felt this way.
Willow's gaze drifted to the back of Sophia's head, and something soft stirred in her eyes.
Back in Mason's Royal City, this had been their daily routine — but so much had changed since then, in place and circumstance alike.
Outside the window, the footsteps and call-and-response chants of five thousand new recruits had grown steadily more disciplined, drumming through the thick stone walls in rhythmic, muffled waves like rolling thunder.
Sophia sat upright before the white marble council table, a sheet of premium parchment bearing the Black Rose watermark spread open before her.
Her slender fingers held a pen specially crafted by Irene. The nib moved across the page with a faint but fluid whisper.
The letter was not long.
In Sophia's mind, every unnecessary pleasantry was an affront to efficiency.
The opening lines reported the current military gains to the administrator holding Mason's Royal City, in the most precise terms possible:
Yurilland has been fully absorbed. The remnant forces of the Saen mining district have been incorporated. Over five thousand auxiliary troops have been added to the rolls.
Next came a cold-eyed forecast of future strategy:
The Olan alliance has likely grown to over ten nations. Their core military strength is estimated at upward of forty thousand troops.
What Mason now faces will be the old era's most frenzied wave of mass retaliation and resource blockade.
The Royal City must enter the highest state of war readiness and accelerate the final completion of its defensive fortifications.
At this point, Sophia's pen paused — just barely. A gleam of cold calculation flickered through those pale gold eyes.
Furthermore: the frontline army requires no logistical resupply from the Royal City at this time.
Yurilland and Saen's storehouses are full. Supplies are abundant.
I shall live off the land of war — feeding Mason's warhorses on the enemy's own grain.
All productive capacity in the Royal City is to be converted entirely to the forging of black muskets and alchemy munitions.
If Olan advances, do not meet them in open battle. Hold the walls and wait for my main force to complete the encirclement.
"Bardess."
Sophia set down the pen and folded the letter before the ink had fully dried, sealing it with melted Black Rose wax.
"Coming! What are your orders, Your Majesty?"
Bardess had just finished cracking a few dozen whip exercises outside and came striding into the Council Hall, drenched in sweat but brimming with energy.
The moment she heard her name called, she snapped to attention, trying to bring her breathing in line with the quiet atmosphere of the room.
"Select two messengers — the most capable riders you have, with the best knowledge of Northern border terrain."
Sophia held out the letter, her tone cool and even.
"Deliver this to Mason's Royal City. Hand it to either the acting administrator Victor or Chancellor Valery.
Tell them: even if they ride three horses to death, this letter must arrive within five days.
As for supplies — we don't need any. The messengers may rest one day before returning."
Bardess accepted the letter with both hands and carefully tucked it inside the lining of her leather armor.
The moment she heard that no resupply was needed, those eyes — always taut with barely-contained obsessive tension — lit up like lanterns.
Living off the enemy's land?!
Her Majesty is turning everything those Olan people spent years hoarding into a mobile granary for Mason's army!
Those old nobles always had to drag a long slow wagon train of supplies wherever they went — eat where you march, march where you eat. What a mess.
But this — this is brilliant. Take a city, and everything inside it becomes our fighting power on the spot!
Think of all the time wasted standing in line for rations that we'll save.
Only Her Majesty could handle something as chaotic as logistics so cleanly and decisively.
Feeding these Yurilland prisoners on grain their own king grew, then sending them to fight Olan — using the enemy's wool to make your own coat. That's not just strategy. That's art.
"Rest easy, Your Majesty!"
Bardess thumped her chest.
"I'll go pick the two most sure-footed little rabbits we've got. They'll set out tonight — I guarantee it. Your Majesty's military plans won't be delayed by a single hour!"
After Bardess departed with her orders, the Council Hall returned to its efficient, working silence.
The frontline would not advance yet. Instead, this precious quiet window would be used to consolidate gains and reorganize the army — which meant Yurilland's Royal City would serve as Mason's temporary base of operations.
When it came to transforming a place of disorder into Mason's own backyard, no one was more capable than Willow.
"Your Majesty, if we are to be stationed here for some time, the palace's internal administration must be rebuilt from the ground up."
Willow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Somehow, a stack of blank parchment had already appeared in her hands, and her voice carried the sort of tone that left no room for argument.
"The existing servants and maids of Yurilland are too numerous, too bloated, and too thoroughly infected with the old nobility's habit of laziness.
I recommend dismissing all of them to join the labor crews outside the city, then conducting fresh selection from the civilian population — young men and women of clean backgrounds and nimble hands."
Sophia gave a slight nod.
"Approved.
Remember: Mason does not feed idlers, nor does it need anyone who can't even manage to serve tea properly.
Tell the civilians: those selected for palace work receive three meals a day. No additional wages.
However, outstanding performance can be rewarded with priority access to a Mason provisional citizenship card."
"Understood."
The moment the announcement went out, Yurilland's Royal City erupted in a fresh wave of excitement.
For civilians who had just lived through war and genuinely feared their city would be put to the sword, the chance to earn three square meals a day in a palace was nothing short of a miracle.
And on top of that — working for the silver-haired Queen herself!
Even just washing dishes — if you did it well enough, you might actually become one of those legendary Mason citizens who got to eat meat every single day!
In less than half a day, the square outside the palace was packed with young men and women desperate to be chosen.
Willow's sharp eyes swept through the crowd. Anyone who appeared to be cutting corners, or whose gaze held the faintest trace of improper intent, was eliminated on the spot.
The palace of the old era had been a swamp of power and flesh traded for favors.
But the moment Her Majesty resided here, it had to become the purest engine of administration.
These young people may know nothing of what they're entering — but it is precisely because they know nothing that they can be most cleanly stamped with Her Majesty's Order.
I will teach them myself. How to serve dishes in precisely measured steps. How to clean with hands that leave no trace.
Under my management, even a fly in this palace must have a flight path consistent with Her Majesty's aesthetic standards!
Once the household staff was settled, the most vital matter remained — the kitchen.
Sophia had no extreme demands when it came to material comfort, but she did have standards when it came to food.
Willow knew this better than anyone. When there was no good food to be had, Her Majesty's expression never changed — but inside, she was like a frost-bitten eggplant, quietly wilting.
Bring out a good steak, though, and Her Majesty's eyes would be just a little bit brighter.
Willow considered this proof that Her Majesty still had a pulse as a living human being — and she had absolutely no intention of letting that flicker go out.
Furthermore, there were Irene, Delilah, and the rest of the core team, all of whom burned through enormous amounts of energy.
And so, an extraordinary culinary competition unfolded in the courtyard behind Yurilland Palace's kitchens.
Dozens of Yurilland's original palace chefs, along with skilled cooks recruited from the city's civilian population, stood nervously at their respective cooking stations.
"The rules are simple," Willow announced, clipboard in hand, her voice as warm as a winter storm.
"Round one: using the same ingredients, prepare one standard braised meat dish.
Round two: prepare your signature dish.
Round three: prepare your signature dessert.
Her Majesty and the other assembled lords will taste everything personally.
Those selected will remain as head chefs.
Those not selected will go outside and peel potatoes and cook for the vanguard."
Fires blazed on the cooking stations. The fragrance of various spices drifted through the courtyard.
Half an hour later, dish after dish was laid out on the long table.
Sophia sat at the head. To either side sat Victoria, Delilah, Irene, Daphne, and Bardess.
"This meat is overcooked into leather — it does not meet acceptable chewing standards. By the time I finished this bowl, my jaw would be square. One star. Hard pass!"
Irene had barely taken one bite before she shoved the dish away without mercy.
"The seasoning is too heavy — it completely smothers the natural vitality of the ingredients. That would put an unnecessary burden on recovering patients." Daphne's brow furrowed slightly, a trace of disapproval in her jade-green eyes.
"And it's too salty. Too pungent. It'll make you want to drink more water — and make more trips to the bathroom. That's exactly what we don't need right now."
"The pieces are completely uneven!" Bardess glared at a platter of roasted meat. Her compulsive tendencies had kicked in and she found it physically painful to look at.
"That chunk is massive. That one's tiny. How am I supposed to eat this?!
And forget about how to eat it — when the braising was done, the small pieces had already turned to mush while the big ones were barely cooked!
Unacceptable!"
Victoria elegantly lifted a silver fork and picked through the layers of sauce with critical precision: "It seems Yurilland's chefs only ever learned how to squander spices."
This was, to some extent, understandable — Yurilland produced spices, and many cooks had simply learned to use them as a mask for their own shortcomings.
As for Delilah, she silently picked up the most substantial-looking piece of meat, put it in her mouth, and concerned herself only with how many calories it could provide.
Sophia found herself in wholehearted agreement with all of them.
These Yurilland chefs truly knew nothing but spices. Bury anything in this many seasonings and even a stir-fried shoe sole would be passable — but you'd have absolutely no idea what you were actually eating.
And then there was the dessert. Sophia felt that a single bite could fuel a full ceremonial march from Yurilland all the way to Olan without once dipping into low blood sugar.
Finally, Sophia's gaze settled on a dish that appeared understated — yet from it rose a deep, rich aroma of braised meat.
She tasted it with composure, and those pale gold eyes stirred, ever so slightly.
"These three."
Sophia set down her silver fork and pointed to the chef who had prepared that dish, along with two other young cooks whose work had shown promise.
"Head chefs.
Everyone else: back to the kitchen to help."
Not a word of praise. Yet the three who had been chosen were so overwhelmed they dropped to their knees on the spot, weeping openly.
Under Mason's rule, over the course of a single meal, the entire internal logic of Yurilland's palace had been thoroughly remade.
Every remnant of luxury and excess was swept out the door. In their place: an iron-clocked daily rhythm that fit together like teeth in a gear.
The morning light of Yurilland Palace filtered through tall stained glass, casting patterns of color across the white marble council table.
The attendants Willow had personally selected were moving in carefully calibrated steps, presenting a steaming hot breakfast one dish at a time.
The newly installed head chef was clearly determined to make the most of the lifeline he'd been thrown. The fragrance of the braised meat was rich and pure — not a trace of the cloying sweetness that comes from piling on expensive spices.
Sophia sat at the head of the table, slender fingers holding a silver spoon, about to taste a bowl of braised beef brisket with a deep, ruddy glaze.
But just as the spoon touched the edge of the sauce, Sophia's hand went still.
The air in the entire hall seemed to freeze along with her.
The fingers Delilah had resting on her sword hilt tightened instantly. Her faint red eyes swept toward the attendants like drawn blades.
Bardess set down the bread she'd been halfway through gnawing, her expression darkening to something unsettling.
"Your Majesty?"
Willow adjusted her monocle, a faint, barely perceptible chill slipping into her voice.
Sophia said nothing.
She simply tilted the spoon slightly and watched a single drop of thick sauce slide slowly down the edge.
"Willow, your new head chef has made a rather elementary logical error."
Sophia's voice remained cool and even — not a ripple of emotion to be heard, as though she were simply noting a minor discrepancy in an accounting ledger.
"Given the fat content of Yurilland's local brisket, at this room temperature and with this length of braising time, the sauce should be noticeably thinner than this."
Irene, seated beside her, blinked — and then immediately reached inside her coat and produced a small alchemy reaction vessel resembling a test tube.
This reagent had been made by Irene using silver and a mineral that reacted to toxins, further enhanced by Daphne's magic, making it extraordinarily effective.
She dipped it casually into Sophia's bowl.
With a sharp hiss, the liquid inside the vessel shifted instantly from a clear sapphire blue to a sickly, rotten green.
"Oh ho!" Irene let out a yelp, her sapphire eyes gleaming with sharp mockery.
"Your Majesty, this isn't a sauce problem at all.
This is a poison — one that calcifies the heart muscle completely within three seconds.
Someone has a very generous hand. Who uses a controlled substance as a condiment?"
Sophia set down her silver spoon. The soft, precise clink it made against the bowl rang out in the silence.
Her pale gold eyes swept past the attendants who had already crumpled to the floor in terror, and landed directly on the half-open kitchen door behind them.
"Willow, it seems your standards for selection were still too gentle.
A few impurities slipped through — people with nimble hands, yes, but with logic in their heads that belongs to a different world entirely."
Willow's face went white. These people had all been background-checked — clean histories, no records of outside contact whatsoever.
The kitchen door was suddenly shoved open. Several men in rough cook's aprons burst out, faces twisted with vicious intent.
In their hands were sharp boning knives. Their eyes held the feverish certainty of people who had already accepted they wouldn't be walking away.
"For the glory of Olan!
Sophia — go build your Order in hell!"
The man leading them was one of the original palace staff — from the group Willow had cut, the ones reassigned to peel potatoes.
In his mind, killing Sophia made him a hero of the Kingdom of Olan. Queen Tina would give his family a dignified burial.
What greeted him, however, was not panic from Sophia — but a single, deeply unimpressed sigh.
"The glory of Olan?"
Sophia hadn't moved an inch. She didn't even bother to look up.
"Calling a murder that produces nothing whatsoever 'glory' is exactly the kind of thing only a fool would say.
And furthermore—"
Thud.
A single muffled impact.
No one saw how Delilah moved.
By the time the lead assassin had closed to three meters from the long table, Delilah was already in front of him — as if she'd teleported.
One clean, no-nonsense straight punch drove directly into his solar plexus. The man didn't even get a chance to scream. He folded like a ragdoll and flew backward, slamming into a stone pillar. The crack of shattering bone rang out clearly through the silent hall.
At the same moment, Bardess's whip snapped out like a striking serpent, coiling around the ankles of the remaining men in a single sweep.
She yanked. The assassins went down in near-perfect unison, hitting the stone floor chin-first with a sound that had a disturbingly rhythmic quality to it.
Willow surveyed the wreckage, her expression dark as still water.
She dropped to one knee, voice thick with self-recrimination.
I am utterly useless.
I let this kind of trash into Her Majesty's line of sight.
If it weren't for Her Majesty's almost divine instincts — even if the odds were one in ten thousand...
No. Wait. Her Majesty didn't discover this by accident at all.
The moment she sat down, she had already worked out everything.
She let them make their move — so she could crush every last remnant of the old era right in front of us.
This absolute mastery of the situation. This ease of playing assassins like pieces in her hand...
Your Majesty — did you really use the time it takes to eat breakfast to sharpen all of our vigilance?
I, Willow, deserve ten thousand deaths for this failure.
Sophia looked down at the assassins groaning on the floor. Her pale gold eyes held nothing but the flat indifference of someone glancing at refuse.
"Delilah. Deal with them."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Delilah's reply was cold and even.
The assassins, who had just moments ago been prepared to die for their cause, took one look at Delilah's ice-cold gaze — and every last shred of zealotry in their eyes was instantly replaced by absolute, bottomless terror.
They wanted to beg for mercy, but found their tongues had been smashed to pieces by the impact of their fall.
Sophia glanced toward Victoria and found her third sister sitting with her ivory fan raised, expression outwardly composed — but the hand holding the fan was trembling, ever so slightly.
"Victoria, it seems your ideological re-education curriculum needs a new module added."
Sophia rose from her seat. Her tone was as light and easy as if she'd just dealt with a fly that had wandered inside — not an assassination attempt.
The bodies were dragged from the hall with brisk efficiency. The bloodstains on the floor were wiped away by the newly assigned attendants in the fastest, most traceless manner possible.
Willow remained on one knee. Her head was bowed so low it was nearly touching the floor, her nails pressing hard enough into her palms to draw blood.
"Your Majesty... please punish me as I deserve."
There was a faint tremor in Willow's voice that she couldn't quite suppress.
"Screening the household staff is my responsibility, and yet I allowed a potentially fatal error to appear on your dining table.
My dereliction of duty nearly drove Mason's Queen into the point of no return.
I beg Your Majesty to strip me of my post as Chief Steward and grant me the flogging I have earned."
For Willow, Sophia was the one and only Truth she held sacred.
To have allowed Truth herself to face a threat to her life — that was worse than being killed.
Sophia looked quietly down at Willow kneeling at her feet, and inwardly let out a soft sigh.
The background records on these people had been airtight — even their baptism certificates from the local priest of their birthplace had checked out perfectly.
Sophia ran through the files in her mind.
Olan's intelligence network had clearly been cultivating roots in Yurilland for over a decade. This level of deep-cover falsification was beyond even the most thorough investigation — not just Willow, but even a god poring over those documents would have found nothing.
This wasn't a failure of competence. It was the last dying lash of the old era's spy apparatus.
But in Mason's logic, simply telling Willow "it wasn't your fault" would only backfire. This Chief Steward, with her ferociously strong sense of self-management and compulsive standards, would spend the coming days spiraling into increasingly destructive self-criticism.
For a machine running at full speed, the best lubricant is a heavier workload — something that lets her find her value again through new output.
"Punishment there will be."
Sophia set down her teacup. The chime of porcelain on porcelain was crisp and cold.
"Willow, your error was this: you verified what these people were in the past, within this country — but you failed to see through what they are now, which does not conform to Mason's logic."
Willow's head sank lower, consumed with shame.
"Since you enjoy keeping accounts, I'll give you a chance to recalibrate."
Sophia's voice remained even as she handed down her verdict.
"Starting today — in addition to your regular palace duties — I require you, within three days, to catalog every item in those several hundred chests of treasure sitting in Yurilland's vaults. Every single copper coin. Every carat of gemstone. All of it, entered into the ledger.
And not just the ledger — you will also calculate the value of each item against Mason's Royal City market prices, converting everything into equivalent tonnage of grain and weight of raw iron.
If you fail to complete this within three days, you'll be joining the new recruits on their laps."
Willow's head snapped up. Her eyes held not a trace of fear at the mountain of work before her — only the fierce, almost fervent glow of someone who had just been granted a second chance at life.
"I accept your command!
Even if it costs me three days and three nights without sleep, I will eliminate every last discrepancy from this record!"
Watching Willow take her leave with renewed energy — practically radiating gratitude — a flicker of satisfaction passed through Sophia's pale gold eyes.
Using work in place of physical punishment preserved the dignity of a core management figure while simultaneously getting three consecutive sleepless nights of senior accounting out of her, completely free of charge.
Flawless logical closure.
Three days passed in the blink of an eye.
Under Willow's precision-clockwork efficiency, a meticulously compiled valuation ledger of Yurilland's assets — over a dozen pages thick — was laid neatly on the white marble council table.
Now in the Council Hall, Sophia had summoned all of Mason's core members: Victoria, Delilah, Irene, Bardess, and Daphne.
The atmosphere was heavier than it had been at any previous gathering.
"Everyone, take a look at these."
Victoria pushed several rolled parchment scrolls — delivered by covert operatives — to the center of the table. The Third Princess, once celebrated for her elegance, wore a grim expression.
"Tina-Kris hasn't done what we expected — she hasn't sent a direct army to encircle us.
Instead, she's chosen something more insidious and more vicious. A slow cut with a blunt blade."
Victoria pointed to the Northern border map on the wall. Her ivory fan rapped heavily on several of the nations and trade routes surrounding Yurilland.
"Olan has used its authority as the alliance's core power to issue absolute orders to every surrounding principality and city-state.
Effective yesterday, every trade route that borders our territory has been completely sealed.
Not a single grain of wheat, not a bar of iron — not even a sheet of leather — can reach our territory through official channels.
Tina knows our forces are expanding. She intends to starve us out through economic and material blockade.
We may have taken Yurilland, but this city's existing grain stores are nowhere near sufficient to sustain us and those five thousand new recruits under sustained high-intensity conditions."
The Council Hall erupted the moment those words landed.
"Those Olan bastards!
Don't have the guts to fight us straight — so they resort to cutting off our food and water like cowards!"
Bardess slammed a palm on the table hard enough to send every teacup rattling.
"Nothing gets in at all?"
Irene yanked anxiously at her own hair.
"What happens to my black musket production line?
Without raw iron and saltpeter, am I supposed to conjure bullets out of thin air with magic?!"
Delilah rested her hand on her sword hilt. Her voice was cold as ice:
"Your Majesty, I'll take the vanguard and carve a trade route open by force.
Even if it costs lives, I will drag those supply wagons back."
"Cutting open one route is easy enough — but can you guarantee that the nations along the way won't unite and push back?"
Victoria's brow was tightly furrowed.
"The moment we strike first, we hand Tina the perfect justification to rally a ten-nation coalition and wipe us out."
Just as the weight of the seemingly unsolvable economic blockade was pressing down on everyone in the room, Sophia — who had not said a word — extended one slender finger and tapped, lightly and precisely, on the thick Yurilland asset ledger sitting on the table.
"Panic is an ineffective emotion that stems from a lack of information."
Sophia's voice was as cool as ever — yet it carried a quality that instantly smoothed away every edge of everyone's anxiety.
She slid the ledger in front of the group.
"Olan's blockade of the visible trade routes relies on political coercion.
But in the deep logic of human nature, politics can always be pierced by profit."
Sophia rose from her seat and picked up a pigeon-egg-sized ruby from the vault collection, turning it casually between her fingers.
"What do you think this stone is actually good for?"
Everyone exchanged looks.
"It can buy a lot of grain," Bardess said, swallowing.
"It could be set into my staff to improve magic conductivity," Daphne answered, perfectly earnest.
"It is a dead object."
Sophia delivered her verdict directly.
"As long as it sits in our vault, it is nothing but a shiny rock. It cannot fill a single soldier's stomach. It cannot become a single bullet fired at an enemy.
Yurilland's idiot king spent his reign collecting hundreds of chests of these dead objects — and still lost his entire country in a single day."
Sophia's pale gold eyes swept the room, and she introduced a new concept that made every person present feel a shiver run through them:
"Tina wants to starve us out with a resource blockade?
Then we'll use these dead objects to buy out the grain stores of her allies.
I am going to issue Mason labor credit notes."
Victoria blinked.
"Labor credit notes?
Your Majesty — what are those?
If you mean gold or silver coins, the amounts are too large — the transport convoys would be too conspicuous. Olan's scouts could intercept them easily..."
"Not gold coins.
Paper."
Sophia cut her off, her tone carrying the effortless finality of someone delivering a dimensional suppression strike across time.
"Willow has already completed the full audit. We now have a vast reserve of precious metals and jewels as our underlying collateral.
I want you to produce a specialized paper note.
It will bear Mason's seal. Each note will clearly state that it can be redeemed at any time, in any Mason-controlled territory, for an equivalent value in gold or gemstones.
Since Olan has sealed the trade routes, those nobles and black-market traders in the surrounding territories must be suffocating.
We don't need to send armored convoys hauling heavy gold. We only need our covert operatives to carry these lightweight pieces of paper and slip into the surrounding nations."
Sophia pressed both hands on the table, her eyes sharp as knives:
"Greed cannot be blockaded.
When the nobles and merchants of those nations discover that they can secretly sell their surplus grain and raw iron to Mason's smugglers in exchange for notes redeemable for precious gemstones at any time...
They will want to break through Olan's blockade line even more desperately than we do.
They will use their own merchant caravans — their own private guards — they'll even bribe Olan's checkpoint officers. They'll funnel grain straight to our door, without ceasing."
The Council Hall fell into a silence that felt like death.
Victoria felt a current of electricity shoot from her feet straight to the top of her skull. She stared at Sophia, completely fixed — her ivory fan had dropped to the floor without her noticing.
She's insane... Sophia, you absolute monster.
Queen Tina is still playing the most primitive physical blockade imaginable, and you — you're planning to use this to dismantle an entire nation's defenses?!
Use a few sheets of paper, stamp them with our own declared value, and trade them for other people's hard, tangible grain and steel?
This is the same as using the greed of every merchant in the entire North to fight this war for us!
Once these notes circulate, the interior of Olan's alliance will be riddled with holes from the sheer profitability of smuggling.
And the most terrifying part — once those people have more and more of these papers in their hands, to protect the value of their holdings, they will start praying that Mason doesn't lose!
You're not buying goods. You are using slips of paper to chain the economic lifeline of the entire hostile alliance to Mason's war machine.
Gulp.
Willow swallowed hard, and the look she turned on Sophia had become entirely that of someone gazing upon a god who had descended into the mortal world.
"Your Majesty... this cross-dimensional resource conversion technique... it is simply... simply a Divine Miracle."
"This is not a Divine Miracle. This is a variant of equivalent exchange."
Sophia settled back into her seat and began issuing instructions in her characteristic, methodical way:
"This isn't just a concept — I want it operational within three days.
Daphne, Irene!"
"Here!"
Both snapped to attention.
"Irene, you will select the most durable, flexible paper available and use your Alchemy to work an unforgeable special texture into it.
Daphne, you will infuse each note with a trace Holy Light seal as the anti-counterfeiting mark.
I want these notes to be harder to forge than Olan's wanted posters."
"Leave it to me, Your Majesty!
I guarantee they won't deteriorate even when soaked in water!"
Irene rubbed her hands together with gleeful energy.
"Willow."
"Your servant is here!"
"You will establish the redemption ledger.
Using the valuation figures you calculated, issue the first batch of Mason labor credit notes — face value two hundred thousand gold coins.
All gold and gemstones are to be fully sealed as reserve collateral."
"Victoria."
Sophia turned last to her third sister.
"Your task is the most critical.
Contact every greedy noble, every black-market trader, every governor who outwardly pledges loyalty to Tina but has connections inside the Olan alliance.
Tell them: Mason has a business proposition where no one loses.
For anyone who can secretly transport grain and iron ore to our handover points, Mason will pay twenty percent above market rate, settled in notes.
Tell them: these notes are the only boarding pass that will preserve their wealth and status before the old era finishes collapsing."
Victoria drew a deep breath, reached down for her ivory fan, and straightened. A fire burned in her eyes — a hunger and ferocity more intense than anything that had been there before.
"Rest easy, Your Majesty. Manipulating greed has always been my favorite game. Give me half a month — and I will turn Olan's blockade line into a sieve."
In the half month that followed, the Northern border's situation underwent a profoundly strange transformation.
On the surface, Olan's iron blockade held firm. Yurilland appeared to be an isolated island, cut off from the world.
Queen Tina even hosted a victory banquet in her palace, certain that the little girl from Mason had been caged for good — that it was only a matter of time before she ran out of military rations and sparked a mutiny.
But in the dark.
Out on the wilderness in the dead of night, a stream of flagless caravans — some even disguised as regular military convoys from Olan's vassal states — moved steadily under cover of darkness, ferrying hundreds and thousands of tons of grain and quality iron ore toward Yurilland's border crossings.
At a concealed handover point in a hidden canyon.
A portly merchant from the Principality of Vala mopped the sweat from his forehead as he directed his men to unload cart after cart of grain.
He rubbed his hands together and studied the figure in the black cloak on the other side of the transaction.
"My lord, this is the ten thousand jin of refined wheat you requested, plus eight hundred jin of saltpeter.
Olan's patrol squads were all plied with crates of fake wine by our Duke's men. Completely safe."
Victoria let out a cool smile. She reached inside her coat and produced a stack of Mason credit notes — soft, flexible, with a faint, shimmering luminescence — and tossed them across.
"Twenty thousand labor credit notes.
You can redeem them for equivalent rubies at the exchange office in Whitestone City at any time.
Or..."
Victoria lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur.
"Hold onto them.
I hear these are already trading at a ten percent premium on the black market in Vala Principality?"
The portly merchant's eyes practically glowed green. He tucked the notes carefully next to his skin:
"Not redeeming! Absolutely not redeeming!
These are better than gold coins right now!
My lord, my next shipment arrives in three days — please save me a few extra notes! Especially the large-denomination ruby-grade ones!"
Victoria let out a quiet laugh into the night wind as she watched the merchant's greedy silhouette disappear into the dark.
At a concealed mountain hollow on the Saen border.
A cold, steady drizzle had turned the already rugged mountain road into a muddy slick.
Three carts covered with heavy tarpaulins stood in the shadows. Their wheels were mired deep in the mud; the axles groaned under the strain.
"Are you out of your mind?!"
Gallo, the head of a trade guild from the neighboring Duchy of Lunde, threw the flimsy piece of paper in his hand straight at the Mason exchange agent, his thick, oily face flushed red with fury.
"I risked my neck getting through three Olan blockade checkpoints and delivered you two thousand full jin of premium saltpeter!
And you're telling me you're going to fob me off with this scrap of paper that's not even soft enough to wipe your backside with?"
Gallo jabbed a finger at the note — printed with a faint Black Rose watermark and emitting a soft, flowing shimmer — and laughed until his eyes watered:
"Where's the gold?
Where are those chests of rubies?
Has Queen Sophia lost her mind over money, or does she just think all us merchants are brain-dead fools?
Paper!
This thing won't buy a single copper coin outside these walls!"
In the face of Gallo's roaring, the Mason exchange agent in the black cloak showed not a flicker of concern.
He simply reached out one white-gloved hand and, with unhurried elegance, retrieved the note from the puddle of muddy water.
What was strange was this: the note, despite having fallen into the mud, seemed almost to repel it — not a single drop of water had adhered, not a trace of filth left behind.
"Mr. Gallo, I'd ask you to follow the logic here."
The agent's voice came through the curtain of rain with particular clarity.
"Gold coins wear down over time. Gemstones can be switched out with fakes. Even the gold certificates issued by the Olan Royal House have a thirty percent forgery rate.
But this..."
He held the note up in front of Gallo.
"Miss Irene incorporated alchemy powder directly into the paper pulp. It is impervious to fire and water — even a hammer blow cannot break it.
Saint Daphne has inscribed it with a one-of-a-kind magic seal. The moment you attempt to interact with it, it gives back the Black Rose response.
Nothing in this world can forge it — not even the masters in the Imperial Capital."
Gallo hesitated, and warily took the note back.
When he channeled his energy into it, a cool, clean, unmistakable sensation instantly wrapped around his fingertips.
The feeling was like making direct contact with some kind of inviolable law.
That highly calculating brain of Gallo's went into overdrive.
He stared at the note as the contempt in his expression was gradually overtaken by a mix of terrified awe and barely-suppressed greed.
Holy spirits above — how was I so dense a moment ago?!
The whole point has nothing to do with what this piece of paper is worth.
The point is this technology...
This ability to seamlessly fuse Witchcraft, Alchemy, and monetary value into a single object — the entire continent only Mason has this!
Why isn't Queen Sophia issuing gold?
Because she's already seen through everything!
Gold is heavy — a wagon full of gold is a glowing target that any Olan patrol can spot from a mile away.
But if these notes become widely accepted, all I need to do is sew one into my undergarments — and I'm walking around with the equivalent of ten thousand gold coins.
And more than that — a currency protected by Holy Light and Alchemy is, in and of itself, a Divine Miracle.
It means Mason's productive capacity has reached the point where it can dictate its own rules!
While Olan is squabbling over a few miserable mine pits, Queen Sophia is already building a new kind of credit system — one that sits above all royal authority and shackles it!
What I'm holding isn't paper at all. This is a boarding pass to the new era.
If I'm the first to accept this, I'll be the first merchant in all the North to hold Mason's credit — and everything that comes with it!
Gallo's expression completed a seamless transition from outrage to groveling servility in under three seconds.
He slapped his thigh with a sudden snap and flashed his most professional smile.
"Ha! You'll have to forgive me — the rain must've muddled my thinking just now!"
Gallo snatched the note back with exquisite care and tucked it inside his coat as tenderly as if he were cradling a newborn.
"This is no mere scrap of paper — this is Her Majesty's grace made tangible!
Something this easy to carry, with anti-counterfeiting this sophisticated — this is exactly what those of us who live by the edge of a knife need most!"
He leaned close to the exchange agent, dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hush, eyes glittering with oily hunger:
"My lord, since this thing is so useful... well...
Next time, I'll bring three times the cargo!
Saltpeter, raw iron — whatever Mason wants, I'll bankrupt myself to get it here!
Just... just please make sure to issue me a few extra of these notes. Especially the large-denomination ruby-grade ones!"
Meanwhile, inside Yurilland's Royal City armory.
Mountains of raw iron and saltpeter were being smelted around the clock at a furious pace.
The production lines that Irene had organized with the soldiers roared day and night without cease. New black muskets and crates of powerful explosive rounds flowed out like water off a wheel.
Those five thousand soldiers, reforged under Delilah's hellish training regimen, were eating grain sent by Olan's own allies every single day — their muscles growing harder, the killing intent in their eyes growing denser.
Queen Tina thought she had shut Mason's door.
She had no idea that Sophia, with a few sheets of paper backed by magic and logic, had quietly bled the entire Olan alliance dry — and converted every last drop into Mason's engine of violence, sufficient to destroy an era.
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