Shield of the Rose

Spotlights shone from the opposite mountain peak, illuminating the entire summit brightly.

The summit looked utterly tragic, pitted with craters of various sizes, with several sections neatly sheared off.

On the ground and in snowdrifts, scattered debris lay everywhere.

A squad of Internal Affairs Knights crouched on the ground picking up armor fragments. Their movements were exceptionally cautious, as if handling newly unearthed antiques rather than armor debris. Before picking up each piece, they recorded its original location and took photographs.

At the foot of the mountain, another group gathered bodies and administered emergency medical treatment to the wounded.

Casualties were heavy, with even more wounded.

The final desperate attacks of those Alliance Knights before dying claimed the lives of many ordinary Knights with lesser strength. Even more terrifying was that their new standard armors were equipped with self-destruct devices—devices that used energy crystals rather than explosives as detonators.

The neatly sheared sections on the summit attested to the self-destruct devices’ terrifying power.

After triggering the self-destruct mechanism, the Alliance Knights didn’t forget to drag as many enemies down with them as possible, rushing into the densest crowds before blowing themselves and their foes into smithereens amidst earth-shattering explosions.

The official managing Polmo nearly wept at the tragic scene before him. He wasn’t crying over losing so many Knights, but because such a massive disaster meant he would definitely be in trouble.

Could he find a way to hush this up? He wondered internally. Yet he quickly realized it was impossible. Had it been just his subordinate Knights fighting, he might have had a chance, but now that the secretly developed new standard armor had entered combat, hiding it was out of the question.

In an instant, the official loathed everyone from the bottom of his heart: he hated those bored Norman Alliance Knights who came out of nowhere to play surprise attacks; he hated his useless subordinate Knights for failing to react even when enemies crept so close; and he equally hated the members of Squad 105—had they not been present, he could have quietly smoothed over the incident.

Just then, Claude walked over. This Ace Knight, who had previously dealt with Richie, commanded the direct squadron under the Knight Headquarters. Two of the five Ace Knights stationed here were his subordinates, but in last night’s battle, one was severely wounded and the other suffered minor injuries.

Yet compared to Internal Affairs, he could practically laugh in secret! Internal Affairs had only two Ace Knights stationed here, one killed and the other severely injured, leaving their group leaderless and plunged into a semi-paralyzed, chaotic state.

Still, thinking of Squad 105 overseeing the new armor testing, Claude couldn’t feel happy either. Squad 105 consisted mostly of female Knights, yet not a single one was severely injured—only five suffered minor wounds, and the sole enemy Knight who failed to detonate in time was killed by them.

“Have you reported to the higher-ups yet?” the official asked Claude with a cold face.

“It can’t be hidden anyway. Besides, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Claude knew what the guy was worried about.

The Republic harbored a strange phenomenon: military officers preferred trouble, whether good or bad, as it allowed them to gain benefits—the sole exception being the previous major collapse. Yet even during that collapse, very few were punished. Civil officials were the exact opposite, dreading trouble above all else, for avoiding incidents meant steady promotions and eventually securing good positions through seniority.

“I know what you’re referring to. Did the higher-ups say how we should handle that damaged suit?” Though utterly unwilling, the official had to ask about it. He didn’t plan to profit from it; he didn’t need military merit, which was like a hot potato to someone like him, risking being dragged into military-related departments.

“Special personnel have already been dispatched from above. All we need to do now is leave it untouched,” Claude shrugged.

“What about those women? Aside from the wounded ones, I haven’t seen a single one,” the official glanced around.

“Nine enemies came last night, and two escaped in the end. Those two saw the new armor under testing, so we can’t let them escape back,” Claude felt a headache coming on. That was the real trouble: once the enemy learned of the new armor, war would erupt immediately.

“How could you let them hunt down fugitives? What are you people paid for? If anything happens to those women or their armor, who takes responsibility? You or me?” the official shouted in frustration. His direct superior’s original order was to prevent news of testing the new armor from leaking, meaning he only needed to manage his own duties.

Claude despised the man before him from his heart. He had never liked officials, especially civil ones, and that disgust ran even deeper now. He could somewhat understand why Haigett’s group wanted to form the Junior Army; knowing something was wrong yet having no way to refute it felt deeply depressing.

Richie felt equally depressed at the moment, having never been so exhausted, with wounds on his body aching in waves.

The receiver remained on continuously. Though lacking the olive-shaped coil, reducing clarity slightly, he could still pick up sounds four to five kilometers ahead.

He turned to listen around; the pursuers behind were rushing toward him.

Richie let out a helpless sigh, raising his fist to strike the sky, sending a yellow shockwave soaring upward.

He believed the pursuers behind could see the signal.

If possible, he wanted to stop and wait to regroup with the pursuers behind, but he couldn’t.

The guy ahead was fleeing far too fast.

Naturally, he wouldn’t pursue too closely either.

Out of nine enemies, two broke out—one an Honor Knight, the other an Ace Knight.

Richie didn’t know which one was ahead, but to him, Ace or Honor made little difference—either could chop him to pieces.

He could only trail the guy from a distance, waiting for reinforcements behind to catch up.

Pursuing while recalling the battle earlier, Richie realized the armor worn by these two Honor squads differed significantly from captured suits. Their armor featured a certain mechanism allowing two suits to leave light armor far behind in a short time, though luckily that speed couldn’t be sustained long, or the two survivors would have escaped already.

This forced them to spread out searching. Nora was the first to find one survivor’s trail, leading a team after him. Resting due to injuries, Richie unexpectedly discovered the remaining survivor. That guy was truly cunning, fleeing not toward the sea, but jumping into a river outside the receiver’s range, doubling back along the river to escape deeper into the Republic.

Richie didn’t know whether to feel lucky or regretful; all he knew was that he was exhausted to the extreme, and his armor was nearing its limit.

A wave of irony washed over Richie.

Both men operated secret prototype armors that couldn’t be exposed, racing through difficult terrain as if competing to see whose armor possessed superior performance.

Along the way, he listened to sounds ahead. That suit operated smoothly without noise, whereas his suit fared worse. Friction in moving joints grew worse, his right leg emitting screeching noises upon stepping forward, and the front canopy overheated constantly due to sustained full-load operation of the power core, forcing him to stop frequently and pour water over it to cool down.

Fortunately, water was abundant here, with rivers and marshes forming a dense network, through which he currently stumbled.

Suddenly, a sharp metallic snapping sound echoed from the receiver, followed by piercing scraping noises.

A wave of joy washed over him—the armor ahead had definitely run into trouble.

Richie recalled a book analyzing soft versus hard joints: soft joints broke easily but repaired easily, whereas hard joints proved durable but posed major issues when broken.

With this thought, an urge to rush forward and finish the opponent surged within him.

Yet Richie suppressed the urge, turning to scan his surroundings.

Initial excitement turned into shock, then hesitation. He heard no sounds behind; the three pursuers following him had vanished.

Among the three was Merlin, who certainly wouldn’t abandon him, but her armor had encountered major issues.

As for why the other two failed to keep up, Richie wasn’t sure. Perhaps their armors broke down under extreme testing conditions, or perhaps they chose not to pursue further.

Considering the person ahead was an Ace or Honor Knight, Richie felt like backing off as well.

Turning back forward, the receiver still transmitted piercing scraping sounds.

His mind fell into complete turmoil.

The sky remained gloomy, the dark hour before dawn.

Aside from sloshing water sounds, total silence enveloped the area, with thick mud dampening footsteps into faint thuds.

This was a marsh famous for dense mangrove forests, but Richie currently loathed these plants, constantly tripped up by submerged roots.

He walked slowly, knowing the survivor ahead had stopped.

Under the dark night, two suits of armor gradually approached within a hundred meters, where Richie halted.

With a click, his helmet spotlight turned on, illuminating the armor ahead.

That armor was severely damaged, its entire right side wrecked, the right arm gone, and a massive gash extending to the right hip.

That massive gash brought Richie no joy; on the contrary, his mood turned grim.

He knew he was in trouble: this wasn’t a escaped fish, but a crocodile breaking through the net—that massive gash had been inflicted jointly by the three sisters and Trisli.

Suddenly, a bright light shone back as the opposite armor turned on its spotlight, illuminating Richie’s armor. Under the light, his armor appeared far sleeker, reflecting brilliant radiance like a mirror.

Rogelsent felt equally terrible. His armor’s damage was far worse than it appeared: weight imbalance combined with sustained sprinting had snapped his central spine.

His upper torso couldn’t rotate, his right arm was gone, power was failing, and energy crystals were nearly spent. Under these conditions, he decided to make a desperate last stand and eliminate the pursuer behind.

Rogelsent also practiced Recon Knight disciplines, possessing perception capabilities far beyond ordinary people. He had long sensed someone trailing him at the edge of his perception.

By his logic, someone tracking him at maximum perception distance could only be a Recon Knight, yet Richie appeared instead.

Having witnessed Richie and Merlin entangling Kaben earlier, seeing Merlin armed while Richie fought bare-handed, Rogelsent naturally assumed Richie was a top-tier expert from that mysterious Ace Squad.

Another factor contributed to his misunderstanding: Rogelsent had been wounded by Trisli and the three sisters, deeply impressed by Trisli’s strength and her gleaming golden armor. Richie’s silver armor sparked endless assumptions in Rogelsent’s mind.

Both men were caught in a dilemma, glaring at each other, neither willing to strike first.

Time trickled away slowly.

After an unknown duration, Rogelsent lost his patience. The situation favored him not; this was enemy territory, and dawn would make escape even harder.

His left hand quivered suddenly, sending a sheet of sword light flying out—dim, yet dense as heavy rain.

Richie naturally used his signature technique “Mirror Reflection.” Instinct told him the attack was dense but unthreatening. He wondered why the Honor Knight did this: even as a feint, such an attack seemed far too weak.

Yet he quickly learned the reason: with a soft pop, his helmet spotlight shattered, while the opponent turned off his light simultaneously.

Moving from light to darkness caused temporary blindness in total blackness.

Just then, a faint whistling sound reached his earpieces, forming an image in his mind rapidly: a large net was dropping over him, its fine mesh tearing wind into turbulent currents.

He dropped down immediately, submerging into the marsh—a trick he often practiced with mentor Miss Dana.

The sword net brushed past his armor closely.

With a series of crisp snaps, a large patch of mangroves was sliced into hand-sized pieces by the fine sword net.

Before the first sword net cleared, a second dropped from above.

Richie kicked out fiercely, his back scraping against slick mud, sliding dozens of meters away!

The sword net hit the water, splashing massive spray, and as sword force hit the riverbed, the surface seemed to explode, though this powerful strike missed Richie again.

Missing twice, Rogelsent grew even more unsettled, unable to fathom how the opponent “saw” his moves.

As an Honor Knight possessing “Field,” darkness posed no barrier, which was why he chose to resolve trouble at night, yet now he hesitated.

Facing an opponent who could also see through darkness, his only choice was attacking relentlessly to drive the opponent into a corner.

Suddenly, a faint arc sliced through, tearing a gap in the sword net.

Richie finally drew his Knight blade, understanding his opponent’s intent: the opponent didn’t want him getting close, fearing his close-quarters combat skills.

That was also what he hoped for; with Merlin present, he dared engage in close-quarters combat because Merlin never gave enemies a chance to strike. When entangling the other Honor Knight, over seventy percent of attacks were parried by Merlin, while he merely served as distraction.

What he feared most was this Honor Knight rushing him with lightning-fast attacks.

Outsiders wouldn’t understand: as a master of close-quarters combat, what he feared most was also close-quarters combat. Richie couldn’t forget those terrifying Franca Knights who overloaded their potential with “Explosive Aura” for close-quarters combat.

In the dark night, the two fought with increasing intensity, sword nets and arcs chopping surrounding mangroves completely away, turning the marsh into a lake where they clashed atop the water surface.

Suddenly, Rogelsent stopped attacking, gripping his sword tightly.

His armor’s energy had dropped to a critical low; he could drag it out no longer.

Infinite tragedy surged in Rogelsent’s heart, intuiting that this marsh would be his grave.

Gritated his teeth, he pressed a button, and his armor creaked loudly—a sign of activating the sprint mechanism.

This mechanism was the “Rubik’s Cube’s” greatest secret, unequipped even on officially deployed models.

It allowed armor to burst with several times its power for two minutes—enough to resolve strong foes or break away from battle.

With a sharp whistle, the armor shot toward Richie like lightning.

Richie felt terrible; when that armor creaked, he sensed danger. On that summit, he had seen similar scenes several times: whenever an enemy suit creaked, its speed became insanely fast—slightly inferior only to Franca Knights using “Explosive Aura”—followed by charging in to blow themselves up together.

Dodging was impossible; in nightmares, he had fought that Franca Knight using “Explosive Aura” countless times, ending up chopped into pieces before waking in terror.

Yet those repeated nightmares had accustomed him to desperate enemies.

Unable to flee or dodge, he could only fight for his life.

Taking a deep breath, Richie assumed the opening stance for “Crescent Moon.”

As Rogelsent struck like lightning, Richie’s “Crescent Moon” unleashed simultaneously.

Unpolished by trickery, relying purely on instinct, Richie knew his “Crescent Moon” missed the mark slightly upon unleashing.

Time seemed to slow down: he could see his blade slicing through air turbulence and the opponent’s thrusting sword creating a conical air wave.

Everything slowed down, yet nothing could be changed. He watched the sword tip pierce his chest armor plate, thrusting right inside, and watched his curved blade strike the opponent’s shoulder a step slower.

The opponent’s shoulder hitched slightly, taking the fatal strike right on the thickest muscle.

It was deliberate—using the thickest muscle to block the lethal blow, proving the opponent possessed far superior experience. Richie’s mind went blank, knowing he was finished.

With a loud CLANG, the two armors collided heavily.

Richie was sent flying far away, his light armor naturally unable to withstand a medium armor’s impact.

Flung backward, he felt intense pain. Looking down, a terrifying wound gaped at his right lower ribs—yet he wasn’t dead.

Before he could figure out why, a dull explosion sounded. He raised his arms to block out of instinct, but after waiting a while, no earth-shattering explosion occurred. Richie sat up with difficulty, looking at his opponent.

That armor lay straight in the water, its front canopy popped open and twisted, containing a mangled mess of flesh inside!

Richie burst into loud laughter, finally understanding why he survived.

That Honor Knight had pressed the self-destruct button before striking, meant to blow them both into pieces, but the self-destruct mechanism malfunctioned—its blast power proved pitifully small, killing the Honor Knight himself and merely popping his canopy open!

Uncontrollable laughter strained his wound, making Richie’s vision turn black with pain. He pulled his hands out of his sleeves, clutching his wound tightly.

It hurt excruciatingly.

The two armors embraced in the marsh for six hours until a search team found them at noon.

Richie returned on a stretcher, while the two armors were towed back by others.

Upon returning to camp, Richie was carried straight into the infirmary—the sole severely injured member of Squad 105.

Yet no one dared look down on him. Before he returned, news had arrived along with footage of that marsh!

Mangroves surrounded the area, but not a single tree stood within the battlefield—only hand-sized fragments remained.

If that lacked convincing power, reading records from Richie’s armor upon return left no room for doubt.

That had been an intense battle fought in total darkness—a battlefield where Honor Knights excelled most.

The incident was reported immediately, and orders came down fifteen minutes later: seal all records and dispatch a special guard team to retrieve the records and transport the two intact armors back.

By afternoon, another update arrived: Polmo wasn’t the only site raided last night—six other locations were attacked simultaneously.

All seven sites were somewhat famous yet non-critical places, raided by the Alliance for retaliation and deterrence.

The other six sites weren’t as lucky as Polmo: four were wiped out completely with zero survivors, while a few survivors at the remaining two reported to superiors.

As news spread, Knights and staff stationed at Polmo rejoiced over escaping death, and even the complaining official felt grateful for his good fortune.

The only unhappy person was Richie.

Field testing for the new armor would continue, yet his severe injuries prevented him from participating. Fortunately, thirteen suits remained, so missing one person had little impact.

On the third day at noon, the special guard team arrived from Peines. Their strength was staggering: six Honor Knights and six Ace Knights in a single squad.

Richie had thought Squad 105 was impressive, but seeing this guard team made him realize his squad still had a long way to go.

A few days later, Richie returned to Peines.

Along the way, his injuries had mostly healed, though doctors at the Knight Headquarters Hospital still treated him as severely wounded. He stayed in the hospital where Squad 105 members had stayed before, not in the special female ward, but crowded in a large general ward with other wounded.

“Hey kid, I recognize you!” A wounded man on the neighboring bed had been observing Richie since he entered. Once doctors and nurses left, he sat up.

Staring at Richie’s face for a while, he slapped his forehead and shouted: “I remember! You visited patients here with Trisli, and you sparred with Sabaro!”

Hearing his shouts, other patients turned their attention over.

“Sabaro? You’re kidding, right?”

“Mark isn’t wrong, I recognize him too. The kid did spar with Sabaro, though only for a few moves before genius girl Trisli stepped in. But the kid fought Sabaro quite well!”

“No way? Sabaro is a top-tier Ace, one step away from Honor Knight.”

“…”

The patients babbled noisily. Though severely injured, most had entered recovery, staying here due to tricky injuries like broken limbs or internal trauma requiring long-term care.

Bored from being cooped up, a new member with a story naturally sparked their interest.

“Kid, how did you get injured? No battles happened recently! You weren’t beaten up by your mentor, were you?” The guy on the neighboring bed joked.

“No comment. Bound by secrecy orders,” Richie shrugged.

The man surveyed Richie up and down, then burst into laughter: “Keep acting! At your age, I loved playing mysterious too, telling everyone I had special missions.”

Richie prepared to defend himself, but saw someone walking over—Haigett.

“You get news fast,” Richie greeted Haigett from his bed.

“Sir!” “Salute, Sir!” The neighboring patient jumped to the floor immediately, standing straight and saluting Haigett, with several patients doing the same.

Haigett returned their salutes before walking to Richie’s bed.

“You look in great spirits. I expected you to be on the verge of death,” Haigett joked, shocking the patients who knew him.

“Am I that useless?” Richie felt somewhat depressed.

“That’s normal, others thought so too. As a trainee Knight, daring to duel an Honor Knight one-on-one—only you have such guts. If it were me, I’d run as far as possible,” Haigett’s words served as a hint that he knew internal details.

The ward fell dead silent. Patients stunned by Haigett’s attitude toward Richie earlier were now utterly shocked.

“I didn’t know the guy was an Honor Knight back then, thinking he was just another Ace Knight,” Richie said embarrassedly.

Hearing this, patients felt like spitting blood!

Haigett felt chest tightness too—words even he wouldn’t dare say lightly. He shook his head with a bitter smile before speaking: “Congratulations, your uniform will soon gain a Silver Badge.”

“Silver Badge? What Silver Badge?” Richie considered himself knowledgeable about Knight rules, yet didn’t know what Silver Badge referred to.

The patients could barely stand. They thought Richie merely survived a duel with an Honor Knight, never imagining he had slain one.

“I forgot you’re clueless about common Knight knowledge. This isn’t a military rule or medal, but an ancient tradition: slaying an Honor Knight adds a Silver Badge to your uniform and armor, though it must be officially recognized by Knight Headquarters,” Haigett explained.

“Damn, Lina and the others didn’t tell me?” Richie felt aggrieved: “I should have had a Silver Badge long ago.”

Haigett felt even tighter in his chest; staying around Richie easily delivered emotional blows.

Slaying an Honor Knight was a rare opportunity he, a dignified corps commander, hadn’t encountered yet.

Meanwhile, other patients sat back on their beds like dead ashes, thoroughly crushed by the revelation.

“If killing an Honor Knight earns a Silver Badge, killing a Glorious Knight must earn a Gold Badge, right?” Richie asked.

“Three-year-olds know that,” Haigett replied.

“What about killing a Heavenly Knight? Do you get a Diamond Badge?” Richie continued asking.

Haigett covered his face, feeling unable to take it. For a Knight to lack such common knowledge was unimaginable.

“Heavenly rank isn’t achieved through practice alone; it requires recognition. The strongest recognition is slaying a Heavenly Knight, after which one can apply for the ‘Holy Emperor’s Blessing’ from Holy Emperor bloodline heirs to break through to Heavenly rank. Slaying a Sword Saint is even simpler—the title of Sword Saint becomes yours directly,” Haigett teased.

This was indeed common knowledge Richie had heard before: achieving Heavenly rank required a Holy Emperor bloodline heir’s blessing, a duty heirs couldn’t refuse under any pretext, even during wartime or if the applicant led an enemy nation.

“By the way, I need a favor from you,” Haigett looked embarrassed, fearing Richie might think he didn’t come purely to visit. “Master armor smiths from various nations are arriving soon, and I need you to introduce me to a few.”

Haigett stated his purpose.

Hearing this, Richie understood why master smiths were arriving.

It definitely related to those two damaged armors.

The captured armor differed significantly from previous ones, featuring improvements—especially that mysterious mechanism boosting output several times in a short burst.

That mechanism resembled Master Jebson’s energy storage device, but far surpassed it in complexity and performance.

If the Alliance couldn’t develop a similar device, deploying such armors on a mass scale would bring catastrophic doom.

Thus, new standard armor development had to be paused while master smiths gathered to tackle this hurdle together.

Richie also understood why Haigett asked his help.

As original designer of the new armor and someone who fought the enemy’s new armor, he would certainly receive an invitation.

“I’ll try my best,” Richie didn’t commit fully.

Though agreeing, Richie felt somewhat uncomfortable about a visit carrying ulterior motives, deciding to make things slightly difficult for Haigett.

“How about doing me a favor too?” Richie picked up the book beside his pillow: “I might stay here for a while. Can you visit the camp and bring me a few more books?”

Haigett looked at Richie with a bitter face, knowing Richie was setting a hurdle. That camp was heavily guarded with top-level secrecy; even empty, no one could enter easily.

“Understood, I’ll fetch a couple of books for you,” Haigett tried to smooth it over, preferring to spend money buying rare books rather than trying to enter that camp.

“Bring me a few booklets too,” Richie didn’t plan to let him off easily.

“Stop making things hard for me. Even the Chief of the General Staff can’t enter that camp easily,” Haigett begged for mercy: “Change your request, I beg you.”

“Fine,” Richie didn’t press too hard: “My injuries are mostly healed. Find a way to get the doctor to discharge me.”

Haigett agreed readily this time.

“However, you must stay here for at least two days,” Haigett remembered something: “People will definitely visit you later. The enemy raid embarrassed some higher-ups, and they’ll want to erase negative impacts by making an article out of you.”

“Turning me into a hero?” Richie asked.

“In your dreams! They’ll claim the Honor Knight died because his armor malfunctioned, and you just got lucky. That way, people will believe it more easily. Plus, it undermines enemy confidence, making them feel their armors have serious flaws that could cost their lives,” Haigett understood high-level psychology thoroughly.

Richie felt indignant inside, knowing Haigett’s words would likely come true.

“Handle the hospital for me. As for those higher-ups…” Richie fell silent before finding a good pretext: “Espol and Madame Shar need my help, which should be reason enough.”

“The reason is sufficient, but disrespected higher-ups won’t bring you benefits. I suffered plenty of such losses when I was young,” Haigett sighed.

Richie curled his lip privately; hearing this guy speak so worldly sounded as if he had mastered compromise long ago.

Haigett left.

The ward remained quiet, patients sitting on beds staring blankly at Richie.

Haigett quickly brought a doctor over, who re-examined Richie and signed the discharge paper.

Stepping out of the hospital, Richie immediately encountered crowded streets.

Unlike the previous demonstration, no one shouted slogans; though crowded, people sat on the ground quietly, banners expressing their anger silently.

“No wonder they brought me through the back door—the front was blocked,” Richie, like any youth, possessed a lively mind and loved excitement, pointing and joking: “Shifting to a sit-in strike—why isn’t it being suppressed like last time?”

Haigett, equally lighthearted, showed no moved expression toward the demonstrators: “No foreign envoys are visiting to feel unsettled, so higher-ups don’t bother taking action.”

Leaflets scattered across the street, but Richie didn’t pick them up, wanting to avoid trouble.

Not picking them up didn’t prevent him from reading while passing.

A few glances revealed leaflets exposing high-level corruption.

He moved to another leaflet.

This one listed private scandals of a department official—embezzlement and selling offices being minor, with disgusting acts Richie couldn’t bear reading.

What shocked him most was the signature at the bottom: the Junior Army.

“Are these real?” Richie asked.

“Which part do you mean?” Haigett didn’t mind: “If you mean the scandals, most are true, with a few based on rumors. If you mean the signature, the Junior Army doesn’t bother with such pointless tactics.”

“That’s true,” Richie understood the Junior Army’s style somewhat.

An organization of radical Knights wouldn’t play “inciting the masses” games.

Inciting the masses to overthrow the government would just yield another civil government, which wasn’t what the Junior Army wanted.

The Junior Army sought a strong military government, or at least a joint civil-military government if opposition ran high.

“Is it a Norman Alliance plot?” Richie looked at Haigett.

“Hard to say. Could be an ambitious yet weak organization,” Haigett pointed at the sit-in protesters: “Ninety percent genuinely care about this country with hot blood, but ten percent harbor hidden motives. Yet that ten percent easily gains leadership because they know how to hide themselves, perform, and buy people over.”

Richie looked at the sit-in protesters.

A vast crowd filled the square, impossible to inspect individually even with mind-reading abilities.

“Politics is just a headache,” Haigett sighed repeatedly—a feeling extending beyond the scene.

Recently, internal divisions arose within the Junior Army. Compromisers and radicals existed everywhere, even in a radical group. Though rank-and-file members saw a unified whole, upper leaders knew the group had reached a crossroads.

Everyone had their own perspective. While Haigett watched the protesters, Richie scanned surrounding windows.

Behind window panes were faces of ordinary citizens watching the spectacle, pointing and chatting.

Like his former self, they were ordinary small-town citizens lacking hot blood or deep loyalty, wanting only to live good lives.

The world contained far more small-town citizens.

Thinking of small-town citizens made him think of his parents.

Since he was effectively on leave, staying at home seemed a fine choice.

Naturally, before that, he had to visit Espol’s hotel. Using Espol and Madame Shar as shields required leaving no flaws: spending daytime beside them and returning home at night.

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