"Hey, you over there — don't even think about prying into Mason's secrets. If you're not here to make money, get out!"
"Those redeeming gem vouchers, line up on this side!"
The exchange house in Yurilland's Royal City had once been the kingdom's Ministry of Revenue. Now, Willow had overhauled it with sweeping efficiency into the most maddeningly exciting financial center in the entire Northern border.
The hall was ringed by stone-faced Mason regulars clutching black muskets, the air thick with tension and an almost manic electric energy.
At the center of it all, Willow sat behind an elevated counter, her eyes cold as she surveyed the crowd below.
"Quiet! Form orderly lines! Anyone making noise and disturbing others gets sent outside to start over!"
Willow's voice was not loud, yet it carried with perfect clarity to every corner of the hall.
The great merchants who normally threw their weight around in their home territories now stood here like schoolchildren in a private tutor's classroom, spines ramrod straight, each desperately trying to ensure their posture met Mason's standards of propriety.
At that moment, the hall's heavy rosewood doors were shoved open with a crash, and Gallo, the guild leader from the Duchy of Lunde, came barreling in, his face flushed crimson.
He did not queue. He charged straight to the counter, clutching a fistful of Mason labor credit notes that gave off a faint, soft glow.
"Miss Willow! I want to redeem! I want to redeem right now!"
Gallo's voice had gone shrill with excitement.
The merchants around him immediately shot him looks of envy and burning curiosity.
Most of them were still sitting on the fence, or dared carry only small-denomination notes.
Willow's brow furrowed slightly, but she produced a polite smile nonetheless.
She glanced at Gallo's collar, knocked askew from his run, and at the muddy boot-prints he'd tracked across the hall floor — and felt a small ripple of displeasure.
"Mr. Gallo, please conduct yourself with the dignity befitting a merchant of your stature."
Gallo gave a startled shiver and hastily straightened his clothes, even smoothing a crease at the hem of his jacket, before he tremblingly presented the notes.
"These are sapphire-grade notes, worth one hundred labor credits."
Willow took the notes and ran a finger lightly across their surface, feeling the Holy Light feedback Daphne had left within them. Confirmed authentic.
"Are you certain you wish to redeem for physical gems rather than continue holding? If you hold, purchases at any Mason shop within Yurilland's borders come with a five-percent discount."
Willow asked in her strictly professional tone.
"Redeem! Absolutely redeem!"
Gallo rubbed his hands together, his eyes burning with fervor.
"I want to show those fools who've been laughing at me just how sacred Her Majesty's credibility truly is!"
Willow wasted no words. She raised a hand slightly.
Two burly Mason soldiers immediately emerged from the back, hauling a heavy iron chest between them.
Click.
The chest was opened, and in an instant, a breathtaking azure radiance erupted from within, bathing the entire hall as though it had been submerged in the clearest of seas.
Inside lay a chest packed to the brim with flawlessly cut sapphires!
Each stone was the size of a pigeon's egg, refracting dazzling, mesmerizing halos of light beneath the glow of the crystal lamps.
"By the Holy Spirit..."
A single, synchronized intake of breath rippled through the hall.
The merchants' eyes went glassy all at once. Breathing grew heavy. More than one person unconsciously stepped forward.
Tap!
Willow's quill pen came down hard on the desktop.
"Step back! Maintain order! Anyone who moves out of line will be charged with unlawful intrusion!"
The sound of black muskets being cocked instantly sobered the feverish crowd.
They had already seen what these things called black muskets could do. Mason simply didn't sell them — otherwise, every single person in that room would have tried to get their hands on a few.
Willow unhurriedly counted out the ten largest sapphires from the chest, placed them into a fine velvet pouch, and extended it to Gallo.
"One hundred credits, redeemed for ten standard-unit sapphires. Mr. Gallo, please count and verify."
Gallo received the velvet pouch with trembling hands and, trembling still, opened a crack in it.
In that moment, the color of Truth itself shone upon his oily, fleshy face, and his expression shifted into something that bordered on reverence.
"They're real... they're real! No coating to mask the smell, no other stones dressed up in disguise — these are genuine, undoctored Lunde sapphires, the kind that drives the noblewomen of Olan absolutely wild!"
Gallo spun around to face his fellow merchants, thrust the velvet pouch high into the air, and bellowed:
"Do you see this?! This is Mason's Order! This is the credibility of Her Majesty the Queen!"
"Queen Tina only ever threatened us with crossbows and blockades, but Queen Sophia — she repays our loyalty with the most solid gems you can hold in your hand! What are you all still hesitating for?! Do you want to wait until someone else has redeemed every last one of these?"
In that moment, Gallo seemed not like a merchant at all, but like a zealot preaching a new faith.
Two seconds of dead silence — then the hall erupted.
"I want to buy! I have three thousand jin of grain! I want to convert it into notes!"
"I have five hundred sheets of premium tanned leather! I want ruby-grade notes!"
"Don't push! I was the first one to accept notes! My batch of fine wheat has already reached the border!"
In the face of solid, tangible gemstones, the logic of greed completed its smoothest recalibration.
Olan's blockade? The charge of collaborating with the enemy? Against pouches of heavy, gleaming gems, none of it carried a shred of restraint.
Laughing matter, which queen rules the world? As long as my family has money and can eat and drink without worry, that's all that matters.
Watching the scene before her, the ghost of a smile finally curved Willow's otherwise impassive face.
Her Majesty is truly a god.
I was still worrying about how troublesome it would be to haul those hundreds of chests of inert commodities out. Yet Her Majesty used nothing more than a few sheets of paper to turn this pack of greedy merchants into her willing porters.
They are offering up their very souls as a sacrifice to Mason's Order of their own free will.
As long as they hold that paper in their hands, they are Her Majesty's most loyal watchdogs.
That fool Tina is still playing the most primitive game of physical blockades, while Her Majesty has already begun harvesting the wealth of foreign nations at the level of pure logic.
This method of clearing away a nation's century of accumulated exploitation within days and re-injecting the momentum of civilization...
I must work even harder.
---
At the edge of the Kingdom of Olan, on the misty wasteland bordering the Duchy of Saen.
Fine rain fell like a woven curtain, shrouding the entire plain in an oppressive grey.
Along a rutted, mud-churned trade road, a caravan of fifteen horse-drawn carts was grinding its way forward with great difficulty.
The caravan's owner was Frank, a major timber merchant from Olan itself.
He had once been a decent, law-abiding businessman — but Queen Tina's ever-heavier war taxes and her rampant resource levies had wrung him down to his very last copper coin.
A few days prior, a mysterious figure had approached him. The message was simple: smuggle a batch of heavy siege crossbow components and premium pine resin — sealed away by the Olan royal family as restricted strategic goods — to the border, and in return he would receive Mason labor credit notes, already commanding a twenty-percent premium on the black market. In that moment, the scales in Frank's heart had tipped without hesitation.
"Damn Olan. Damn these war taxes! If you won't let me live, then don't blame Frank for playing dirty!"
Frank spat hard from the saddle.
Just as the caravan was about to pass through a stretch of scrubland, a sharp whistle tore through the curtain of rain.
"Halt! Third Patrol Squad of Olan, routine inspection! Everyone dismount and submit to inspection!"
Several dozen Olan soldiers in pitch-black armor, clutching gleaming spears, burst from the undergrowth and surrounded the caravan in an instant.
Leading them was a squad captain named Carter — sharp-featured, with the look of a man whose loyalty had curdled into something pathological.
Frank's heart seized in his chest, and cold sweat instantly soaked through his back.
He knew Carter's type all too well. This was a die-hard loyalist who kept "the glory of Queen Tina" on his lips at all times.
"Car... Carter, sir, there's been a misunderstanding. All a misunderstanding."
Frank forced out a smile, dismounted, and walked shakily toward him.
"This is just a routine timber shipment, heading to the border to repair a postal relay station."
"Timber shipment?"
Carter let out a cold laugh and levered the rain-cover off the front cart with the tip of his spear, casually and without ceremony.
Rows of gleaming precision-iron crossbow components and several large barrels of rich-smelling premium pine resin were instantly exposed to the rain.
"Frank, you actually dare smuggle strategic materials that the Royal House has expressly forbidden from leaving the kingdom?!"
Carter's eyes turned icy and murderous in an instant.
"This is treason! In Queen Tina's logic, traitors have only one fate — death!"
Swish!
Several dozen spears snapped up in unison, leveled at Frank and his men.
Frank's legs gave out and he collapsed directly into the mud.
It's over. Completely over.
Everyone always said Carter was a stone wall — nothing can move him. Why did I let myself be tempted by a few sheets of paper?
No matter how many gems those Black Rose notes could buy, what good are they if I'm dead?
Holy Spirit above, please forgive my greed — I only wanted a better life for my family!
Just as Frank squeezed his eyes shut in despair, bracing for the spear to pierce his chest —
Carter did not immediately give the order.
He simply used his spear tip to prod at the object that had been searched from Frank's breast pocket — something carefully wrapped in oilpaper.
"What is this? Alchemy Poison? Or some contraption those Mason people cooked up?"
Carter asked coldly.
He flicked the oilpaper aside, revealing a sheaf of notes — their paper supple and resilient, printed with an intricate Black Rose watermark pattern, giving off a faint, soft glow. Mason labor credit notes.
"These are..."
Carter's brow creased slightly. He had heard of such things, but as a die-hard loyalist of Queen Tina, he had always dismissed them as nothing more than scraps of paper Mason used to bewitch the gullible.
Carter gave a contemptuous click of his tongue, raised his boning knife, and prepared to shred the notes to pieces.
"No — !! Carter, sir! Please! Those aren't paper — those are my life!"
Frank let out a wretched cry and, throwing caution to the wind, lunged forward in a desperate attempt to snatch them back.
Two Olan soldiers slammed him flat into the mud.
Just as the boning knife was about to slice through the notes —
"Captain... wait."
A somewhat trembling voice sounded from behind Carter.
Carter turned. It was his deputy — Old Pete, a veteran soldier.
Pete was normally an unassuming man, but right now his eyes were locked onto the sheaf of notes in Carter's hand. His breathing had grown noticeably shallow, and even his voice carried a faint tremor.
"Pete, are you trying to plead for this traitor?"
Carter's gaze turned dangerously sharp.
"No... Captain, I don't care whether this fat man lives or dies."
Pete swallowed hard, pointed at the notes in Carter's hand, and dropped his voice low.
"Those are ruby-grade Mason notes. Carter, you've never been to the black market on the other side — you have no idea what these things mean."
Pete leaned close to Carter, his voice barely audible to the two of them, laden with the most irresistible kind of temptation:
"Carter — your brother is still sick, isn't he? He needs medicine prepared by a master physician from the Imperial Capital just to stay alive. That stuff runs two thousand gold coins a dose. You could serve Queen Tina as a squad captain for a hundred years and never afford it."
"But that stack of notes in your hand... just one of them. Just one single note could be exchanged for three premium rubies. On the black market in Olan, the moment these things appear, the nobles looking to get out of here snap them up at twenty percent above face value."
"All you have to do is nod. Not only does your brother get a chance to live — every one of us brothers wouldn't have to spend the rest of our lives drinking the wind on this godforsaken wasteland!"
The hand holding the knife went rigid.
For the first time, that pathologically loyal face showed an emotion called wavering.
A logic divergence.
In Queen Tina's logic, loyalty is the only absolute.
But in Carter's personal logic, his brother's life and the future of his whole squad were the truest cause and effect.
Can Queen Tina's glory cure my brother's illness?
Can it put armor on my men that doesn't let the wind through?
I risk my life for her out here, and she won't even spare a single vial of Holy Water.
And that Mason Queen — with just a few sheets of paper, she gave me hope for an entire world.
Pete is right. Queen Tina chases a false legal authority, while Queen Sophia hands you real, solid gemstones.
If the so-called loyalty means watching my own kin die before my eyes, then that loyalty itself is a broken logic.
What I hold in my hands isn't paper. This is a Truth that can overturn every rule in all of Olan.
The air seemed to freeze.
Only the soft hiss of fine rain striking armor.
Frank, lying in the mud, had already made his peace with death — but now, with a merchant's sharp instincts, he caught the change in Carter's eyes.
That trader's gut told him he could smell a sliver of a chance.
"Carter, sir!"
Frank raised his mud-streaked face and shouted.
"Let me through, and every single one of those notes is yours! What's more — any future run you're on duty for, Frank's caravan will be happy to provide you with an extra consultation fee!"
Carter stared hard at the notes in his hand, then looked at the faces of his soldiers — every last one of them written over with naked greed and desperate want.
Faced with Mason's era-transcending financial logic, the royal authority of the old age was as fragile as a scrap of wastepaper.
Thud.
Carter hurled the boning knife into the ground.
"Pete, inventory the goods. Re-seal the crossbow components and pine resin."
Carter's voice was slightly hoarse, but carried the decisiveness of a man closing a door on the past and opening one onto a new era.
"Frank, you're in luck. Today, our patrol discovered that the Yurilland relay station repair work is in need of these supplies."
Frank stared blankly for two seconds, then dropped to his knees in the mud and kowtowed frantically:
"Thank you for your grace, Captain Carter! No — thank you, Commander Carter, sir! Frank swears on the Black Rose — from this day forward, I am Her Majesty's most loyal porter!"
He did not specify which Majesty.
Not a single person present stood up to say a word about it.
Carter casually tossed two small-denomination notes to the soldiers behind him, then carefully tucked the larger denominations into the innermost lining of his armor.
"Everyone listen up! Nothing happened here today. We simply exchanged some expired Olan trash on patrol for a Truth that we can redeem for gemstones at any time. Now go get those goods moved!"
"Yes, Commander!"
Several dozen Olan soldiers stared at the notes in their hands, their eyes as fervent as if they had witnessed a divine spirit descend from the heavens.
In that moment, their Olan uniforms were nothing more than the most laughable of disguises. Their souls had been completely captured by a few sheets of paper backed by magic and logic.
---
At that same time, in a study within Yurilland's Royal City.
Sophia was reviewing the latest black market note premium report that Willow had compiled, her pale golden pupils fully alert.
Exhausting.
Sophia looked out the window at the soldiers drilling below and felt an inexplicable urge to throw the window open and scream down at them.
She genuinely missed those days — waking up each morning for breakfast, making the rounds to the West Tower to check on Irene's latest inventions, spending the afternoon receiving praise from Daphne and Willow, and ending the evening with a massage from Delilah before soaking in a bath and going to sleep.
Damn Olan.
She was absolutely going to grind the Olan Queen's face under her little leather boots.
---
In a corner of a side hall in Yurilland's Palace, Irene had thoroughly transformed the space into an alchemy laboratory overflowing with gears, potion bottles, and the acrid stench of gunpowder.
With vast quantities of raw iron and rare ores flowing in through the note-trade, Irene had plunged into a state of near-manic creative fervor.
The skin beneath her sapphire-blue eyes was shadowed with dark circles from sleepless nights, but this did nothing to dampen her soaring excitement.
"Daphne, now! Infuse the Holy Light — stabilize the molecular resonance!"
Irene gripped a glowing-red metal tube in her hands. It was an alloy smelted from the specialty refined iron of the Saen mines combined with a rare material called Teardrop Stone.
Daphne's forehead was beaded with fine sweat, her hands held in a loose cup.
A gentle yet powerfully concentrated beam of Holy Light seeped into the scorching metal like flowing water.
Under the forceful intervention of magic, the previously incompatible alchemic materials achieved a seamlessly smooth alignment at the microscopic level. The rough burrs on the metal surface vanished rapidly, replaced by a deep, cold gleam like that of obsidian.
This Holy Light solidification method eliminated an extraordinarily complex polishing process, boosting the barrel's heat resistance and gas-tightness by at least thirty percent.
Constrained by the limitations of the age, a precise revolver mechanism was still out of reach — but compared to those iron tubes of before that risked exploding after a single shot, this new model, named the "Black Rose Modified," had already achieved a stability approaching that of a modern smoothbore musket.
When Sophia entered the laboratory with Delilah at her side, this was the scene she walked into:
Irene, face smudged with soot, holding the new barrel aloft and grinning like an idiot at thin air. And Saint Daphne, sitting nearby like a put-upon little wife, dabbing ceaselessly at the coal dust on her face with a handkerchief.
"How's it going?"
Sophia's cool, clear voice rang out through the hall.
Irene heard it and launched herself into the air as though someone had hit a spring beneath her, a brilliantly radiant smile breaking across her face — she hadn't even bothered to wipe the ash off her nose.
"Your Majesty! You're here! Come look — I've prepared a grand gift for you!"
Irene brandished the sleek new black musket and scurried toward Sophia with gleeful, bouncing steps.
The laboratory floor was littered with discarded components and perfectly round lead bullets, and as Irene ran, she executed an impressively acrobatic step directly onto one of the lead bullets. With a theatrical yelp, she lost her balance entirely and pitched forward — straight toward Sophia.
Now's the moment!
According to my precise calculations, at this angle and this velocity, Her Majesty will absolutely reach out on instinct to catch me!
Once I'm tumbling into those arms with that faint, cool fragrance — I'll have every right to nestle against Her Majesty's collar, and with luck I might even get to hear that slightly reproachful yet utterly helpless sigh.
Heh heh. For this one accidental stumble, I secretly practiced the lead-bullet-stepping technique for several dozen rounds!
Explosive shells and all that can wait — right now, the top priority is reclaiming the throne of First Favorite at Her Majesty's side!
Irene was mere inches from tumbling into the Black Rose-caped embrace waiting before her.
Sophia's expression did not change. She didn't even furrow her brow.
However, Delilah — standing slightly behind and to the side — had her pupils contract to pinpoints in an instant.
Still in her recovery period, Delilah in that moment unleashed a burst of physical potential that even Sophia found astonishing.
In that fraction of a second — zero-point-one of it — Delilah's form moved like a streak of black lightning, and in the precise instant before Irene's fingers could touch so much as the hem of Sophia's garment, she had interposed herself squarely between the two of them.
Thud!
A muffled impact.
Irene did not, as she had hoped, crash into a soft embrace. Instead she slammed directly into armor as hard and unyielding as iron.
Delilah grabbed Irene's collar at the back of her neck with one hand, like someone hauling a misbehaving kitten, and held her firmly suspended in mid-air.
The other hand moved on instinct to shield Sophia, eyes cold and sharp.
"Miss Irene, please be careful."
Delilah's voice was steady, but carried an unmistakably territorial undertone.
"Her Majesty's safety is my responsibility."
Irene flailed in mid-air, face going red with indignation:
"Delilah! You dense piece of wood! Put me down! That's my invention — I'm handing it to Her Majesty personally!"
Delilah remained entirely unmoved, simply turning to look at Sophia, her gaze carrying the earnest air of someone seeking praise.
Sophia took in the scene before her: one alchemic genius flailing indignantly in mid-air, one scrupulously loyal general with a face of utter seriousness.
Logically speaking, this kind of behavior was severely disrupting the efficiency of a work presentation.
And yet, for reasons she couldn't quite name — watching Irene's face twisted up in aggrieved outrage and Delilah's posture of a guard standing against a mortal threat — Sophia felt a warm flicker of indulgence stir through the tiredness that had been sitting in her chest.
"Delilah, let her down."
Sophia parted her lips, her tone still cool, but within those pale golden pupils, an almost imperceptible smile lay hidden.
"This kind of low-level blunder — Irene should know better going forward."
Delilah obeyed and let go. Irene landed with a thump, puffed up as she patted the dirt from her skirt — and then caught that tiny curve at the corner of Sophia's mouth. The indignation deflated out of her all at once, and her eyes went bright and sparkling.
Hmm... I didn't get hugged, but did Her Majesty just smile at me?
Absolutely she did!
That look — that exasperated 'what am I going to do with you' look — is sweeter than a hundred slices of honey-drizzled bread put together!
Irene mentally conjured up what Sophia's face would look like if she weren't permanently stone-faced — that fond, doting expression — and felt completely satisfied.
As for Delilah, that blockhead — she got in the way of my plan, but since she managed to put Her Majesty in a good mood, this genius will let it go just this once.
Sophia took the new black musket from Irene's outstretched hands, fingertips trailing lightly over the slightly cool barrel, and spoke with unhurried calm:
"The barrel work is excellent, Irene, Daphne. As a reward, starting from now, you may each collect an extra dessert with dinner every day."
Everyone was so busy with improvements here in Yurilland that the kitchen, though it produced decent meals daily, had little time to spare for extra sweets — so this was genuinely a fine reward.
Irene snapped to attention instantly, eyes blazing:
"We will fulfill the mission! Long live Her Majesty!"
"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Daphne was equally delighted.
Having overextended her magic, she craved food more than anything else right now.
Victoria stood at the doorway, watching the scene, her ivory fan concealing the amused smile playing at her lips.
How very interesting.
And yet — it is precisely these occasional flashes of warmth that give this cold Mason machine its power to make people willing to sacrifice everything for it.
My dear little sister, the way you are now is far more captivating than that small girl who took my hand in the dungeon.
---
Beside the anvil of the alchemy laboratory, six Black Rose Modified black muskets lay quietly on a spread of black velvet, radiating an entrancing metallic sheen.
Thanks to the Holy Light solidification method Daphne had applied to the barrels, what had once been rough industrial pieces now resembled precision works of art.
Irene might talk boldly about rolling out a full refit, but the practical logic was clear: every single barrel required Daphne to expend enormous quantities of Holy Light for microscopic reshaping.
With that kind of output ratio, this first batch of finished weapons could only serve as personal sidearms for Mason's core members.
"One each, and don't fight over them!"
Irene swept a grand arm through the air, handed the one with the most intricate engravings to Sophia first, then distributed the rest to Delilah, Daphne, Willow, and Bardess in turn.
Finally, she picked up the slightly lighter model and held it out to Victoria.
"Third Princess, you may be more accustomed to a sword — but here in Mason, Truth exists only within the range of a musket barrel. Take this for self-defense. After all, the deterrent this thing puts out is in a completely different league from those other options."
Victoria accepted the musket with elegant composure, and as her fingertips made contact with the cool alchemic metal, a flicker of complicated emotion passed through her eyes.
---
In the days that followed, Willow managed Yurilland's internal affairs with her characteristic obsessive efficiency, and for once Sophia was able to pull herself free from the mountain of official documents.
And so, every afternoon at the shooting range, a scene unfolded that reduced the veteran Mason soldiers watching from a distance to holding their breath.
Bang!
Another dull gunshot rang out. The musket in Victoria's hands kicked sharply, and the bullet, as expected, veered wide of the mark, leaving a shallow white scratch on the distant stone wall.
"Hss..."
Victoria rubbed her slightly numb palm. She could keep a steady grip on her ivory fan, but this heavy block of metal driving against her with its recoil was a genuine challenge for a princess who had grown up in pampered comfort.
"Your center of gravity is off. Your force vector is misaligned."
Sophia's voice — clear and cool as ice and snow — drifted in from behind.
Victoria turned to see the silver-haired girl approaching unhurriedly, those pale golden pupils as still and unemotional as ever.
"Dear little sister, this thing is certainly fiercer than I imagined."
Victoria gave a helpless smile and tucked the strand of golden hair that had fallen across her chest back behind her ear.
"Its temperament seems even more unpredictable than yours."
"Because you're trying to counter hardness with flexibility. That contradicts the physics."
Sophia stepped to Victoria's side, and the slight difference in their heights brought them close enough together that the air between them turned faintly, warmly ambiguous.
Victoria caught the scent from Sophia — faint, like the crisp air of a winter dawn — drifting into her lungs through her nose.
"Raise your arms."
Sophia issued the short command.
Victoria obediently lifted the musket.
The next instant, she felt a pair of slightly cool, yet exceptionally steady hands close over her own from behind.
Sophia's hands were a little smaller than Victoria's, the nails trimmed neatly and smoothly.
And yet, as the two pairs of hands overlapped, Victoria was surprised to find that within that seemingly slender frame lay a solidity like bedrock.
Sophia's fingers closed around the pistol grip with firm authority, locking the barrel — which had still been trembling faintly — rigidly in place in mid-air.
"Don't fight the recoil. Guide it."
Sophia murmured near Victoria's ear, and silver strands of hair drifted on the breeze, brushing lightly against Victoria's cheek — a barely-there sensation that made the tips of her ears go gently warm.
She had never been this close to Sophia before. To be honest, among their royal siblings, rarely touching one another was the norm — managing to not snipe at each other every meeting was already the mark of a good relationship.
"Now — breathe deeply, lock the muscles in your shoulders, and align your aim with the sight."
Is this truly my little sister?
Before this absolute power, all my elegance and calculation seem like nothing but ornamental excess.
Sophia may appear to be teaching me to shoot, but this posture — taking complete control of my movements from behind — isn't it her subtle way of telling me that in Mason's Order, even my breath and my killing must align to her rhythm?
This sensation, bordering on obsessive control...
It makes you shudder, and yet you find yourself unable to resist sinking deeper into it.
This tenderness born from within violence — it must be the most lethal poison in this world.
"Pull the trigger."
At Sophia's cool command, guided by those hands, Victoria pressed down on the trigger without hesitation.
Bang —!
This time, the thunderous roar of the musket no longer sounded jarring.
Victoria felt a massive force travel up through her arms — only to be perfectly absorbed before it could reach Sophia's steady chest.
In the distance, a dark bullet hole appeared with precision at the very center of the bullseye.
"A hit."
Victoria stared at the target, excitement glittering in her eyes. The thrill of personally commanding that kind of destructive power was, without question, far more direct than the games of political intrigue.
Sophia slowly released her hands and stepped back one pace, her pale golden pupils sweeping across Victoria's slightly flushed cheeks.
"Good."
Sophia gave a small nod.
"As long as it is used correctly, even a commoner holding a musket can pierce a knight's pride. Victoria — remember this feeling."
"I will remember it, Sophia."
____
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