Shield of the Rose

“How did you know I was back?” Richie asked, lying inside the bath tub while enjoying the women’s service.

“After trouble struck your family, our first thought was to wait for your return. So while finding a place to hide, we had Milia monitor your house. The moment you stepped off the transport, we already knew,” Ariana explained lazily.

“Why didn’t you contact me back then?” Richie asked, feeling somewhat puzzled.

“Who would dare! People were constantly watching your house. Going to find you then would be walking straight into a trap. You were lucky—after entering your house, you left immediately. There were only two watchers posted: one left to report, while the other hesitated whether to tail you. By the time he decided, you had already glided far away. Even taking a carriage, he couldn’t catch up to you. Milia couldn’t catch you either. We could only gamble that you would come looking for us, and our luck held out—we won the gamble.”

Ariana recounted these events with a casual tone, though only she and the third sister knew how immense a risk they had taken to track Richie down. The gang bosses had placed a massive bounty on their heads, and countless eyes were hungry for that reward money!

“Tell me, what exactly happened to my family?” Richie asked, his brows knit tight.

“We don’t know the full inside story, only that your father was arrested on charges of stealing military supplies. Right after, a group of people sealed your family’s factories, and seeing the bad turn of events, we went into hiding immediately. Your father isn’t simple; the moment he was arrested, numerous people interceded for him. According to Milia, those interceding were all big figures, many of them foreigners. At first, both sides were at a stalemate, but unexpectedly three days ago, the Internal Security Bureau and Intelligence Bureau suddenly took over the case, driving even the police away. Then security tightened drastically, and even we got targeted. Milia heard someone wanted to use us to frame your father, and those street gangs are controlled by that person.”

Ariana spoke in an unhurried manner while Richie listened quietly, a clear outline forming in his mind.

“Are the two factories running?” Richie asked.

“No, they’ve been closed all along! Tanning that leather requires a special formula, which probably even your cousin doesn’t know. The tanning agents are all pre-mixed and packed in sacks; she just pulled one sack out every day and dumped it into the vat.”

Ariana detailed the process. Richie had never imagined she had once coveted that formula herself—knowing the profits of those two factories, few people could resist being tempted.

Richie didn’t dwell on that detail; what mattered to him was that the factories remained closed.

That meant his suspicion was correct: it wasn’t merely a greedy individual scheming in the background.

That made the situation truly terrifying.

He knew a faction among the top brass wanted to surrender, and as the war progressed, their supporters grew in number and their voices grew louder.

Toward the surrender faction, Richie held no personal prejudice. He didn’t despise them, because most people couldn’t migrate abroad—no nation would take in tens of millions of refugees, and taking in a tenth would be impressive enough. Thus, ninety percent of the populace had to stay behind, and those people belonged to the surrender faction out of sheer compulsion.

However, being offered to the Varedin invaders as a gift by the surrender faction filled him with uncontrollable rage.

The question was: what should be done now?

He could easily guess that if he returned to camp, he would certainly be detained. He wasn’t sure if Lina had the influence to pull him out, nor was he confident the Junior Army would back him up.

If he didn’t return to camp, defying military orders alone constituted a crime that could ruin him permanently. Carrying such a charge, even if Lina and the Junior Army wanted to help him, they likely couldn’t.

Richie felt utterly lost, lying quietly in Ariana’s arms.

The water in the bath tub automatically refreshed continuously, warm water replenishing constantly, so there was no fear of it growing cold.

After an unknown stretch of time, Richie made his decision: “Where are you hiding right now?”

Asking that question meant he had firmly resolved to take the second path. Perhaps the memory of the Morena massacre remained far too vividly etched in his mind.

Those who died in Morena perished precisely because they pinned their hopes on external rescue.

He had pondered the matter thoroughly.

If he surrendered himself to the trap, his fate, his father’s, his cousin’s, and the girls’ would rest entirely in the hands of others.

The Republic’s knights had always given him a impression of weakness and hesitation; expecting them to fight the high command seemed hopeless. Back when Lina’s father visited him, asking his family to relinquish their lucrative enterprise and hand over the treasure trove, Richie had already seen through that reality.

Only by gripping fate in his own hands could a slim ray of survival exist.

He had resolved: if a single person he cared about suffered harm, he would make those responsible pay a tenfold price.

Richie possessed supreme confidence in his capacity for destruction; given sufficient time, he was confident he could single-handedly level Peines to the ground.

There were certainly people stronger than him—many, in fact—yet when dealing with him, even being a hundred times stronger wouldn’t matter. In many situations, raw martial power didn’t dictate everything.

Changing into dry clothes and stepping out of the bathhouse, Richie pushed a wooden handcart forward. Inside the handcart sat the backpack armor and his discarded combat suit, covered beneath a thick layer of coal.

Right now, Richie looked like a thoroughly ordinary young coal laborer.

The women naturally possessed their own exit routes; if they could enter, they could leave.

Stepping out of that street block, Richie immediately spotted suspicious figures pacing around, scanning passersby incessantly.

Richie knew those people were almost certainly searching for him.

Fortunately, the direction he traveled wasn’t heavily checkpointed. The bathhouse sat some distance from the market, and hours had passed, bringing dusk. Once night fell, this lower-district area grew even more lively, packed with off-duty soldiers seeking entertainment. Perhaps for that reason, street thugs only dared search visually, not daring to detain people forcibly.

Richie finally understood why Milia had instructed him to hide in the bathhouse and why Ariana and the others had lingered so long with him—escaping at night was vastly easier.

It seemed every trade had its experts; these women surviving among rival factions was indeed no simple feat.

Suddenly, Richie recalled the “legends” he had heard back at school. To his younger self, knights had belonged to an entirely different world, while self-made men who carved out their own domain from nothing had been true legends in the eyes of young boys.

Among those legends were merchants, as well as a few underworld figures.

Though to his current self, those figures were like insects he could crush with a flick of his finger, to his younger self, their stories had been enough to make his blood boil.

Perhaps getting his father to form an association back then had been a fundamental mistake. When his father got arrested, not a single association member had stepped forward.

His father had indeed been a failure in leadership; spending plenty of money and building good relations, yet failing to unite people’s hearts, leaving the association loosely bound.

As a leader, Ariana was vastly superior to his father. Had Ariana taken over his father’s position back then, she might have built a genuinely useful force by now.

Reflecting that his father was like mud that couldn’t stick to a wall, Richie felt a deep sense of regret.

The lower-district streets were narrow and crowded, so Richie walked slowly, taking over an hour to reach his destination as complete darkness fell.

It was a horse and carriage depot adjacent to Angel Avenue, its front doors locked tight like all other shops.

Richie possessed the key, unlocking the door and pushing his handcart inside.

The courtyard was spacious, housing several dilapidated carriages on one side—one reduced to a bare chassis, its iron parts rusted heavily from rain and wind.

In one corner of the courtyard sat a coal pile, where Richie unloaded his cargo.

Now he admired those women even more, capable of devising such a clever hiding spot. Both locations featured coal and fire—two things women were rarely associated with.

“Close the door,” Milia’s voice echoed from inside the room. “You’re so slow; everyone is waiting for you.”

Richie walked inside carrying the backpack armor, the dirty sack covering it discarded on the ground.

Stepping into the room, Richie found it in utter disarray: tools of various sizes lay scattered everywhere, while three long wooden tables near the front were piled with mechanical parts. A heavy hoist hook dangled from the ceiling.

Before Richie could figure out what was happening, Milia grabbed the hoist hook and latched it onto a ring in the floorboards. Turning to the wall, she pulled a rope, and the hoist hook slowly rose.

The wooden floorboards actually lifted, revealing a pitch-black staircase descending below.

“You… Your secrecy measures are insane,” Richie stood speechlessly.

The secret laboratory near Glasslovar he had visited previously possessed a similar level of concealment, but that had been built by state resources.

He descended the stairs, and as he neared the bottom, Milia followed down while the trapdoor above slowly restored to its original position. The moment the cover sealed, a soft click echoed as the hook released, retracting automatically.

Such a design was truly ingenious.

At the bottom of the stairs sat another door.

Pushing the door open, darkness lay ahead, with only a faint pinprick of light visible in the far distance.

That such an underground tunnel existed astonished Richie; he couldn’t fathom how these women had excavated such a passageway.

The tunnel was narrow, allowing only one person to pass at a time, and low-ceilinged, forcing one to hunch forward while sloping downward.

Stretching roughly twenty meters, Richie estimated they had descended five or six meters beneath the surface upon reaching the end.

The end opened into another tunnel.

However, this tunnel was far wider and taller than the previous section, spacious enough for a carriage to pass through.

Richie’s eyes brightened. The area was packed entirely with women—most young and attractive, while a few older women possessed stunning beauty matching Ariana and her sisters.

Thick soil layers insulated against winter’s bitter cold, and with so many bodies gathered, the tunnel felt not cold, but somewhat muggy. Since everyone present was female, modesty was abandoned, and many women wore only underwear.

Devoid of expected shrieks or panic, the women looked at Richie with complete calm; polite ones nodded or greeted him, while impolite ones didn’t even glance his way.

Many women lay lazily upon folding cots.

The cots were military-issue single folding beds; how Ariana had procured so many through her channels remained a mystery, and the bedding upon them was likewise military supply. The beds lined both sides of the tunnel, leaving a central walkway.

Richie saw Ariana and five other sisters walking toward him, with Audrey—who had known him earliest—among them.

“How did you find a hiding place like this?” Richie had realized this couldn’t possibly have been dug by these women.

“Angel Avenue was originally a series of small rivers in the early days. As residents built along the banks, the rivers grew clogged and foul-smelling. During Peines’ grand reconstruction in the mid-17th century, those rivers were filled in one by one. But they weren’t completely filled; the central riverbed—this exact space—was preserved as a main trunk sewer, with buildings constructed above. Decades later during road renovations, urban planners felt Peines lacked a proper grand avenue, as most streets were too narrow for traffic, while feeling the prosperous district and lower district lacked a clear boundary. So they constructed Angel Avenue, which overlapped heavily with the old riverbed, completely abandoning this trunk sewer.”

Carmen provided the answer, her explanation structured so clearly she sounded like a history professor giving a lecture.

Richie began wondering what this woman had done previously; could she truly have been a teacher?

That impression wasn’t particularly pleasant.

What he disliked most were teachers; back at school, while not a bad student, he had been far from a model pupil.

Looking around, he really couldn’t tell this had once been a sewer: “Cleaning this place out couldn’t have been easier than digging a new tunnel, could it?” he murmured.

“It wasn’t that hard, actually quite simple. Milia checked the historical sewer maps; all sewers connected to the river, relying on flowing water to flush waste. We just located the original intake, reopened it, and let river water flood the tunnel for six months to flush it completely clean. Then we sealed the intake, drained the water, and let it dry thorough—resulting in what you see now.”

Carmen spoke casually, yet Richie was filled with utter admiration.

What was true meticulousness? What was thorough planning? This was the textbook definition.

The look Richie cast toward these women transformed completely.

“So this tunnel must be very long?” Richie looked toward both ends, seeing both sides sealed off.

“Extremely long—at least forty kilometers, extending from Dock 9 all the way outside the city walls. To accommodate people, we sealed both ends, scrubbed the interior multiple times, and opened numerous hidden ventilation shafts; otherwise, the odor would be unbearable,” Carmen explained.

“We have several other shelters just like this,” Ariana added from the side.

The other women looked at Ariana in astonishment, unable to comprehend why their leader revealed unexposed secrets, though only Carmen somewhat grasped her intentions.

“You must have a map of these secret tunnels, right? Can I see it?” Richie asked, knowing the request was somewhat pushy.

Under cover of deep night, Richie slipped out quietly.

He exited through a different entrance—a warehouse packed with sacks of potatoes and rows of cured meats hanging from the walls. It served as both an exit and a food reserve; that so many women could hide safely in the secret tunnel was directly enabled by these abundant supplies.

Such a warehouse would never draw suspicion; in the lower district near Angel Avenue, warehouses, freight yards, and factories were everywhere, so shipping large quantities of food into a warehouse appeared completely normal.

Richie didn’t ask, but he was certain this hadn’t been set up in a day or two; these women had prepared this sanctuary long ago.

Slipping out, Richie had already put on his custom ‘Yaksha’ suit. For some reason, he felt as though he were standing naked under the open sky.

Wearing this suit, his perception of the outside world wasn’t weakened, but rather heightened significantly—as if the suit weren’t armor, but an extension of his own body.

The sensation was remarkably strange, leaving Richie uncertain whether it was good or bad.

This suit was an early-stage prototype that hadn’t undergone basic field testing; had no alternative been available, he would never have worn it. Slipping silently into the night, he ran while observing the armor’s responses. To his relief, the ‘Yaksha’s movement coordination was flawless. Light and agile without feeling unstable, it contained fewer synthetic sinews than standard suits, resulting in lower power output, yet the suit itself was exceptionally light, showing no signs of under-powering. Because it held fewer synthetic sinews, controlling it felt far more responsive than ordinary armor.

Brushing past a tree, Richie’s hand extended and retracted in a flash; when his hand returned, the index and middle fingers of his left gauntlet held a dry, yellow leaf.

That move looked simple, yet executing it in any other suit of armor would be impossible.

According to Yiluo, the ultimate dream of a magitech armor designer was to craft a suit that felt no different from wearing nothing at all.

Tossing the leaf aside, Richie let out a quiet sigh. Had this suit not been simplified—if armor plating were added and synthetic sinews increased to standard counts—Yiluo would have passed out from sheer joy if Richie could still perform such maneuvers, for that would mean stepping toward the ultimate peak of armor design, something even Espol had failed to achieve in his lifetime.

Unfortunately, that was merely a fantasy.

Doubling an armor’s weight multiplied design difficulty tenfold; the maneuver just now represented the absolute limit for this suit, and even a slight weight increase would make it impossible.

Running, leaping, and flipping through mid-air several times, Richie finally gained confidence in this new suit.

The suit wasn’t without flaws; many areas weren’t tuned properly, yet its responsiveness was so extraordinarily high that even minor misalignments could be felt instantly, allowing him to compensate through his own physical control to execute perfect movements.

Suddenly, a bitter smile touched Richie’s lips.

This suit’s exceptional maneuverability came at the cost of combat durability.

Wearing this armor, killing ordinary men or unarmored knights would be effortless, but colliding with heavy magitech armor in a direct clash would mean certain defeat.

Yiluo’s original design purpose for this suit had been airborne reconnaissance. Flying in the sky where no one could strike it, lacking heavy armor or high durability didn’t matter. Thus, the only outstanding features of this suit were its reconnaissance and communication systems.

Under cover of darkness, Richie arrived at the edge of the city, extremely close to the military camp.

He selected a tall building, leaping onto its roof.

The building featured a spacious balcony on top, which suited him perfectly; though lightweight, his ‘Yaksha’ still weighed over a hundred kilograms, and combined with his own weight, standing on roof tiles would shatter them and breach the ceiling. A concrete balcony was far safer.

Though night had fallen, Richie hid inside a deep shadow for safety to avoid detection.

Done with his setup, he activated his communication channel.

He didn’t open Squad 105’s standard communication channel, which connected to recording devices and might be logged.

He and Randy shared a private channel—the exact channel he used while flying in the sky to communicate with Randy, isolated completely from recording devices to keep secrets safe.

The moment he opened the channel, Richie prayed silently that Randy would notice the flashing communicator and connect immediately.

To his surprise, the moment he opened the channel before he could even speak, Randy’s voice came through: “Richie! Are you in trouble?”

Her voice sounded anxious and urgent.

“I’m fine right now. Yiluo anticipated something before leaving, so he left a few things behind for me.”

Richie didn’t mention the Seven Sisters. A gang composed mostly of prostitutes sounded unreliable to outsiders and might cause misunderstandings within Squad 105, so he refrained from mentioning them. Furthermore, learning more about the Seven Sisters, he had subconsciously come to regard these women as a hidden trump card—and trump cards weren’t displayed lightly.

Just as Richie anticipated, hearing Yiluo had made prior arrangements, Randy’s heart settled immediately.

“Don’t return to camp for now. Captain Calli granted you a three-day extended leave,” Randy said without adding details, unsure how much Richie understood of the current situation.

A surge of warmth flooded Richie’s chest; he knew how immense a risk Captain Calli was taking and how much pressure she faced.

“Thank the Captain for me. I already know about my father’s arrest,” Richie sighed.

Silence fell on the other end for a moment, followed by faint rustling footsteps, and soon Calli’s voice replaced Randy’s: “Richie, are you still there?”

“I’m here.” Richie felt like crying. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, thank you.”

Perhaps because his mind was in turmoil, he couldn’t think of any other words to say.

“There’s no need to thank me. Granting you three days’ leave falls within my official authority; nobody can grab a hold over it,” Calli said casually. “The real issue is you—don’t do anything foolish. We will all help you. Lina and Trisli have gone to seek help on your behalf, and we spoke with Haigert earlier, letting him know. Haigert is figuring out solutions too, and I guess he must have contacted the Junior Army’s top brass. You probably wouldn’t guess—even Tidi decided to lend a hand after learning about it, going to find her mother.”

“What good will that do? Lina’s father, Boslova, cares far more about the grand political game; he won’t help me, and might even hand me over as a gift. Trisli is a foreigner, and the Republic’s growing rift with the Alliance is no secret. If she could help me, Yiluo could have helped me too, and my family wouldn’t be in this state.”

Richie’s anger rose as he spoke, his hand snapping a piece off the brick parapet in front of him.

“Don’t get emotional,” Calli comforted him. “Listen to me: what you said is both right and wrong. Boslova is indeed that kind of man, but the situation has shifted. With the war turning out like this, the Yarno administration can no longer hold on. Two factions below are trying to depose Yarno: one is the hardliner faction, to which Boslova and the two founders of the Junior Army belong; the other is the surrender faction led by Hershaw, who orchestrated this whole affair. Boslova and Hershaw have zero room for compromise. As for Trisli, you need not worry—since she stepped up to help, Robin can’t sit idly by. Robin’s family usually avoids meddling in politics, but once they intervene, their influence is formidable…”

Before Calli could finish speaking, a sudden commotion echoed from her side, and the communication channel snapped shut with a click.

Richie was startled, knowing something must have happened on their end.

For a moment, he didn’t know what step to take next.

Should he head straight to Junior Army headquarters?

After a brief thought, Richie rejected that idea immediately.

Going to Junior Army headquarters would likewise surrender decision-making power to others. Furthermore, if the Junior Army truly intended to help, he didn’t need to show up; if they didn’t want to help, showing up at headquarters would be useless.

Just as Richie felt lost, the communicator opened again.

“Richie! Thank goodness you haven’t left!” Randy said hurriedly, a note of joy in her voice. “Tidi just came over and brought news!”

“What news?” Richie’s heart leapt into his throat.

“She wants you to find a man named Binder Fromm. He belongs to the Internal Security Bureau and was the agent who approached your cousin initially. After your father was arrested, the case was transferred to another team, and he was pushed aside. The team taking over seems suspicious of him and put him under surveillance too,” Randy said.

Richie knit his brows, unsure if this was valuable intelligence or a trap.

He could easily guess that Binder was the boyfriend who had swept his cousin off her feet. Internal Security Bureau agents were elite figures selected through rigorous screening—possessing top-tier capabilities and looks, trained to interact with high society.

His cousin, though capable, couldn’t compare to such elite agents, so falling head over heels was completely natural.

He believed Tidi wouldn’t harm him, and trusted Tidi’s mother, yet the source of this intelligence was somewhat suspicious.

Furthermore, human hearts were the hardest to predict; whether this man named Binder would help him or betray him was something no one could guarantee.

85 Kellarr Avenue.

Richie stood inside a dark alley, looking toward the apartment building from afar.

It was a standard 17th-century building, five stories tall, occupying a quarter of a street block.

Built along the avenue in an ‘L’ shape, the corner served as the main entrance, wide and brightly lit, staffed by a dedicated doorman.

High-end apartment buildings like this were numerous in the area. Scanning the surroundings earlier, he had spotted several windows equipped with telescopes; those inside might be astronomy enthusiasts, or undercover surveillance agents from the Internal Security Bureau.

After a full circuit, Richie realized sneaking inside undetected was virtually impossible.

After much hesitation, he ultimately resolved to take the risk, for this was his sole available breakthrough point—all other paths required begging others, leaving the initiative in external hands.

According to intelligence gathered by Tidi’s mother, this Binder Fromm had been idling at home recently, rarely stepping outside—another frustrating detail.

Fortunately, having learned this beforehand, he had prepared before coming.

Pulling a steel dart from his waist—a foot long, straw-thick, with a paper tail fin—it was a toy dart Richie had played with frequently as a boy, competing with classmates to see whose dart flew furthest or stuck truest into wooden targets.

Just like ice skating, Richie had always been a master at throwing darts.

Slowly raising his wrist, his hand snapped forward, two fingers flicking with lightning speed to launch the custom dart.

With a soft thud, the dart embedded itself into the frame of the French window on the balcony.

Soon, Richie saw someone walk to the window, pulling back the curtain to step onto the balcony. Glancing at the dart embedded there, the man acted completely casual, pacing twice back and forth before pulling the dart out unnoticed and retreating inside.

Roughly fifteen minutes later, a gaunt old man wearing a plaid coat walked out of the apartment’s main entrance, holding an umbrella in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

The doorman clearly recognized the old man, greeting him politely.

The old man nodded, using the umbrella as a walking stick just like Madame Shar, hobbling along Kellarr Avenue.

Half an hour later, inside a coffee shop two kilometers from the apartment, Richie sat face-to-face with the old man.

“Your disguise skills are impressive,” Richie stared at the aged face, unable to spot a single flaw despite knowing it was fake.

“So-so. It’s a mandatory course,” Binder dismissed the praise casually, scanning Richie with equal scrutiny. His team had been established specifically to investigate this young man, and the more he learned, the more extraordinary the boy appeared.

“There must be plenty of surveillance agents watching your building, right? Aren’t you worried about raising suspicion?” Richie probed carefully.

“I’m no high-value target; they wouldn’t waste massive manpower on a minor agent like me. The doorman downstairs is the watcher, and the person I disguised myself as is an old professor in the building, so it didn’t arouse suspicion,” Binder explained in a low voice.

“Aren’t you worried the real old professor might step out at the same time?” Richie continued asking.

“No need to worry. Before stepping out, I visited the old professor’s room. He’s sleeping soundly right now and won’t wake up for another twenty-four hours,” Binder smiled.

This time Richie refrained from asking how it was done or whether trouble would follow; if the man couldn’t handle such details, he didn’t deserve to work in the Internal Security Bureau’s Investigation Division.

“Let’s get straight to the point. I want to know how my father and cousin are doing right now,” Richie said, his attention fanned out to monitor the surroundings. The entire coffee shop was encompassed within his ‘Field’; if anyone showed unusual interest in their conversation, he would detect it instantly.

“I don’t know the exact details either. The moment they decided to move, I was kicked out of the loop,” Binder shrugged, looking somewhat forlorn.

“You’re an insider there; you should be familiar with their procedures…” Richie said no more, waiting for the man’s answer. He hadn’t come today expecting a peaceful resolution; if the answer failed to satisfy him, he wouldn’t mind trying a harsher interrogation method.

Fortunately, Binder proved cooperative, thinking for a moment before answering: “They aren’t the real target—you are. So generally speaking, no one will harm them, especially while your whereabouts remain unknown.”

He looked left and right, lowering his voice further: “Back in Glasslovar, you killed numerous people, which makes them deeply terrified of you. As long as you don’t show up, they will remain safe. Surrendering yourself to their trap would yield the opposite result. To force a confession out of a suspect, interrogators often torture their loved ones right before their eyes—which is far more effective than torturing the suspect directly.”

Richie’s face turned deathly pale; he had never contemplated such a horrific possibility.

“You certainly dare to speak freely. Aren’t you afraid of future consequences? If I get captured and name you, you’re finished,” Richie chuckled bitterly, forcing a smile.

“If I said I genuinely care for your cousin, would you believe me?” Binder pulled at the corners of his mouth, asking with a bitter smile.

“Hardly,” Richie didn’t intend to lie, shaking his head directly. “A man like you has seen all kinds of women. My cousin, while attractive, is hardly a stunning beauty, nor does she possess extraordinary elegance. As for education and conversational charm, she has no special talents, nor is her personality gentle or naive… In all honesty, she seems quite ordinary to me.”

Binder clearly agreed with Richie’s assessment, nodding with every point, letting out a heavy sigh when Richie finished.

“Everything you said is true. Do you know what I saw in your cousin?” Binder turned to look out the window, his eyes filled with desolation. “The women around me, and those I interact with, all live behind fake masks just like me. What others see is only what we choose to show them. Several of my colleagues married those ‘perfect’ women you described, only to find after marriage that both had grown accustomed to living behind masks. Though husband and wife, neither truly knows the other. Hahaha…” He laughed, his laughter dripping with bitterness.

Richie listened quietly, untouched by his words, possessing no personal resonance with such feelings.

Toward women, his standards weren’t particularly high; he didn’t even understand what “intellectual elegance” meant. The women he liked had to be beautiful first—which was why Kristina and Nora were particularly favored, and now Aisha joined that rank. Second, they had to possess exceptional intimate skills, like Nora and Lina.

Binder clearly noticed Richie’s lack of reaction, realizing he was talking to a wall. He didn’t bother explaining further, as emotional bonds were inherently inexplicable, and everyone understood them differently.

What he needed right now was Richie’s trust, and he had prepared a master trump card beforehand.

“As a knight, you are even more tragic—you don’t even know who you truly are,” Binder stared intently at Richie, observing how the boy would react to those words.

Richie looked displeased, saying coldly: “Do you claim to know me better than I know myself?”

“Naturally. To demonstrate my sincerity, I will give you a gift.” Binder possessed his own foundation; when discovering this grand secret, even he had been utterly shocked. Leaning forward slightly, he lowered his voice to a whisper: “Your true designation is PS-257-12.”

“What’s that? My file code in the Internal Security Bureau?” Richie felt baffled.

Binder let out a soft laugh: “PS stands for Pureblood Subject; 2 represents Laboratory #2—you’ve visited that lab, in fact your squad destroyed it; 5 is the code for the design group; 7 signifies Mixed Natural Fertilization; the trailing 12 indicates you were a failed specimen that failed to manifest knightly traits initially. There should have been a sequence number after that, but specific records were destroyed—by you and your squad personally—leaving no paper trail to investigate.”

Richie stared blankly at Binder, sitting frozen in his seat, his mind completely numb. Had anyone attempted to arrest him at that moment, he wouldn’t even have possessed the presence of mind to resist.

He wanted to laugh, for it sounded utterly absurd, yet for some inexplicable reason, he felt every word was the truth.

Binder felt thoroughly satisfied with Richie’s reaction. Scanning the surroundings to ensure no one could overhear, he leaned closer to continue: “When you awakened initially, the personnel managing knight lineages tested your parents as well, finding zero bloodline reaction. However, they didn’t pay much attention, reporting it as a routine anomaly. Later, when our investigation team was formed specifically to look into you, that report caught our attention. Conveniently, Laboratory #2 sat near your birthplace, which sparked our suspicion. We retrieved partial records from Laboratory #2, and sure enough, we uncovered something. Generally, failed specimens were disposed of, but Laboratory #2 employed a merciful disposal method. Infant mortality was unavoidable in hospitals, often leading to lawsuits and massive compensation payouts. So Glasslovar’s maternity hospital struck a secret deal with Laboratory #2: whenever an infant died, Laboratory #2 provided a failed specimen to replace the deceased infant.”

“That’s just a hypothesis. Do you have direct proof?” Richie’s body surged forward, his eyes locking onto Binder as he demanded.

“All those infants shared a common trait: after birth, the hospital declared them underdeveloped and in critical condition, requiring observation inside specialized incubators for a period. When handed to their parents, a month had usually passed.”

Binder remained calm, for everything he stated was genuine truth.

Richie froze for a long time, eventually slumping back into his seat in utter defeat.

He had heard his parents recall how he had almost failed to survive birth. To save him, his parents had spent a massive fortune, keeping him inside an incubator for twenty-four days before he cleared the critical period.

​