Shield of the Rose

With a loud clatter, a messy pile of mechanical parts tumbled onto the floor.

Richie squatted beside the small mountain of parts, rummaging through them. As his hands moved back and forth, the metal components bumped together, producing a series of crisp clinking sounds. Picking up two flat iron bars meant for carriage frames, he gave them a couple of swings before shaking his head immediately. This material felt far too soft in his hands, completely unfit for heavy duty. He needed to forge a weapon for his Yaksha, and stuff like this simply wouldn’t do.

The Yaksha Yiluo had left him was essentially a “bare unit”—no armor plates, no weapons, and no shield.

If he could return to Squad 105, he wouldn’t lack anything, but unfortunately he couldn’t do that, so he had to solve the problem with his own hands. Fortunately, those women maintained a carriage depot as a cover, so when it came to forging weapons, all the necessary tools were readily available.

Although this carriage depot was just for show, not a single tool was missing: the furnace, anvil, quenching water tank, bench vise, and hoist hook were all fully present—even a complete set of precision tools for crafting tiny parts.

The current issue was raw materials.

Back when he was with the squad, he never faced such worries. Whatever he needed, he simply filed a request and retrieved it from the military supply depot, but right now that was out of the question.

Sorting out those soft, malleable iron bars and tossing them aside, the remaining items were all smaller components, the longest being four carriage axles. Richie picked them up to weigh them in his hands; they felt quite heavy and were likely solid steel. He estimated their length to be roughly between 2.2 and 2.5 meters. The steel used for crafting axles possessed decent toughness, but compared to materials for forging blades and swords, it fell far short.

Richie stroked his nose, pondering whether to reshape them into warhammers or simply use them as iron rods.

After contemplating for a long while, he ultimately gave up. One reason was that blunt weapons like warhammers and iron rods weren’t particularly effective on the battlefield. But the more critical reason was that he lacked confidence in the exact properties of these materials. In a life-or-death battle, if a weapon developed flaws, it would cost him his life.

He didn’t want to gamble with his own life. Setting those axles temporarily aside, Richie picked up several much smaller steel bars. These bars were only as thick as a thumb, pitch-black all over, coated in a thick layer of anti-rust grease that emitted a sharp odor of engine oil. There was a considerable quantity of them. Glancing at them, Richie realized instantly that these were wheel spokes.

Looking around, he pulled a stack of old newspapers from a corner of the wall. Places like this were covered in engine oil and grime, so old newspapers were guaranteed to be around—there was no cheaper or more convenient “rag”.

Tearing a sheet of newspaper in half to wrap around both ends of a steel spoke, Richie gripped the wrapped ends, pressed one foot against the middle of the spoke, and exerted force to bend it.

Until the veins on his wrists bulged, the steel spoke showed zero sign of bending. Such a result left Richie quite satisfied. This material possessed impressive toughness and strength; its only drawback was its short length, measuring barely half a meter. After donning magitech armor, a half-meter weapon could only be considered a dagger. Yet he felt no disappointment. Last night while being intimate with Aisha, he had already decided on the weapon’s design. What he wanted to forge was a pair of “claws”. Throughout the journey back, he had undergone Trisli’s special “training”, and the weapon used against him had been claws.

To endure longer under Trisli’s blows, he had asked Tidi for many close-quarters combat techniques, while also requesting Randy to contact the Librarian Uncle who had returned home. From the old master, he obtained seven or eight martial techniques similar to the “Ten-Ring Drizzle”, devoting much thought to the claw’s structural design.

Truth be told, Tidi’s family’s Heavenly Fiend Claw wasn’t an absolute masterpiece of design; what he truly admired was a design named the “Hundred-Blade Edge”. When all five fingers of this claw suit pressed together, the entire hand functioned like a razor-sharp blade; once opened or clenched into a fist, it resembled a mountain of daggers. The “Hundred-Blade Edge” not only possessed the hook-and-lock capability of claws, but could also thrust, slash, peck, and parry. Moreover, among all claw designs, this structure was the cleanest, least cluttered, and created the lowest air resistance. Looking at the materials beneath his feet, Richie realized helplessly that forging a true “Hundred-Blade Edge” was impossible.

The “Hundred-Blade Edge” was composed of numerous refined steel blades, whereas he only had iron sheets here—and soft iron sheets of inferior quality at that.

High-grade steel wasn’t entirely absent, but it existed only in tiny components like bearings and sleeves. Those steels were top-tier quality, even superior to the steel used in standard magitech armor.

Flames inside the furnace surged over a foot high, glowing white with only the edges showing a faint red tint. A white flame proved the furnace temperature was exceptionally high. Richie cranked the bellows handle with one hand—a task that normally required two grown men to perform.

His other hand held a pair of long-handled tongs, reaching inside the furnace to draw out a glowing red steel rivet as thick as a wheat straw. Holding the red-hot rivet with the tongs, Richie moved swiftly to the other side. On the other side stood the anvil, upon which rested the already shaped steel claw framework. The red-hot rivet held by the tongs inserted with pinpoint accuracy into a small hole. Richie set the tongs aside and picked up a round-headed iron hammer.

The iron hammer was about a meter long, its head weighing over twenty pounds; ordinary men had to use both hands to wield it, yet Richie held the far end of the handle with just one hand, raising it high. With a crisp thud, the hammer head smashed down onto the rivet, instantly flattening the exposed end!

Setting down the hammer and picking up the tongs again, Richie methodically repeated this simple, monotonous work.

Had a knowledgeable expert witnessed this scene, they would have been utterly dumbfounded, for Richie was single-handedly doing the work of four men.

Only a knight possessed the physical capability to accomplish this; ordinary men, even with such strength, could never coordinate their movements so flawlessly.

As noon approached, the final rivet was driven into the claw framework.

Extinguishing the furnace, Richie pulled the steel claw off the anvil; the metal remained scalding hot.

Gripping the steel claw with two pairs of pliers, Richie exerted force to test its rigidity. The steel claw remained rock-solid, the rivets set exceptionally tight.

A framework normally served an internal supporting role, but this time was different: this framework would rest on the outer back of the hand, not only keeping the entire claw suit from falling apart, but also serving as a parrying shield.

Back when Randy helped him forge his previous claw suit, a row of blades had been installed along the back of the hand, serving the exact same function. When sparring with Trisli, he found this design remarkably clever—not only balancing offense and defense, but also weighing far less than mounting a shield, with minimal air resistance so it didn’t hinder his strike speed.

Just like the “Hundred-Blade Edge”, the front of each joint along the framework was forged thin and sharp like a razor blade, though its length didn’t exceed a foot. This was the result of practical combat validation: blades mounted on claws that were too long proved completely useless, easily snapping or failing to transmit force, while hampering hand flexibility.

Through repeated testing, it had been proven that the ideal blade length was one-fiftieth of arm length.

Holding the framework, Richie slipped back into the underground tunnel.

The tunnel was quiet; all the women were sleeping.

Some among them slept because their vital energy had been taxed—last night he had indeed been somewhat out of control, acting far too fiercely. But most were sleeping because watching him make love with Aisha had aroused them to an unbearable degree, keeping them awake all night, so they were catching up on sleep during the day.

Looking at the quiet, peaceful tunnel, a touch of proud satisfaction touched the corners of Richie’s lips.

All the women lying here belonged to him; this was his harem, and he was the king and master here.

Passing through the narrow central walkway, Richie walked toward the far end of the tunnel.

He was looking for Audrey.

Among all the women, Audrey was a special case; Richie had never harbored any improper thoughts toward her.

At the far end of the tunnel stood a desk. Even though the Seven Sisters were the leaders of these women, each possessed only a military folding cot and a folding stool, beside this shared desk. When Richie first saw this desk, he was truly speechless, finally understanding why Ariana held such immense prestige among these women.

Audrey sat beside the desk, using the dim lamplight to assemble small steel rings into a glove framework. These steel rings had all been harvested from bearings and sleeves; he had roughly processed them with a saw, file, and hammer, but linking these pieces together was delicate work for which he lacked the patience and time.

Because it was meant for magitech armor, it didn’t need to be densely woven. The Yaksha’s hand was essentially a thick metal glove, so these steel rings served less as protection and more as anchor points to secure the outer framework.

Seeing Audrey working so intently, Richie didn’t interrupt her, sitting down directly by her side. To his surprise, Audrey was remarkably alert, snapping her head around to look. Seeing it was him, Audrey involuntarily shifted her body inward, a trace of panic flickering in her eyes. “I… yesterday… was indeed a bit out of line.”

Yesterday, after learning from Aisha that Ariana was Audrey’s biological sister, Richie felt quite embarrassed, constantly seeking an opportunity to apologize.

“No need to explain; we all understand… your mood wasn’t good,” Audrey said hastily, her voice still holding a thread of panic.

Though claiming to understand, Audrey’s eyes involuntarily avoided Richie’s gaze.

When they first met, she had viewed Richie entirely as a boy next door. Never had she imagined that the person she brought back would turn out to be a insatiable wolf—and a voraciously greedy one at that.

“Aisha already told you about our affairs…”

After hesitating for a long while, Audrey finally gathered her courage: “Everyone here is a poor soul. Now we have handed ourselves entirely to you; I hope you will treat us well.”

Finishing her last words, Audrey closed her eyes, not daring to look at Richie. Audrey said “us”, undoubtedly including herself in that count. Richie was no fool and naturally understood her meaning.

Truth be told, he had never contemplated taking Audrey into his harem; from their first encounter, he had viewed her as an older sister—a college-student sister. Now that Audrey raised it herself, Richie wasn’t the kind of fool who pushed good things away. Furthermore, to him, making love with Audrey didn’t mean he would stop treating her as an older sister. He had made love with Aunt Ling as well, yet Aunt Ling remained Aunt Ling, and he never disrespected her because of it. It was the same with his master, Miss Dina; even now, his master would occasionally scold him.

“I’ve already apologized for yesterday,” Richie said smoothly while taking the opportunity to lean closer. His hands, never particularly well-behaved, had already rested on Audrey’s body—his left hand gently kneading her buttocks while his right hand slipped between her thighs.

Though having mentally prepared herself, Audrey’s body still stiffened instantly.

Among the women in the tunnel, Audrey dressed the most conservatively. Through her thick canvas trousers, Richie could feel the muscles in her thighs were firm and athletic—proof of a woman who loved exercise. Back in university, Audrey must have been an active figure; maintaining a pure and cheerful heart in an environment like this was truly no easy feat.

Regarding women’s bodies, Richie had always favored two types: one was soft and plush, where a palm press left five finger prints and a light slap sent ripples across the flesh; the other was like Audrey’s—firm, elastic, and filled with supple muscle tone despite lacking extreme voluptuousness.

As his mind wandered, his body reacted immediately, the shaft inside his trousers swelling steadily.

Audrey likewise noticed the anomaly; Richie had been pressing tight against her, and the moment that object hardened, it pressed directly against her buttocks.

Audrey was no child, and living in such an environment had given her an early understanding of intimacy. Nor was she frigid like Monica or naturally averse to intimacy like Milia; when alone, she would occasionally wonder what her first man would be like.

Yet no matter how she imagined it, she never dreamt she would end up with a monster far younger than herself—looking like a little brother, yet fierce enough in bed to effortlessly handle dozens of women.

Nor was she entirely devoid of affection for Richie. Richie was good-looking; his only flaw was that his features were somewhat delicate, giving off an impression less of rugged handsomeness than of refined beauty. Such looks rarely inspired reliance from women, but easily aroused maternal instincts.

Last night, Richie and Aisha had made love right before everyone’s eyes all night long. Aisha’s sweet moans had kept all the women tossing and turning, feeling an unbearable itch between their thighs, and Audrey had been no exception. Thus, toward Richie she felt seven parts fear, two parts confusion, and one part anticipation. Before she realized it, the belt buckle came undone, and Audrey’s thick canvas trousers slipped down to the chair, exposing her pale, rosy buttocks.

Richie traced his fingertips gently along the cleft of her buttocks, making Audrey close her eyes slightly as soft moans escaped her nose.

Suddenly, a scalding rod brushed against her semi-exposed buttocks; startled, her heart tightened in panic.

She wasn’t ready yet. Audrey grabbed the massive shaft in a tight grip. Her courage was quite impressive; while other women touching a man’s shaft for the first time would pull back instantly, she actually dared to grip it tightly. Feeling that she couldn’t even enclose the monstrous object with one hand, Audrey’s heart pounded wildly. She had seen men’s shafts before, but never one of such terrifying proportions. The thought of being penetrated by such a thick, massive object filled her with fear. Yet stopping Richie’s advance wasn’t due to fear, but because terms hadn’t been agreed upon.

“You haven’t answered me yet! I asked you earlier: will you treat us well? You haven’t given me an answer,” holding Richie’s shaft in her grip to prevent him from moving, Audrey regained a measure of confidence.

With his vital organ held in her grip, Richie had to yield. “I agree…”

He was about to promise outright, but on second thought, he hesitated.

He suddenly remembered his rationale for making love to so many women.

What proved most useful to him was the “Yin Energy” provided by these women. If accumulating Aura “quantity” mattered most before reaching Ace rank, then after becoming an Ace, the demand for “quality” far exceeded the need for “quantity”. Compared to dual-training, the “Yin Energy” harvested from ordinary women proved vastly more effective for enhancing his strength. That substance he called “Yin Energy” was, according to his hypothesis, likely a mutated form of life energy. If Aura were viewed as steel, then life energy equaled iron ore. Converting life energy into Aura was steelmaking—others used iron ore directly to make steel, whereas “Yin Energy” functioned like pig iron. Using pig iron to make steel was naturally far more efficient and produced higher-quality steel. The issue was that this “pig iron” was forged using women’s life energy as fuel and desire as the furnace—the hotter the desire burned, the greater the volume of “pig iron” produced.

Last night, pushing those women one by one to the peak of pleasure hadn’t been done out of sheer malice. “Speak up…”

Audrey squeezed Richie’s shaft with force. She was caught in a dilemma now, and Richie’s hesitation in answering filled her with frustration. In her view, this wasn’t a difficult question to answer; even if Richie lied to her face, she wouldn’t care, yet Richie remained silent. For a brief moment, a sudden impulse struck her to grab the scissors on the table and snip off the offending organ at the root.

Richie naturally didn’t know Audrey was harboring dark thoughts, his manhood barely escaping disaster, for his mind was occupied with another matter. Pulling back from Audrey’s side, Richie tucked his erect manhood back into his trousers, walking straight over to Ariana’s cot.

He wanted to verify his previous hypothesis.

Pressing his hand against Ariana’s chest, Richie injected a thread of Aura inside.

This thread of Aura circulated through Ariana’s body once before gradually dissipating, yet that single circuit was enough for Richie to understand her physical condition clearly.

Ariana’s vital energy had indeed suffered significant depletion—a condition he had observed previously in the mothers of Emily and the girls.

Walking forward a few steps to Carmen’s cot, Richie pressed his hand against Carmen’s chest and injected a thread of Aura. The situation was identical: severe vital energy depletion. Since Carmen hadn’t suffered vital energy damage previously, the depletion this time was particularly pronounced. Walking forward a few more steps, he moved to Monica’s cot. Last night he hadn’t paid attention, but reflecting on it now, he vaguely recalled Monica showing zero signs of vital energy damage, while her “Yin Energy” seemed far more abundant than the other women’s. He remembered clearly that Monica had been thrust fiercely by him once before; back then, her heavy makeup and attire had made him uncomfortable, so he had shown zero restraint. If making love depleted vital energy, she should have suffered far worse than the others. Circulating Aura through Monica’s body once, it dissipated into nothingness.

Richie knit his brows slightly.

Monica appeared no different from Carmen or Ariana, displaying signs of significant vital energy depletion, yet beneath the surface lay a subtle difference—a faint, lingering thread of “Yin Energy” swirled around her lower abdomen.

Richie intended to verify further, turning back to inspect Carmen again.

This time he inspected far more carefully.

Sure enough, upon careful searching, he discovered a lingering thread of “Yin Energy” swirling within Carmen’s body as well, though vastly fainter than the thread inside Monica, making it far harder to detect.

Turning to check Ariana once more.

A moment later, Richie felt disappointed; Ariana’s body held nothing at all.

Refusing to believe it, he injected another thread of Aura, controlling it to circulate slowly through Ariana’s body.

Initially nothing was found, but as the Aura gradually dissipated, Richie noticed a distinct difference: inside Ariana’s body, Aura dissipated at an extraordinary speed—her body functioned like a bottomless pit.

Sitting by the cot, Richie pondered silently without uttering a word.

Audrey beside him had long sensed the strange atmosphere, unable to comprehend how her question had triggered such a reaction from Richie.

She had speculated several possibilities, even thinking Richie might refuse, but right now she felt utterly bewildered, for every single action Richie took defied her expectations.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew past, and Audrey felt a cool breeze against her buttocks, her face flushing crimson instantly. Because of Richie’s strange behavior, her attention had been completely absorbed, making her forget her belt was undone and her trousers pulled halfway down by the boy. Just as her hand reached her waist to pull her trousers up, she suddenly felt someone standing beside her. Startled, Audrey turned her head quickly.

Standing behind her was Milia. Milia’s eyes were fixed on her, that meaningful gaze making her heart flutter in panic. “Looks like you haven’t completed the deed with him yet?”

Milia glanced at Richie, turning to say to Audrey: “When did the wolf turn vegetarian? He didn’t swallow you whole?”

Audrey’s face had long turned red as a sheet, wishing a crack in the floor would swallow her up.

“Oh—you’re here?” Richie woke from his thoughts at the sound of Milia’s voice.

Milia disliked Richie, but she knew Richie was their sole available reliance right now, so despite her dissatisfaction, she didn’t dare display a hint of resentment on the surface.

“There’s news from that side,” Milia sat down on the edge of the opposite cot: “He arranged to meet you tonight at seven in the old place.”

“What time is it now?” Richie knit his brows. This hidden sanctuary was excellent in all aspects, except being underground meant no sunlight was visible, making it impossible to estimate time. Milia pulled a pocket watch from her pocket, glanced at it, and said: “Still early! Only four-thirty.”

Four-thirty—two and a half hours remaining. Richie estimated in his mind that the time required to reach that coffee shop wasn’t particularly generous either.

Snow was falling outside. Entering the new year, the snowfall no longer continued incessantly, but fell intermittently. Richie pulled up the collar of his heavy coat, blocking the whistling cold wind.

A snowplow had just driven past, pushing the snow off the road into a low mound along the curb like a small wall.

When the snowplow passed earlier, he had ducked into a side alley; now that it was gone, he peeked his head out quietly.

This alley mouth faced directly toward the coffee shop designated for the meeting.

Richie hid within the shadows of the alley mouth, holding a pair of binoculars to scan the surroundings. He observed with extreme care. The binoculars had been casually pilfered from a closed shop along the way; while a twenty-times magnification couldn’t match the forty-five-times scope on magitech armor, for a city packed with obstacles where line-of-sight rarely exceeded two kilometers, it was more than sufficient.

He had arrived an hour early, precisely because he worried the other party might set a trap for him. After observing for a long while, suspicious figures were certainly present, but not a single person capable of arresting him could be seen. Richie still didn’t dare drop his guard; the city contained hiding spots everywhere, and hiding a block away could easily evade his scouting—or even staying deep within this block would keep them hidden, for light couldn’t bend, which was why most Recon Knights preferred listening devices, deploying optical scopes only when verification was needed.

Although he wished to inspect the entire area thoroughly, Richie didn’t dare move carelessly. Peines was desolate right now; let alone main thoroughfares, even secluded alleys like this held hardly any pedestrians. If he wandered around, before finding suspicious figures, he would become the most suspicious figure in everyone’s eyes. Estimating the time, the appointed hour was near. Richie peeked out to glance down the road, and sure enough, two figures were walking toward the location from several blocks away—one of them being the old man from last time.

Although wearing the same attire as before, Richie didn’t dare guarantee it was Binder. Raising his binoculars, he stared intently at the man’s gait.

No matter how well a person disguised themselves, their walking habit always retained subtle traits; he had paid special attention to it last time.

Watching the two figures walk half a block, Richie finally felt slightly reassured: when the “old man” raised his left foot, there was always a subtle dragging motion. Tucking the binoculars away, Richie stepped out of the alley carrying his large backpack. This Yaksha suit was something he had to keep by his side at all times.

Compared to when he first received this suit, Richie possessed far more confidence now—not merely because he had equipped it with weapons, but fundamentally because his control over the Yaksha had become far more proficient.

The sharp blades at the tips of the steel claws had been forged cold by his hammer stroke by stroke. Because they were cold-forged, these blades possessed exceptional strength and toughness.

Forging metal required not just raw strength, but precise control over force; hours of work had felt more useful to Richie than a week of training. In training, determining whether a movement reached perfection was difficult, often requiring dozens of attempts to get a feel for it. Forging was different: with one hammer blow, whether force control was accurate could be seen instantly by checking the impact point and dent depth.

This wasn’t his invention; previously, master Dina had made him use wooden sticks to impale falling leaves in mid-air to train hand-eye coordination and precision control. This time, Tidi had taught him numerous tricks—mostly sleight-of-hand magic tricks, along with child games like cat’s cradle and shuttlecock kicking, all of which proved remarkably effective. Stepping out of the alley, Richie didn’t walk toward the two men, but walked along the road on his own.

He didn’t head to the coffee shop; though agreeing to meet at the old place, that didn’t mean they had to talk inside. The coffee shop was merely a contact point.

Seeing a figure emerge from the darkness carrying a massive backpack, the two men distant knew it was Richie immediately. Seeing Richie walk down the adjacent street, they hurried to follow.

Snow lay along the curb—not thick, but two or three inches deep—making walking somewhat tedious. To a knight like Richie it was nothing, but to these two men it proved somewhat demanding. Fortunately, footprints marked the snow, so the two didn’t need to walk fast, simply following the trail. After six or seven blocks, the two finally saw Richie waving to them from behind a glass window.

This location was by no means close to the original coffee shop, rendering any pre-arranged ambushes completely useless.

Both were elites of the Internal Security Bureau, and a single glance at Richie’s chosen location told them Richie still didn’t fully trust them. This was a famous restaurant, renowned for its rooftop garden dining area where guests could enjoy surrounding views while dining. The restaurant was flanked by two open plazas, offering an extraordinarily wide field of vision, making it virtually impossible to deploy forces to surround the place undetected.

The two let out a synchronized bitter laugh. A famous restaurant was indeed different; a dozen guests sat scattered across the rooftop garden dining room.

Richie sat at a window table, looking out before scanning the interior.

Currently he was somewhat paranoid, constantly feeling as though eyes were watching him and every guest looked suspicious. A full circuit of observation revealed a few subtle details: several guests dining and chatting felt completely out of place in this environment; though dressed decently, he sensed this was likely their very first time dining in such a high-end establishment. While scanning the room, the two men walked over casually.

The unfamiliar man appeared to be in his nineties, dressed casually with an unkempt look—a scruffy beard on his chin, brown hair tied in a ponytail, and a gaunt face. With a prominent forehead and sunken eye sockets, his looks were far from handsome, yet left an extraordinarily deep impression.

Richie didn’t dare guarantee this face was real; from Binder, he had witnessed the Internal Security Bureau’s master disguise techniques. Furthermore, in novels he read previously, spies and agents were either handsome and memorable, or so average that no one could recall their features after a single glance. A face as uniquely ugly and memorable as this man’s was clearly unsuitable for field work.

Although meeting for the first time, Richie’s intuition told him this man was the chief decision-maker, while Binder was merely a subordinate. Sure enough, as the two walked over, Binder intended to introduce him, but the man held Binder back, turning to look in the direction Richie had been watching. “Feels out of place, doesn’t he? That man is likely a dock laborer; his clothes are rented, and this single meal will probably cost a month’s wages. But who cares right now? After the Varedins arrive, what will life become? Nobody knows. Men like him without parents or wives to drag them down act the most decisive—drinking while there’s wine today, leaving tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow,” the man said casually.

“That you can guess he’s a laborer is easy to understand—his hands are rough and his manners unrefined. But how do you know he works at the docks? And how do you know his clothes are rented?” Richie tilted his head to ask.

“He has a sea dragon tattoo on his wrist—sailors love doing that. But his face is far too pale; he doesn’t look like a sailor at all. Running at sea for a year or two, soaked in seawater and blown by ocean winds, even the palest face turns bronze. So I guessed he works at the docks. This suit fits him perfectly; for a poor man, tailoring a custom suit isn’t easy, so they usually make them loose enough to wear year-round. It’s winter now; if a suit fits this snugly, it’ll look far too big in summer. Thus it can only be rented from a clothing shop, where various sizes are available and minor adjustments can be made on the spot, guaranteeing a perfect fit.” As he spoke, the man smiled, lifting a corner of his jacket to reveal a rental tag: “The suit I’m wearing is the same.”

“How do you know he has no family burdens? I guessed he has no wife because his hand wears no ring, nor shows any mark of wearing one,” Richie asked while observing.

“Look at his shoes,” the man pointed beneath the dining table: “Rented shoes from clothing shops always carry subtle dust; his shoes were wiped, but not polished bright, indicating he wiped them casually with a rag. Likely his home lacks shoe polish. Even without a wife, if living with parents, it wouldn’t be like this.”

“Impressive. A single casual glance reveals so much,” Richie had initially maintained a cold, distant attitude without even standing to greet them, but now he stood up from his seat.

“Malone Brandon, his former superior,” the man pointed at Binder beside him.

After the three sat down, Richie said: “You move quite fast.”

“We have to move fast,” Malone said, though while speaking, he flipped casually through the menu, his face looking completely calm as if discussing a routine affair: “Tomorrow is the final day of your leave. Those people have already drawn up an arrest warrant alongside a wanted poster. If you return to report to your squad, they will pull out the arrest warrant; if you don’t report, the wanted poster comes into play.”

Richie’s heart tightened instantly; this was precisely what he worried about most, a question he had deliberately avoided facing: what should be done after three days?

Malone didn’t care about Richie’s emotional state in the slightest. As elites of the Internal Security Bureau who spent their days arresting and interrogating suspects, every one of them could be considered an expert in psychology. Let alone Richie, even figures like Haigert and Trisli would look like schoolboys before them.

“Don’t expect Knight Headquarters or the Junior Army to help you. Most knights possess muscle but lack brains—the higher their rank, the truer that becomes. They have already settled on a basic policy: let you return to report first before making further plans,” Malone sneered.

“Do Field Marshals Blum and Campbell think that way as well?” Richie felt uncomfortable in his heart.

“I said: the higher a knight’s rank, the worse their political brain. Those two plan to protect you, and they certainly possess the strength to do so, but they haven’t considered: if the other side uses your women and father to threaten you, what choice will you make?” Malone handed the menu casually to Binder beside him, intending to lay his cards on the table with Richie.

“Have you prepared yourself mentally?” Malone laid his hands casually on the dining table, leaning forward as if chatting comfortably with Richie. Even if someone overheard their conversation, seeing his posture, no one would suspect anything major was being discussed.

Just as Binder’s single sentence had left Richie stunned previously, Malone’s analysis likewise sent a wave of numbness through Richie’s mind. Never had he imagined his personal affairs could be intertwined with state power struggles.

After freezing for a long while, Richie’s numb mind finally recovered. His immediate reaction was believing Malone was scaring him.

“If things are truly as you say, then what do you expect me to prepare? Even if I commanded a corps, it would be useless!” Richie said angrily, though fortunately his rationality hadn’t vanished, keeping his tone firm while pressing his voice low.

Malone smiled softly, his smile as scheming as could be.

“What I want to ask is: have you prepared yourself mentally? For the sake of a few people, you will likely drag the entire Republic down with you.” He spoke without letting on whether he was comforting, egging on, or issuing a warning.

“To hell with the Republic,” Richie said without a second thought: “I’m just an ordinary civilian; the Republic has never given me any special benefits.”

Seeing Richie reveal his true feelings, Malone felt a surge of joy. His greatest worry had been Richie being a rigid-minded fool like other knights, which would make things troublesome.

Not just the Republic—any knight was indoctrinated from childhood with ideas of sacrifice and dedication. The result of repeated brainwashing was rigid thinking, to the point where even the two founders of the Junior Army couldn’t avoid harboring naive notions. As elites of the Internal Security Bureau, they had been brainwashed as well, but brainwashing held minimal effect on them. As ordinary civilians, what they interacted with wasn’t the isolated world of knights; their living environment was far more complex, and their position allowed them to see the darkest, ugliest side of the world clearly. Thus, whenever trouble arose, they always anticipated the worst-case scenario, and facts often proved them right.

“It’s good that you think that way,” Malone didn’t bother commenting further, needing only to confirm Richie wasn’t a rigid fool: “Hershaw calculated shrewdly, but he overlooked one thing: he treated unobtained power as something already in his grip, while failing to realize the military has begun devolving into chaos. His subordinates haven’t noticed this, and even if they noticed, they wouldn’t care, for they originally wished for the Republic to descend into total chaos. Thus they possess no true control over the situation.”

“It seems you already possess a plan,” Richie asked, having harbored that intuition all along.

“A plan indeed exists; it depends on whether you dare execute it,” Malone said. As he spoke, Binder—who had been monitoring the surroundings—nudged Malone gently.

A waiter walked over.

“Have you gentlemen decided on your order?” the waiter asked by the table.

“Give us your recommendations; I’m more interested in meat dishes,” Richie acted quite casual. A year ago he had been a country bumpkin, but after meeting the Librarian Uncle and connecting with the two Great Craftsmen, he frequented such establishments, losing his initial awkwardness.

“The same for me, plus a bottle of Bepang ‘22,” Malone ordered his items.

Binder beside him wasn’t as relaxed; disguising himself as an old man required acting the part, so he had to don glasses and point down the menu item by item.

The waiter was sharp; hearing Malone order a bottle of vintage Bepang, he recognized these guests weren’t poor pretenders who couldn’t pay.

Watching the waiter walk away, Malone continued: “Hershaw’s deadliest trick is ‘hostage-taking’. He arrested your father and detained your women precisely to make you hesitate. Similarly, he uses the current political crisis to force your backers to compromise with him; if they refuse, he lets the situation descent into chaos, which benefits the Alliance. If they compromise, he hands you over to the Alliance, which is intensely interested in the secrets inside your brain, earning Hershaw massive credit.” Malone spoke with a smile, completely unbothered by Richie’s anger and frustration.

“Actually, we can play the exact same game. These days, a man with nothing to lose fears no one with wealth. The fewer assets one holds, the easier it is to take hostages, for there are fewer scruples,” Malone said in an unhurried tone.

Richie knit his brows slightly, vaguely recalling another person saying something similar.

Reflecting carefully, beside Lina, only Haigert could say such things—and back then it had been said about the Junior Army.

“What do you need me to do?” Richie asked in a deep voice.

“You need to display your strength.” Malone felt thoroughly satisfied with Richie’s response. Making a decision without hesitation was the true style of a great leader.

“My strength?” Richie felt somewhat confused, though vaguely guessing a few things without being entirely certain, so he simply played dumb: “My strength is average; among Ace Knights, I might count as mid-tier.”

Malone didn’t care about Richie playing dumb, waiting for him to finish before explaining: “You certainly possess strength; influence is a form of strength. Your influence is by no means small, and others know it too, but unless you display that influence openly, even if others know, they won’t pay attention.” Malone didn’t raise specific details of the plan, for specific details weren’t important; their group of five had simulated the plan from start to finish multiple times, achieving a success rate over sixty percent. Even if unexpected mishaps occurred, they held backup measures, so discussing details with Richie was unnecessary—handing him the written plan before parting would suffice.

What truly mattered was Richie’s determination. This plan was exceedingly crazy, to the point where even its creators found it daunting, and executing it required an exceptionally firm leader—or a lunatic.

“I believe you wish to know your true standing in certain people’s hearts as well,” Malone smiled schemingly: “You undoubtedly want to know whether your squad members will support you; you undoubtedly want to know whether Haigert will respond to your actions; you undoubtedly want to know to what extent those foreign factions you value will support you.”

Those words struck Richie right at his core. Richie truly wished to know those answers, eager to discover his genuine value.

“Tomorrow is the deadline, as well as the best opportunity. Once tomorrow passes, Hershaw’s group will certainly move against the people you care about. Currently your father and cousin are held in a detention center under military judicial jurisdiction—a result of compromise between rival factions. But after tomorrow, Hershaw will certainly use your failure to report to your squad as an excuse to transfer them from detention, perhaps even demanding control of that secret lab. When that happens, total chaos will erupt, and we will use that chaos to break them out.” Malone outlined the plan briefly.

“Break them out directly? How is that possible?” Richie almost gasped aloud.

“Trust me, there will be zero issues; everything has been planned meticulously,” Malone practically swore on his blood. Unwilling to dwell on that topic, he shifted the subject immediately: “The real trouble is what happens after rescuing them. You, your father, your cousin, and your women will certainly face arrest warrants. Do you have a way to escape under heavy pursuit?”

Richie fell silent. If it were merely hiding, he possessed absolute confidence, but escaping outside the country was an entirely different matter. After a long silence, he looked at Malone, asking back: “Have you not considered that matter?”

What Richie saw were two bitter smiles.

“If it were merely getting one or two people out, it wouldn’t be a problem; we all possess hidden channels,” Malone glanced at Binder beside him. Binder looked calm; who didn’t hold a few small secrets?

Who hadn’t prepared a retreat route for themselves?

“Do you know why we sought you out?” Malone decided to lay a final card on the table: “We all have people we care about. I have a gentle wife, three adorable children—twelve, eight, and six years old—and I have parents, and my wife has parents…”

“How many people do you have in total?” Richie interrupted Malone hastily, for if Malone continued counting like that, he would never remember them all.

“Our group has five members in total. Binder and another colleague aren’t married yet, but both have plenty of siblings.” Malone looked at Richie’s reaction, concluding: “Seventy-four people in total.”

Richie showed no dramatic reaction. Ever since Aisha pointed it out yesterday, he had guessed what Binder’s group was after. Since he intended to evacuate Ariana and all her women anyway, adding a few dozen more didn’t matter in the least.

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