Shield of the Rose

“Since we’re on the road anyway, the quartermasters have plenty of free time. If we ask them for help, they should be able to whip this thing up pretty quickly,” Calli chimed in, a rare instance of her joining the fun.

“I’ll go! I’ll go!” Tidi volunteered enthusiastically; she was always the most eager when it came to hands-on mechanics.

“If we’re doing this, let’s go all out. Help me install a pair of hand shields on the backs of my hands,” Richie said, his mind working quickly. Since he couldn’t escape Trisli’s “guidance,” he might as well face it head-on.

“Hand shields aren’t a good idea. Shields catch the wind, slowing down your strike speed and making you clumsy,” Tidi countered. When it came to close-quarters combat, her family had centuries of heritage; she was a true expert.

“Why not install a row of blades instead? They can be used for thrusting, slashing, and parrying—just like a Briar Shield,” Merlin suggested from the side. She knew Richie better than anyone and was also the most adept at defensive techniques among them.

Just as she finished speaking, the transport door swung open, letting a gust of icy wind blow inside.

Along with the cold wind came a person.

The intruder was none other than Robin.

Robin’s face was as cold as frost. Holding a memory crystal in her hand, she said coldly: “This is what you asked for yesterday.”

With a chilly snort, she hurled the memory crystal forward with a sharp, whistling sound.

Richie gasped in surprise. This throw was terrifyingly similar to Trisli’s trick of hurling a wooden branch straight through a pine trunk.

He could catch it, but if he did, the memory crystal would certainly be pulverized by the force behind it.

Just as he hesitated, a hand reached out from the side with a gentle wave. The memory crystal slowed down dramatically, hovering right in front of Richie as if suspended in mid-air.

Seeing Lina intervene, Robin snorted coldly and jumped off the transport.

Plugging the memory crystal into the reader device, a beam of white light projected onto the ceiling, revealing images above.

It showed pages from a book—not the complete work, but a few selected pages. The first three pages were densely filled with text, followed by illustrations. Some illustrations were highly detailed, while others were quick sketches outlining basic shapes.

All the drawings depicted claws—roughly thirty or forty distinct types in total.

That such an obscure category of weapon possessed so many variants astonished even the well-traveled Lina.

“Incredible! What an eye-opener!” Tidi turned the dial to flip through the pages, her eyes wide with wonder. Out of everyone, she felt the deepest resonance.

Suddenly, she pointed to one of the drawings. “That’s my family’s Heavenly Fiend Claw!”

The drawing indeed showed a terrifying claw weapon. Compared to other claw weapons, it appeared relatively slender, with long blades at the fingertips and five tendon-like ridges along the back, presumably for defense. Most intimidating of all, the entire claw bristled with sharp barbs, looking almost furry with thorns.

“Look at this one. It’s quite similar to what I described earlier,” Merlin pointed to another illustration.

The claw weapon she indicated was visually striking, featuring a dragon’s head design across the back with two sharp, razor-edged dragon horns extending forward as three-edged daggers.

“And look at this one! How awesome!” Tidi shouted excitedly again.

That weapon looked ordinary on the surface, but its clever trick lay in every finger joint extending a sharp blade forward. Clenched into a flat palm, the hand functioned like a razor-sharp blade; formed into a fist, all the sharp blades flared outward, turning the hand into a mountain of daggers.

“Who would have thought Trisli would actually share this with you? Seems she isn’t all that angry with you after all!” Rosa giggled.

Lina clearly disliked hearing such talk. She patted Richie’s cheek gently, saying: “Are you touched? Do you think Trisli is a wonderful person now? Are you guessing that beating you into a pig’s head was just to appease Robin’s anger while giving you a few pointers?”

“Isn’t that the case?” Rosa asked from the side.

“Throughout her life, that woman has beaten up at least eight hundred people, if not a thousand. Yet among those she beat, fewer than ten genuinely hate her. On the contrary, ninety-nine percent ended up joining her fanbase. You must have heard Trisli commands a personal guard, right? At least half the members in that guard are guys she personally beat up.” Lina sighed, unable to hide her admiration despite her rivalry with Trisli. “Do you know what her greatest talent is? It isn’t raw talent, nor martial skill, but her extraordinary diplomatic charm. When she beats people up, she shows no mercy, yet she subtly bestows benefits, making her victims feel she holds them in high regard. Nine out of ten men she beats up end up adoring her. Instead of harboring hatred, their admiration grows stronger after a sound thrashing. That’s a trick none of us can ever hope to learn.”

Richie rubbed his swollen cheek, feeling slightly better knowing so many others had suffered the same fate. He stole a glance at Lina, wondering secretly whether she had been beaten up by Trisli as well.

Richie held zero interest in becoming another member of Trisli’s fanbase. Right now, his sole concern was figuring out how to block that woman’s relentless attacks.

Since a gap in raw strength existed, he had to compensate through superior weaponry.

He knew relying too heavily on weapons wasn’t ideal, but the pressing situation left him no time for gradual progress.

The journey back from the front lines to Peines took a full half-month, including a five-day delay while crossing active engagement zones.

Upon returning to the rear, their supply transports were requisitioned by military command. Since their unit was returning for rest and reorganization, they could only watch helplessly as most of the transports were driven away.

Thus, when the column passed through the checkpoint into the jurisdiction of Peines, everyone felt a wave of relief.

Richie was no exception.

At this point, his face had turned completely into a pig’s head—his cheeks as red as a monkey’s bottom, swollen high, with lumps all over his head and tape plastered across various spots. Nor were his injuries limited to his face; both hands were swollen like bear paws. Had he stripped off his clothes, one would find bruises everywhere—his back, his legs, all covered in injuries.

Every single wound had been dealt by Trisli. Initially, she had used wooden branches, which escalated to wooden boards, and eventually heavy cudgels, her strikes growing harsher with time.

Richie had suffered immense pain, yet his progress far outweighed the suffering.

At first, he could only take beatings without landing a single counter-strike. But now, for every ten strikes Trisli launched, he could counter at least five times, getting hit less and less frequently—often exchanging dozens of moves before taking a blow.

Of course, a single blow now hurt far more than taking dozens at the start. Trisli beat people according to two golden rules: first, if quantity lacked, quality compensated; second, the further along the training went, the harder she struck.

Compared to the others, Richie felt a far more urgent desire to return home. He had too many loved ones to worry about.

Passing the checkpoint, barring traffic, they could reach the urban district in two hours. Squad 105 no longer waited for the rest of the column, as their personal transport hadn’t been requisitioned.

Richie leaned back against his seat, his face stuck with acupuncture needles. Throughout the journey, he hadn’t dared let Randy heal his facial wounds. Leaving them unhealed was actually safer; once healed, Trisli would strike even harder. But now that he was approaching his doorstep, he couldn’t very well greet his parents with a face swollen like a pig’s.

Mental energy healing worked wonders on superficial tissue damage, causing the swelling to visible recede. Only faint marks remained where skin had broken, but those marks hardly damaged Richie’s image, instead adding a touch of wild ruggedness—even the two pieces of tape on his cheeks looked rather stylish.

Leaning back against the seat, Richie looked out the window.

Compared to when he first arrived in Peines, the highway looked remarkably deserted.

Back then, the entire highway had been packed with vehicles, long traffic jams crawling forward inch by inch. Everyone had been migrating to Peines under the illusion that the capital was safe. But now, anyone with a clear head understood the Republic couldn’t hold out alone, and its fall was only a matter of time. Those with connections had fled abroad months ago when the war resumed, while those without had scattered to hide in the countryside.

Entering the suburbs, the emptiness felt even more pronounced. Most shops along the road were closed, and even when one or two doors stood open, no customers could be seen.

Scenes like this were hardly unfamiliar to him. Glasslovar had looked identical before its fall.

Entering the inner city, conditions improved slightly; at least some shops remained open—mostly fabric shops, rice merchants, and modest eateries. Shops catering to the wealthy—selling high-end apparel, hats, and fine jewelry—were not only tightly locked, but their display windows stood completely bare, their valuables moved to unknown locations.

Hardly any carriages traveled the avenues, and the usually bustling commercial streets looked desolate. The only places showing signs of life were coffee houses, where a few forlorn figures sat by the windows.

Richie looked up through the vehicle window at the sky. The sky was azure blue, devoid of snow for once; the clouds hung high, yet for some reason, he felt a dreary gray gloom hanging over everything.

Or perhaps the dreariness resided in his own heart.

“Can you drop me off halfway?” Richie turned to Captain Calli.

“Sure. I’ll grant you a half-day leave,” Calli agreed without hesitation; she possessed that authority.

In fact, she had intended to do so anyway; otherwise, she wouldn’t have driven straight through the city center instead of taking the outer ring road. Though the ring road was slightly longer, it was wider and straighter, guaranteeing a faster arrival at camp.

The transport paused briefly at the mouth of an alley. Richie jumped down, and the vehicle rumbled away.

Looking at the tightly shut doors on both sides, and seeing other shops closed while only a nearby coffee shop remained open, Richie felt a pang of unease in his heart.

Since the shop was locked, his cousin certainly wasn’t inside. Richie walked toward his own house.

Carrying his house key on his person as always, he unlocked the door and stepped into the dark interior. Searching from top to bottom, he didn’t encounter a single soul.

Locking the door behind him and stepping back into the alley, Richie felt a surge of aimless confusion.

He didn’t know where to go next. He remembered his mother mentioning before leaving that his cousin had found a boyfriend, and the two were living together in sweet cohabitation.

Thinking of that made Richie feel a sour pang of jealousy.

Glancing at the shop entrance, he noticed a thick layer of dust accumulated on the ground; the doors hadn’t opened for at least a week.

In Richie’s memory, his cousin was a woman who adored money above all else. He had just checked the basement warehouse, where several packaged combat suits still sat; clearly, his cousin had abandoned business and locked up the shop.

To make his money-loving cousin abandon business to fly away with a boyfriend—Richie couldn’t imagine how immense that man’s charm must be, making the sour jealousy in his heart burn even stronger.

Naturally, he had no intention of standing there like a fool. Reflecting on his options, several places came to mind.

He could visit the Quartermaster Department to find his father, but his father was surely swamped with work—otherwise, his cousin wouldn’t have dared lock up to fool around with her lover. The primary location to check was Emily’s place.

A major reason he had rushed back was that Espol hadn’t been able to take Emily and the others away when he left. According to Haigert, the Republic’s top brass seemed to have shifted their attitude toward the Dante Alliance.

Since Espol and Madame Shar were powerless to intervene, he had to figure out another way.

However, Richie didn’t plan to visit Emily immediately because he intended to spend the night there, making it his final stop.

Beside those places, he also needed to visit Yiluo, though he wasn’t sure if Yiluo remained in Monstoke; their last communication had taken place a week ago.

There was one more destination—the lower-district “Seven Sisters”. When leaving Peines, he had asked them to seek out his father, which was a crucial move on his chessboard.

Comparing the options, Yiluo’s place was undeniably more urgent.

Pulling a pair of roller blades from his small pack and strapping them to his feet, Richie glided off toward the hotel district.

The streets were empty now, devoid of vehicles and with few pedestrians, allowing Richie to reach the Riccard Hotel in no time.

Though he hadn’t visited in a while, as a frequent guest, the hotel waiter recognized Richie instantly.

“Oh my! You haven’t visited in so long! You must be looking for Mr. Yiluo. I’m afraid he returned to his home country, but he left something for me to hand over to you.”

The waiter led Richie upstairs.

Hearing Yiluo had returned home, Richie felt a sense of emptiness. Though he was acquainted with Espol and Madame Shar, those two Great Craftsmen felt distant, whereas the pudgy Yiluo felt far closer.

The waiter brought Richie to the room Yiluo had occupied. Peines was desolate now; let alone incoming hotel guests, even wealthy residents were fleeing abroad, so most rooms stood empty, and no one would disturb Yiluo’s room.

Unlocking the door, the waiter walked straight to the wardrobe, inside which hung a bathrobe provided by the hotel.

Pushing the bathrobe aside, the waiter pressed firmly on the wooden panel, sliding it open to reveal a hidden compartment.

“This is what Mr. Yiluo left for you.” The waiter winked at Richie, turning to exit the room.

Richie walked over with a touch of curiosity.

Peering into the hidden compartment, he spotted an oddly shaped backpack.

The backpack was massive, roughly 1.2 meters tall, wide and thick. Its surface was segmented into plates, dark gray in color, yet radiating a subtle metallic sheen.

Richie felt a surge of familiarity.

Pondering for a moment, he suddenly remembered where he had seen a similar object.

Back in Yiluo’s workshop, there had been a crafting vat inside which a ‘Yaksha’ suit was submerged.

Could this thing be that exact ‘Yaksha’ suit?

He carefully hauled the backpack out of the hidden compartment. The object was heavy, weighing over a hundred kilograms, though far lighter compared to a standard ‘Yaksha’.

When the backpack touched the floor, it let out a dull thud. Fortunately, winter called for thick carpeting; otherwise, it would have left a dent in the floorboards.

The exposed parts of the backpack were pale white, feeling like metal yet resembling leather to the touch. Pressing hard felt rigid, yet the surface possessed subtle elasticity—like steel plates wrapped inside lead.

On one side sat a polished sphere with a mirror-like finish.

Comparing it to a standard lock, Richie touched the sphere with his hand.

The moment his fingers touched it, a series of sharp clicks echoed as a dozen latches unlocked simultaneously.

The backpack structure popped open, its folded components unfolding automatically.

“Now this is interesting,” Richie thought to himself. Yiluo had actually figured out a way to fold a suit of magitech armor.

The ‘Yaksha’ was originally slender and minimalist; while appearing large normally, it was essentially a hollow shell. Fully folded, its volume shrank drastically. Since the suit lacked a heavy spine column, Yiluo had even disassembled the rib and chest frameworks, allowing it to fold arbitrarily.

Suddenly, Richie noticed a piece of paper slip out from inside the armor, fluttering gently to the floor.

He bent down and picked up the paper.

I couldn’t wait for your arrival. My departure was rather rushed, as I was informed of potential shifts among Monstoke’s top brass—shifts that won’t benefit you, me, or those we care about.

I am deeply sorry I couldn’t take Emily and the others away as promised. They are currently under soft house arrest, and even I was barred from seeing them.

The only thing I can do now is hand this suit of armor to you. I have a premonition you might need it. This hotel is run by an old friend of Master Espol, staffed by trustworthy personnel, so I asked them to pass this on to you. Once you receive it, find another hidden spot to store it; otherwise, trouble may follow…

Before finishing the letter, Richie felt a strong sense of foreboding. The implications between the lines went far beyond what he had previously anticipated.

He walked to the window, peeling back a corner of the curtain to peer outside.

When arriving earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to whether anyone was watching, nor did he know if pursuers were tracking his steps.

Richie had never taken courses in counter-surveillance or anti-tracking, yet that posed no difficulty for him. Surpassing ordinary Recon Knights in sensory acuity, not a single subtle clue could escape his eyes.

Scanning the surroundings for a good while until confirming no eyes were fixed on the building, he pulled the curtain shut once more.

Picking up the letter again, Richie read it carefully.

Beside initial greetings and warnings, most of the content detailed the unique features and specialized operation methods of this custom ‘Yaksha’, with a diagram drawn on the back.

The diagram depicted the new glider Richie had requested. Back then, before he could explain in person, Yiluo had returned to Peines. A while ago, he had communicated with Yiluo through Randy, and Yiluo had actually realized his concepts. Given Yiluo’s reputation, producing a physical prototype should have been easy, yet the pudgy craftsman had provided only designs—Richie didn’t believe that was due to lack of time.

It seemed political infighting among the high command had reached a point where even a figure like Yiluo felt wary.

Folding the diagram and slipping it into his combat suit’s right chest pocket, Richie restored the armor back into its backpack state according to the letter’s instructions, then slipped out of the Riccard Hotel while no one was watching.

Stepping outside, he ducked into an alley after walking a short distance.

Alleys in Peines were often dead ends, frequently blocking path with high walls, completely unlike Glasslovar’s interconnected grid. But to the current Richie, those high walls presented no obstacle; most could be cleared in a single leap, while a few exceptionally high walls required only a single mid-air boost.

Threading through streets and alleys in a winding path, Richie paused, pricking his ears to listen to his surroundings.

Had anyone been tailing him closely, they couldn’t escape his hearing; anyone following from a distance had certainly been shaken off by his maneuvers.

Standing quietly inside the secluded alley for five or six minutes without hearing a single footprint, Richie finally relaxed.

Angel Avenue was a six-lane ring thoroughfare that served as the boundary between the inner city and outer districts.

The outer districts comprised factories, docks, and warehouses, along with lower-class residential areas.

Compared to the desolation elsewhere, this area remained bustling, even more chaotic than when he had left.

Yet Richie sensed that underlying this bustle lay a desperate flavor of decadence and abandonment.

It was still early afternoon—a time when no one usually loitered—yet men and women stood unabashedly along street corners flirting, many men wearing military uniforms.

Richie didn’t remember what day of the week it was, but one thing was certain: even on a Sunday, with war raging at the front, getting military leave was virtually impossible. Only troops returning from the front like him were granted a few days’ leave. Richie didn’t believe it was such a coincidence that all these men were returning veterans.

Looking at these soldiers with crooked caps and loose coats, Richie reached the only logical conclusion: the military had lost discipline and control.

“Hey, handsome! Want to relax a bit?” a woman suddenly approached. She was short, stout, and in her mid-forties—older than Richie’s mother.

Richie felt his hair stand on end, stepping back instantly to avoid any physical contact.

“I’m looking for the Seven Sisters. Do you know where they are?” Richie flicked his hand, and several banknotes popped out from his fingertips.

That trick had been learned from Tidi; her family’s training methods borrowed heavily from magicians and acrobats to cultivate finger coordination and dexterity.

“Oh! Handsome, are you a magician too?” the woman gasped in surprise, her hand suddenly snapping forward to snatch the bills.

Unfortunately, Richie was far faster. Withdrawing his hand to dodge her grab, he gave his hand a subtle shake, and the banknotes vanished into thin air.

“Take me to them, and that money is your payment,” Richie smiled and said.

“Forget it if you don’t want to give it,” the woman muttered, pouting. “Nobody knows where those women are right now! Not just them—even the girls under them have vanished! Plenty of people are searching for them—gangsters, police…”

Muttering under her breath, she turned and walked away, seemingly unwilling to linger on the topic.

Richie’s brows knit tight. Yiluo’s letter had already filled him with foreboding, and now that these women had vanished into trouble, he felt as though a massive crisis awaited him.

Flicking his finger, a banknote of a far smaller denomination appeared at his fingertips. He gave it a gentle snap, producing a crisp rustle.

“How about finding a quiet spot for a drink? I want to know what happened recently.”

Dark, cramped, and foul-smelling—stepping inside, Richie felt instantly uncomfortable, the sole redeeming quality being decent soundproofing.

“Sure you don’t want to relax? I can give you half price,” the woman continued self-promotion.

“My time is limited,” Richie rolled the banknote between his fingers, producing a continuous rustle that made the woman’s heart itch with greed.

“Alright! A few months ago, those women somehow connected with a powerful backer who gave them work—running a garment factory making military uniforms for the army, earning good money. Without those women competing for business, our trade improved quite a bit. But just a few days ago… about five days ago, trouble struck. Their backer got arrested for some crime, and the garment factory was raided. Once the gang bosses learned about it, everyone wanted to get their hands on those women. Those women are quite attractive—top-tier goods—and plenty of eyes were on them. Previously, with that backer shielding them, nobody dared touch them; some even plotted to get that backer locked up. Knowing they had no way out if captured, those women went into hiding. Give them credit—over three hundred women managed to hide so thoroughly nobody can find them. At first, gang members searched for them, but two days ago the police joined in too, claiming they stole something…”

The woman rambled on, drifting into unrelated details that sounded jumbled and chaotic, yet revealing immense information. Richie possessed great patience, listening quietly while digesting everything he heard.

Now he could confirm trouble had struck his family. His first thought was: their business had boomed, drawing envy, and the faction that previously tried to steal their business had moved against them.

Yet on second thought, he, his father, mother, and Aunt Ling had agreed to wind down business after completing the final batch, relinquishing the local market. His mother and Aunt Ling had already moved abroad; news from a month ago stated their two overseas branch factories were operational and thriving.

His father wasn’t someone who acted recklessly. His cousin, though fond of money, was sharp in social dealings and wouldn’t clash with others over business.

Furthermore, he vaguely sensed a connection between his father’s trouble and the house arrest of Emily and the girls. The forces hiding behind Emily’s detention were by no means simple—almost certainly targeting the new magitech armor. Connecting that with what Yiluo and Haigert had told him, he felt a giant, invisible hand reaching out from the shadows.

Tossing a stack of banknotes onto the sofa, Richie picked up his pack and walked out.

Stepping outside, the bright sunlight made Richie squint. He walked forward with his head lowered.

Just as he crossed a street, he suddenly felt someone bump into him from behind, followed by a faint, urgent whisper in his ear: “You’re finally back! You’ve ruined us all this time!”

The speaker was a woman, her voice sounding extremely familiar.

“Don’t turn around. Walk one block left, cross three streets, then turn right. There is a produce market there with a cured meats shop inside. Go in; someone is waiting for you.”

Finishing her words, the woman accelerated her pace, passing Richie before heading in a different direction.

By now, Richie had guessed the woman’s identity. Following her directions, he walked straight ahead. Before long, he sensed someone tailing him from behind. Without thinking, he knew the fat woman from earlier had sold him out.

Back in Glasslovar, he had learned that thugs and prostitutes possessed the fastest information networks, yet were also the least reliable; for money, they would sell any secret, and the moment your back was turned, they would sell your inquiries to others.

Right now, he felt rather curious about his pursuer. Wearing his combat suit, anyone seeing him would know he was a knight.

Without turning around, he knew the tail was an ordinary civilian; if he wanted to kill the guy, a flick of his finger would suffice.

However, Richie had no intention of killing anyone just yet, accelerating his pace toward the market.

Before reaching the produce market, he understood why he had been directed here.

Like all produce markets, the place was cluttered and chaotic, filled with roofed stall structures. It was two or three in the afternoon, so many stalls stood empty, allowing one to weave arbitrarily from stall to stall and row to row. Yet being a active market, vendors were either chatting, conducting trade, or hauling goods.

Richie wound his way through several turns, casually grabbing an apron from one stall and a vest from another, instantly concealing his conspicuous combat suit.

Circling once more, Richie returned near the entrance, hiding behind a pillar to glance at his tail.

It was a street thug, searching frantically like a headless fly, having completely lost the trail.

Richie let out a soft chuckle, turning to walk toward the cured meats shop. While navigating the market earlier, he had already spotted the shop’s location.

Stepping inside, Richie saw a corner of the curtain behind the counter lifted, a hand waving frantically.

Richie walked over quickly, stepping past the curtain to find a slender figure wearing a flat cap and overalls standing inside.

The person held a finger to her lips, signaling Richie to remain quiet before turning to lead the way.

The back door of the shop opened directly into an alley—winding, narrow, and exceptionally quiet, with no sound except their own footsteps.

Walking several hundred meters, an open door appeared ahead. The figure ducked inside quickly, and once Richie entered, she locked the door firmly behind them.

The interior was pitch dark and cluttered, the air heavy with moisture, carrying a mix of sweat and coal smoke. It was the back entrance of a bathhouse, likely near the boiler room.

“Go upstairs and take a bath. We’ll come find you in a bit and bring you some clothes. You can’t go out looking like that—it’s far too conspicuous,” Milia instructed. She pulled open a side door to a coal storage area: “You can leave your pack inside. If you’re worried about dirt, I’ll find a sack to cover it. Rest assured, hiding it here means nobody will ever find it.”

Richie had nothing to object to and followed her instructions.

For months, Richie hadn’t taken a proper bath; the front lines possessed no bathhouses. In summer, one could bathe in rivers, but winter freezing conditions meant no one dared touch icy water.

Soaking in the steaming bathwater, Richie felt his body melting, a lazy relaxation seeping from deep within his bones.

It felt indescribably comfortable. Milia had arranged a private booth for him, featuring a porcelain tub and a single bed. The room was small and modest, yet more than sufficient for his needs.

What could be more delightful in midwinter than soaking comfortably in a hot bath?

Just as Richie was enjoying himself, the door suddenly opened, and a group of women walked in smiling, led by Ariana, the boss of the Women’s Gang.

Four of the Seven Sisters had arrived: Boss Ariana, Monica alias Turkey, Carmen the 5th sister handling finances, and a woman Richie had never seen before. That woman possessed an exceptionally tall figure, wavy golden hair, fine long eyes, high-arched brows, and a refined nose bridge. She gave off an exquisitely crafted impression, radiating an exotic allure. Seeing her, Richie’s immediate thought was: a woman like this shouldn’t appear in a place like this.

Needless to say, she was the 7th sister, Aisha. Ariana had mentioned previously that Aisha frequented high-end venues, earning her living from wealthy playboys.

What made Richie’s heart pound was that these women wore practically nothing. Ariana wrapped a bath towel around her waist, covering her hips while a broad towel bound her chest, concealing her firm breasts.

Among the four, Monica dressed the most provocatively: a bead chain hung around her waist with dangling tassels, her thighs peeking through the fringe. Her upper body held only a silver ribbon crossing over her chest and tying behind her neck, barely concealing her nipples—less a cover than a highlight of her beauty.

In comparison, Carmen appeared far more demure, wrapped in a silk robe that covered most of her body. Yet the front hung wide open, exposing half her breasts while leaving her lower body completely bare. Dressed like that, she surprisingly wore thin-framed glasses; judging by her face alone, anyone would mistake her for a scholar or teacher, that intellectual aura adding an exotic charm.

Aisha, met for the first time, wore the simplest attire: a sheer, semi-transparent shirt that left her rosy nipples and lower fleece completely visible.

Carmen brought up the rear, locking the heavy oak door behind her.

The moment the door shut, the room was completely sealed against the outside world; the thick oak door ensured not a whisper of sound leaked out.

Without a word, Ariana stepped straight into the bath tub, sliding her body beneath Richie’s.

Supported by her soft body, Richie felt indescribably comfortable, while experiencing an unprecedented intimate sensation.

Cradling Richie beneath her, the towels on Ariana’s body slipped away, leaving zero barriers between them.

Ariana’s hand slid down to Richie’s shaft, which was already erect and rigid, stroking it up and down.

Monica likewise stepped straight into the tub without a word.

This time, she wore no heavy makeup; bare-faced, her cold expression reminded Richie of Calli and Margaret.

Such a drastic shift in style astonished Richie.

Yet Monica’s actions were far from cold. Pinching Richie’s glans with two fingers, she guided the thick head toward her anus. Without foreplay or lubrication, the thick head plunged straight into her anus. “Your club is so big… last time I stayed in bed for three full days…”

Monica spoke with a hint of complaint, though her eyes closed tightly as her hips twitched, unsure if she was enduring pain or savoring intense pleasure.

“I’m not in the mood right now,” Richie complained, though his physical reaction contradicted his words entirely—the moment he entered Monica’s anus, his already thick shaft swelled an extra ring.

“I know what you’re worried about. What good does worrying do? The key is solving the trouble. Relaxing your mind first lets you think of solutions, doesn’t it?” Ariana, having gathered so many women under her command, naturally possessed her own methods. She knew how to comfort people and hold them tight, especially men.

Had it not been for the past few months, she might have sought another backer as before—relying first on Hunchback Harry, then on Hook, exchanging her body and humiliation for safety. But the recent months had shown her a path to true stability.

Those months had allowed her to uncover this young man’s true background; though knowing little, it was enough to realize Richie was an exceptionally valuable prospect.

Another reason compelling her to cling to Richie was the current political situation.

Everyone knew the Republic might fall. Once it fell, their fate would be forced military prostitution—the standard practice of the Varedin occupiers.

Lightly licking Richie’s earlobe, Ariana whispered softly: “Want to release? Monica is already prepared…”

Hearing those sweet, coaxing giggles while feeling that intense sensation, Richie found it hard to resist. What proved even harder to resist was Monica tightening her anus in rhythm—something round was lodged inside her anus, pressing directly against his glans and massaging him with every muscular contraction.

That was a sensation he had never experienced before.

Richie had to admit these women truly knew how to play.

With an object lodged in her anus, he couldn’t thrust too deep, yet the stimulation provided was intensely pleasurable.

Stealing a glance, he saw Monica’s eyes filled with proud satisfaction.

Ariana beside him didn’t dare anger Richie, shooting a glare at Monica before explaining near Richie’s ear: “Sorry, this place is too dangerous after all. Our hiding spot isn’t close, and we have to head back soon, so we can’t let you indulge completely.”

“As compensation, we’ll let you taste sensations you’ve never experienced before, playing games you’ve never played,” Aisha, met for the first time, spoke in a soft, melodious voice. She cupped Richie’s shaft with both hands—her hands covered in fragrant, pink-tinted soap foam. Aisha’s movements were exquisitely graceful, like plucking harp strings with an indescribable elegance.

In terms of raw technique, Aisha wasn’t vastly superior to the others—far behind Nora and Lina, and even slightly below Ariana and Monica—yet the visual beauty of her movements was unmatched.

Under her caresses, the already thick shaft visibly swelled two rings wider, making Monica, who was being penetrated, grimace as her small face turned pale.

The foam multiplied, wrapping her hands completely.

Aisha smiled softly, spreading the pink foam over her own body.

She was already wearing a semi-transparent shirt.

Aisha straddled Richie’s groin, positioning herself between him and Monica.

Richie’s shaft was long enough that while the tip entered Monica’s anus, most remained outside.

Aisha gently swayed her smooth, white hips, rubbing her vulva against the thick shaft. Her body pressed tight against his, twisting and rubbing.

Her thin silk shirt had been pre-soaked in soapy liquid, so every rub generated a flurry of fine foam.

Separated by a thin, wet, completely transparent silk shirt—this intensely ambiguous intimacy was something Richie used to do frequently with his cousin.

Yet amateur attempts couldn’t compare to professional mastery; his cousin’s methods paled in comparison.

Doing it with his cousin felt purely ambiguous, making him increasingly frustrated with unreleased arousal.

Yet right now, Richie felt no such frustration. For some strange reason, a bizarre thought struck him: he wanted to ejaculate upon this woman’s body to see if his semen would transform into a cloud of foam just like the soap.

Richie’s face flushed crimson; catching himself being silly wasn’t a good sign. “Blushing already?”

Aisha giggled, turning around slowly to present her buttocks toward Richie, looking back to say: “The truly interesting part is just getting started.”

This was another game he had played often with his cousin, yet when Aisha’s hips descended, Richie immediately recognized the massive gulf between amateur and professional.

These thin silk pants were specially modified, featuring two openings aligned with her vagina and anus, acting like a female condom that extended inward.

Richie extended his right index and middle fingers to probe inside.

He did so mostly out of curiosity.

The anal opening felt tight and shallow, extending only two joints before touching the bottom of the sleeve. Richie understood that area was for teasing, not actual penetration.

The vaginal side was completely different; Richie’s middle finger slipped inside completely, and the sensation told him the inner walls of the sleeve were embedded with numerous smooth beads.

“This is called the ‘Pearl Clam’. Deep inside sits the largest pearl—I wonder if you can reach it?” Aisha smiled back, her eyes holding an indescribable allure.

Richie could no longer hold back. Withdrawing his shaft from Monica’s body, he aligned it with Aisha’s entrance and thrust upward, plunging his thick shaft deep inside. Aisha gasped; though she had prepared herself, the sheer size took her breath away.

“Wait… slower… let me turn around,” Aisha offered a reason to pause.

With Richie still inserted, Aisha slowly shifted her body, turning from a rear-entry posture to a normal face-to-face position. Pressing herself tight against Richie, she twisted her hips while whispering: “Let me serve you; I guarantee you’ll feel exquisite pleasure…”

She shot a glance at Ariana, and Ariana pushed up with her legs, lifting Richie slightly out of the water.

Monica and Carmen moved to both sides, reaching out to support Ariana’s waist while sandwiching Richie between them.

Lying atop Ariana’s body while enjoying this warm, soft bed of flesh, Richie’s hands stayed busy, exploring Monica’s and Carmen’s bodies at will.

Yet what thrilled him most was Aisha.

Aisha twisted her body while sliding against him, her semi-transparent shirt long pushed aside, her smooth skin rubbing against his with every stroke, leaving trails of foam behind.

Below, Richie’s massive shaft plunged in and out of Aisha’s vagina, the small embedded beads massaging his hard shaft, delivering an extraordinary sensation that rivalled lovemaking with the female knights.

What truly made Richie’s blood boil was that every time his thick shaft pulled out from Aisha’s body, it dragged out a wave of foam, and every thrust pushed a mound of foam against her buttocks.

Aisha’s buttocks were petite and shapely, plump and adorable, coated in white foam…

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