Shield of the Rose

At the southeast corner of Ralibod Square, an entire block was occupied by a brownish-gray structure built like a fortress. The building sloped from high in the east to low in the west, reaching seven stories at its tallest point—a remarkably tall building in Peines—and five stories at its lowest point. Its exterior lacked any decoration, its high, narrow windows all fitted with heavy iron bars, looking for all the world like a prison.

This was the headquarters building of the Internal Security Bureau—the most mysterious and intimidating department in the Republic.

Truth be told, among similar organizations across various nations, the Republic’s Internal Security Bureau wasn’t particularly infamous, for the Republic’s founders harbored an aversion toward secret police politics no weaker than their disdain for knights.

Yet today, the Internal Security Bureau headquarters appeared even more grim and forbidding than usual. Its main gates stood wide open as six black carriages rumbled out.

Anyone familiar with this place could guess someone was in for severe trouble. Anyone dragged inside would lose a layer of skin even if they survived.

Given the Internal Security Bureau’s formidable reputation, arresting someone usually required merely flashing their credentials in front of the target, causing most people’s legs to turn to jelly so they complied submissively. A massive deployment of six carriages at once was exceedingly rare.

The streets of Peines were already desolate, so these six carriages sped along unimpeded, hurtling across Chauvin Avenue, Beverly Avenue, and Starlight Square…

As they passed through Fiamo Street, two more black carriages joined them from a side road.

“Why did command send more people over? Do they think we can’t handle this?” Bartel looked out the window with slight displeasure. As the chief operative leading this mission, he felt somewhat looked down upon. Yet he only dared mutter a few complaints under his breath, not daring to defy superiors’ intentions.

“It’s possible. This time we’ll likely clash with military factions. Adding a few extra hands boosts our momentum,” the short man sitting beside Bartel didn’t care much about the matter. He lacked Bartel’s competitive streak; having spent most of his life in the Internal Security Bureau, his sole goal was transferring the prisoner away safely without incident.

“Do you guess that guy’s son will burst out halfway to intercept us?” Bartel pulled his head back inside the window, asking casually.

“Who knows?” the short man let out a soft sneer: “Command probably hopes he moves against us; that way, they can deploy their contingency plan. But you and I had better pray nothing unexpected occurs! Both of us have read his file—that kid’s methods are vicious as hell.”

Bartel turned to glance out the window once more—this time monitoring not the two extra carriages, but searching for the figure categorized as extremely dangerous. Naturally he understood that with his own capabilities, discovering the boy’s trace was virtually impossible.

The carriages traveled smoothly all the way, taking only half an hour after leaving the urban district to reach the 4th Detention Center in the northern suburbs.

Carriages naturally couldn’t enter, pulling up outside the detention facility.

This area fell under military jurisdiction, so the perimeter walls were heavily guarded, with sentry posts stationed at every wall corner—each post manned by three sentries watching different directions.

Bartel and the short man stepped down from the carriage, walking to the iron gate of the detention center to knock.

With a series of tooth-grinding metallic creaks, the observation hatch on the iron gate slid open.

“We belong to the Internal Security Bureau, here to transfer prisoner #72362. We contacted you previously,” Bartel placed his credentials along with the signed transfer order onto an inclined chute at the bottom, sliding both items inside.

After a long pause, the gate opened—though only a side door swung inward.

“You may enter,” the gateman said to Bartel: “Your subordinates cannot.”

Slighting him like this for the first time, the newly appointed section leader of the Internal Security Bureau felt endless fury burning in his chest. While Internal Security Bureau agents were never flattered by outsiders, they were equally unaccustomed to cold dismissal. Generally, anyone seeing them acted with fear and kept their distance. Direct cold shoulders like this were exceedingly rare.

“Internal Security Bureau official duties require at least two agents present,” Bartel spoke with equal coldness. Coming here, command had set the tone: zero concessions, preferably raising a major scene.

“Then bring one along,” the gateman cast a glance at the short man beside Bartel.

Just as Bartel prepared to use the issue to make a scene, the gateman took half a step back, leaving Bartel feeling as though his punch hit empty air—indescribably frustrated.

The door creaked open, the hinges rusted so heavily they emitted an unpleasant squeal that made Bartel’s chest feel even tighter.

“Keep your cool; they’re giving us a cold shoulder on purpose,” the short man touched Bartel’s elbow, reminding him in a low voice.

The short man felt equally frustrated inside, having to act as assistant to such an incompetent fool. This section leader knew nothing about Internal Security Bureau procedures, yet refused to hide his ignorance, insisting on taking the lead in everything—unaware that while it looked prominent, it easily turned him into a prime target.

Holding a frustrated mind, the short man followed behind Bartel into the side door.

Just as the door shut, another carriage arrived from afar—a custom lengthened carriage fitted with barred windows, proving it was a prison transport.

Seeing the prison transport arrive, the Internal Security Bureau agents sitting inside their carriages stepped out one after another—a standard protocol for handling sudden emergencies.

Sentries stationed at the corner posts likewise focused their attention on that prison transport. Transferring prisoners between detention facilities was a routine affair, yet also the most prone to incidents, as prisoners frequently tried to break out. Though no one had ever succeeded, people kept trying.

At that moment, no one noticed three figures wearing Internal Security Bureau uniforms slip out of the final two carriages, quietly boarding the frontmost two carriages.

Those two carriages comprised Bartel’s personal vehicle and the vehicle designated for Richie’s father and cousin.

When the prison transport stopped opposite the gate, two escort soldiers stepped down, walking to the iron gate as well.

Soon the two completed paperwork, and the iron gate opened—this time swinging wide.

The prison transport drove inside, and as the iron gate slowly sealed behind it, both the sentries on the wall posts and the Internal Security Bureau agents let out a sigh of relief.

It was midwinter, with snow having fallen yesterday, making the current partial thaw the coldest stretch of weather. Thus the Internal Security Bureau agents held zero interest in standing outside in the whistling wind, pulling open carriage doors to retreat inside.

Richie hid inside the frontmost carriage, tucked tightly inside a blind spot behind the door.

The moment the door opened, the driver slid inside, completely failing to notice Richie hiding beside him.

Richie’s hand whipped forward like lightning, striking the driver’s neck.

The man possessed zero ability to resist, collapsing forward immediately. Before he touched the floorboards, Richie caught him in his hands, pulling him inside the carriage.

The carriage door shut heavy with a thud.

Pulling an injectable vial from his pocket, Richie administered a shot into the unconscious man—a dose sufficient to render an elephant unconscious.

Richie stuffed the man into a hidden compartment beneath the seat; the compartment was spacious enough to hold several bodies without issue.

Done with that, he pricked his ears to listen to his surroundings.

Zero commotion echoed from outside, nor did the carriage behind emit any distress calls, indicating the other two had proceeded smoothly. Richie’s heart settled immediately; this phase represented the most nerve-wracking, unpredictable step of the entire plan.

The main variable was that the prison transport might arrive too early or too late, something beyond their control. Neither the driver nor the escort soldiers belonged to their group; Malone had merely used his authority to order a batch of prisoners transferred into this detention center. The second variable was whether they could neutralize the carriage drivers silently—a single sound would ruin the entire operation.

Hiding inside the carriage, Richie’s heart couldn’t settle, pounding nervously just like his very first time stepping onto a battlefield.

Just as he felt anxious, the carriage door opened suddenly. The person entering clearly knew he was inside, raising a hand first to whisper softly: “Don’t!”

The voice sounded like Binder’s, though the face matched the man lying inside the hidden compartment.

Richie slowly lowered his raised hand; had Binder not issued a warning first, his strike would likely have landed.

Stepping into the carriage, Binder pulled a small pouch from his coat, retrieving a translucent flesh-colored membrane as thin as a cicada’s wing, followed by a lump of soft putty-like material.

Needless to say, he was preparing to apply a disguise to Richie.

“Is there enough time?” Richie asked.

“Relax. It doesn’t need to be extremely detailed—good enough to pass a casual glance suffices. People in our line of work aren’t particularly liked; no one stares at us closely,” Binder spoke, unsure if he was self-deprecating or telling the truth.

As Binder spoke, his hands never paused, swiftly pulling off several pieces of putty, kneading and flattening them into thin discs before pressing them onto Richie’s face.

Richie’s overly delicate face soon became rough and angular, and once the thin membrane was smoothed over, his entire appearance transformed completely.

Though incomplete, it was already evident Binder intended to transform him into the short man beside Bartel; in terms of height, the two were remarkably similar.

Mixing pigment into oil, Binder brushed the surface, and the face immediately bore a seventy to eighty percent resemblance, looking even truer once eyebrows and a mustache were attached.

Binder pulled eyebrow pencils, eyeliner, carving blades, and spatulas from his pouch, making fine adjustments to details.

Halfway through his work, the iron gate creaked loudly once more.

Binder stopped instantly, stuffing everything back into his pouch before stepping down from the carriage alongside Richie.

That movement didn’t appear abrupt, for carriage doors were opening across the other vehicles as well. Hiding inside when superiors were absent was normal, but remaining inside once superiors returned was bad manners.

Richie took the opportunity to hide on the opposite side of the carriage; his face matched the short man’s exactly, and if the two met face-to-face, the ruse would collapse instantly. Furthermore, he needed to conceal his excitement, for his father was walking behind Bartel, looking thoroughly dejected.

His father’s face was pale, clearly understanding what being taken by the Internal Security Bureau implied.

Richie’s mind was in turmoil, for the moment his father stepped past the detention center gate, a clear realization struck him: whether his father was his biological father didn’t matter as much as he had thought.

“Home” served as a spiritual anchor for him; without this home, he was no different from those rotting specimens in glass vats. Precisely because this home existed, he was Richie.

As Richie reflected, he felt someone bump into him from the side, remembering he had urgent business to execute.

Boarding the carriage, Richie and Binder sat together on the driver’s bench, Richie glancing back.

His father and cousin boarded the carriage behind, the door locking shut with a click, the agent locking the door jumping onto that carriage’s driver bench.

Richie’s heart finally settled, for that agent flashed him a secret signal indicating everything had gone smoothly.

With a sharp shout, the horses surged forward. Binder drove the lead carriage ahead, though they refrained from taking the incoming route—transferring prisoners, like funerals, avoided retracing steps to prevent bad luck.

The detention center sat in the northern suburbs, inherently remote, and Binder deliberately chose an exceptionally secluded path—a route pre-designed along vast stretches of farmland and desolate terrain.

Sure enough, traveling barely two kilometers, Richie spotted three groups tailing them from behind. The three groups didn’t appear aligned with one another, giving him the impression that they were watching each other with suspicion.

Yet right now wasn’t the time to ponder that detail; the location for the third phase of the plan was approaching.

At the end of this road lay a residential area—a district far worse than the lower district where Ariana’s group resided, comprised almost entirely of single-story shacks. These shacks were thrown together arbitrarily, creating chaotic alleys, presenting the ideal location to execute an strike.

Seeing the outlines of houses in the distance, Richie felt his palms slick with sweat.

Taking a deep breath, Richie forced his mind to settle, reaching into his right pocket to draw out two steel bearings.

These were large steel bearings salvaged from machinery, each the size of a soybean.

Binder likewise stood prepared, deliberately driving the carriage close to the right curb. Entering the residential area, a side canopy appeared along the road, the carriage brushing past it so closely it almost collided—a terrifyingly close call.

“Dammit! How are you driving?” Bartel poked his head out from the opposite window, shouting angrily.

Richie turned his head with a smile, flicking his finger to launch a steel bearing forward.

Seeing Richie turn around, Bartel froze briefly, for Richie’s face matched his assistant’s exactly. In an instant he sensed trouble, yet before he could react, the steel bearing struck his forehead between the brows.

The strike wasn’t overly heavy—at most matching the force of a finger flick against the forehead—yet Richie had infused a vibration force into the bearing, transmitting the impact straight through his skull into his brain.

Flicking a forehead naturally meant nothing, but dealing such a hit to the delicate brain yielded a drastically different outcome. Bartel went into instant shock, his body sliding down from the seat.

Beside Bartel sat the short man, who had zero idea what had occurred, assuming the incompetent boss had poked his head out and suffered a freak accident. Before another thought could form, the back of his head took a similar strike, causing him to slump forward instantly.

The moment the short man collapsed, the partition panel at the front of the carriage was kicked open, and an identical figure slid inside from the opening.

Having Richie disguise himself as one of the two leaders had been an absolute necessity. Sliding into a fast-moving carriage through a small partition wasn’t easy even for agile Internal Security Bureau elites, but for a knight like Richie, it was effortless.

Administering two more injections, the two inside the carriage fell completely unconscious. Richie stuffed the short man into the hidden compartment beneath the seat, positioning Bartel to look as though he were merely dozing off, letting out a long breath upon completing the task.

Now the most critical steps were finished.

The carriage circled half a loop along the ring road, heading toward the laboratory on the opposite side of the city.

Two kilometers from the laboratory, the road was blocked off—a row of barricades standing across the main avenue, with personnel gathered on both sides. On one side stood Internal Security Bureau agents, while on the other stood a knight company deployed by Haigert to guard the lab—one hundred percent Junior Army members.

Internal Security Bureau forces included knights as well, though those knights were merely going through the motions to slack off. Though brainwashed from childhood as tools of the state to obey whoever held power, they weren’t brainless machines; they possessed minds and could think.

Though one side was slacking off, the Internal Security Bureau possessed superior numbers, forcing the Junior Army into a defensive standoff.

Richie’s carriage pulled up far off, and seeing these carriages arrive, both opposing factions showed subtle shifts in expression.

The situation was particularly subtle for Hershaw’s internal security agents, who felt both pleased and annoyed seeing reinforcements arrive.

Annoyed because the other team had resolved their task while they remained stuck in a standoff, making them look incompetent. Thus they held zero interest in walking over to greet Bartel, merely nodding from afar.

Another reason lay in Bartel being thoroughly disliked—an incompetent fool who acted arrogant and demanded special treatment. No one in the Internal Security Bureau wanted to deal with him, including Hershaw’s men. Yet Bartel was Hershaw’s designated future bureau chief, so no one dared speak out.

Stepping down from the carriage, Richie walked toward the barricade line, Binder following closely behind. Another agent had already taken Binder’s place on the driver’s bench.

To outsiders, Bartel remaining inside the carriage while his assistant handled negotiations appeared completely normal.

As Bartel’s sole advisor and henchman in the bureau, the short man had always handled tasks requiring verbal negotiation and footwork.

Like other Internal Security Bureau agents, Richie was stopped upon reaching the barricade.

Along the way, Binder had explained what details to keep in mind, and Richie gestured with his thumb toward the carriage behind.

“Do you know who is inside? That person wants to speak a few words with the women you’re protecting. We reluctantly took this trip for him,” Richie’s statement was pre-arranged—concise yet carrying sufficient weight—and he spoke with something stuffed beneath his tongue to make his voice sound muffled.

The Junior Army member opposite hesitated, glancing at the distant carriage where Richie’s cousin sat by the window.

When Haigert did business with Richie’s family, Junior Army members had ordered combat suits from his shop, so many recognized Richie’s cousin—including this sentry.

Unable to make a decision, the sentry turned to report.

A moment later, that knight returned alongside another officer. Even from afar, Richie recognized the incoming officer instantly.

Wasn’t that Hani?

Ever since parting before the Battle of Crete, he hadn’t seen Hani once. Truth be told, Richie missed his former subordinates deeply. Especially upon learning that out of the fifteen members of Tribal Squad, only four had survived, his longing carried a thread of guilt.

Had he not dispatched Tribal Squad in place of Squad 105 to rendezvous, Tribal Squad wouldn’t have suffered such heavy casualties. Looking at it from another angle, had he not led Tribal Squad to Polmo initially, this tragedy wouldn’t have happened.

Beside joy, Richie’s heart gained a sense of calm assurance. In Malone and Binder’s original plan, the success rate of this step stood around thirty percent, for the Junior Army was famous for being unyielding. Yet even if this step failed, it didn’t matter; as long as Emily and the girls remained under Junior Army protection, they faced zero danger of harm.

Unlike Richie’s father and cousin—who were arrested on charges of embezzlement and military supply theft, leaving the Junior Army unable to intervene after reacting too late—such charges could never be placed on Emily and the girls. Emily and this laboratory represented top-tier military classified units, supplied entirely by military command, enjoying high-level immunity. Barring treason, no charges could be pinned on them.

Hershaw understood this clearly; sending personnel here hadn’t been intended to drag people away, but merely to provoke friction.

Yet now that Hani led the unit here, the situation transformed completely.

Standing so close to the standoff line made conversation awkward, so Richie walked forward to meet him.

Binder following behind froze briefly, but soon understood why Richie departed from the original plan. He recognized Hani as well, for their group possessed full intelligence on Richie, among which Hani and Tribal Squad represented crucial elements. The training plan Richie and Hani devised had been procured by Binder’s group long ago.

This was an unexpected variable. Unlike Richie’s optimism, Binder wasn’t certain whether this was a positive or negative development. In his trade, zero surprises were preferred over positive surprises. He hurried to follow, flashing secret signals toward the distant carriage. In truth, Binder’s signals were unnecessary, for Malone sitting in the rear carriage was no blind man; he spotted Hani as well, his mind calculating rapidly…

He was certain the Junior Army commander stationed here previously hadn’t been Hani; this represented a temporary decision by Junior Army leadership, indicating they intended to protect Richie’s people at all costs.

Calculating back and forth, Malone determined this wasn’t a negative turn, so he cracked a whip—a signal meaning “adapt to circumstances”.

As Binder and Malone exchanged signals secretly, Richie met Hani and the Junior Army member.

Having moved far enough from the standoff line, Richie placed his hand against his chest, touching thumb to pinky while pressing the middle three fingers together—a secret signal he had agreed upon with Tribal Squad back on the front lines.

Hani approaching froze on the spot, unable to react for a moment.

Richie flashed two more signals in succession.

These signals had been used frequently with Tribal Squad on the front lines: the first represented “ambush”, followed by “disguise” and “infiltrate”. Previously, these three signals were followed by “strike”, but this time Richie replaced it with “retreat”.

Hani’s eyes widened, certain he hadn’t misread, scanning Richie’s face.

Binder’s quick disguise revealed subtle flaws upon close inspection, and Hani understood the situation instantly.

He felt zero surprise, having executed similar maneuvers on the front lines. His sole surprise was that Richie actually dared move against the Internal Security Bureau! Like many others, he held deep resentment toward the Internal Security Bureau, yet had been forced to endure it. This time he had used the opportunity to act exceptionally tough, yet compared to Richie, he still trailed behind.

“It’s inconvenient to speak here, and cold as well. Let’s find a proper place to talk,” Richie said upon meeting.

“Sure, no problem,” Hani agreed instantly.

Buildings stood near the laboratory, and the small town where Squad 105 had been stationed remained intact. The engineering work executed back then now appeared completely redundant—a wasteful endeavor.

The four entered a small room, including the Junior Army sentry who had seen Richie’s hand signals.

Closing the door behind them, Hani embraced Richie tightly.

“Are you alright?” Hani spoke with genuine emotion.

“I should be asking you that. How is your recovery?” Richie didn’t rush to ask about Emily and the girls, knowing that with Hani present, they wouldn’t suffer harm.

“So-so. I thought I’d never see you again! Thank goodness I survived, and Vincent too, but Silva… he stayed behind to hold the rear…” Hani’s tone turned deeply somber as he recalled those events.

“Don’t dwell on it. I heard you’re doing great now, skipping company commander to become vice battalion commander,” Richie teased.

“That’s nothing,” Hani wasn’t fake-humble: “You simply don’t care about rank; otherwise you’d promote far faster than me.”

“Unfortunately, I have no opportunity left now,” Richie let out a long sigh.

Hani and the Junior Army sentry fell silent, understanding the implication behind Richie’s words.

“Who says there’s no opportunity?” Binder chimed in from the side: “Hershaw will certainly surrender to the Norman Alliance and form a puppet government soon. When that happens, all charges against everyone will vanish, so the real issue is escaping outside.”

“No need to worry about Emily and the girls. In two days, I’ll personally escort them out. Field Marshal Blum has resolved that we will make zero compromises this time,” Hani spoke with spirited determination, having endured this frustration far too long.

Like Calli and Haigert, they reached the same conclusion: Tribal Squad’s encounter hadn’t been a chance attack, but a targeted ambush.

Though unsure which mole had leaked intelligence, blaming Hershaw wasn’t an unfair accusation.

Binder naturally didn’t accept Hani’s proposal: “That’s ill-advised. In a few hours, everyone will know we escaped, and by then Emily and the girls won’t be able to leave, while Hershaw will use it as a pretext to cause trouble. But having us take them away is completely different: everyone sees them being taken by the Internal Security Bureau, executed by Hershaw’s own agents. When the time comes, you can counter-charge him with treason…”

“We don’t frame people like you do!” Hani said angrily.

Binder didn’t intend to argue with a “rigid” knight, nor did he worry about the Junior Army lacking calculating minds; knights like Haigert were rare, but by no means nonexistent.

“He’s right. I must take Emily and the girls away,” Richie spoke differently from Binder, offering no lengthy explanations, nor needing any.

Hearing Richie say so, Hani raised no further objections.

“The question now is: how should we perform this show?” Richie said.

Barricades were moved aside, and five carriages pulled up, all personnel except one driver per vehicle being driven off.

A moment later, Emily, Caroline, Isabella… stepped out one by one to board the carriages, ten people in total, two per carriage. Isabella’s younger siblings hadn’t been brought along; even Hershaw, as shameless as he was, couldn’t drag young children into this affair, for public backlash alone would destabilize his position.

The carriages avoided the original route, circling past the town where Squad 105 had been stationed before speeding toward the city center.

Entering the urban district, the column refrained from returning to headquarters, crossing Cowen Street and Madria Square to enter the 9th District Sub-branch.

This sub-branch fell entirely under Hershaw’s control, managed by a section chief in his nineties—a chubby man promoted directly by Bartel.

As Hershaw’s henchmen, everyone knew about today’s operation, so the moment the eight carriages arrived, the sub-branch gates swung wide open. The chubby chief ran out of his office in a rush, gasping for breath from running too fast.

When subordinates reported earlier, the chubby chief had been startled, for no one had given him prior notice.

Yet such occurrences were normal in the Internal Security Bureau; for secrecy, details of who to deploy and where to go were known to only one or two operatives, while others weren’t permitted to ask.

Though startled, the chubby chief felt quite pleased. That no one informed him beforehand proved his reliability; for secret missions, unreliable figures couldn’t get near.

Running into the courtyard, eight carriages stood parked with personnel aboard. The front carriage led, the rear carriage escorted, and the middle six carried the prisoners. All window shutters were closed tight, concealing the interior, leaving only the drivers visible.

The drivers on the first, second, and last carriages looked somewhat familiar—likely headquarters agents, though not from his inner circle—while the remaining five drivers were extremely familiar, all henchmen surrounding Bartel.

The chubby chief was eager to flatter Bartel, for Bartel had executed a brilliant job today; if Bartel secured the bureau chief seat early, flattering him later might be impossible.

Just at that moment, carriage doors opened simultaneously.

Peeking his head inside, the chief took another fright. He saw the future bureau chief wearing a heavy cloak with his face covered, accompanied by his usual assistant dressed identically. Glancing at the carriages behind, those inside were dressed identically, though judging by body shape, most were women.

The chief wondered silently: having arrived at his own turf, was such secrecy necessary? Yet on second thought, he pondered further.

Being in the Internal Security Bureau meant he was a core confidant, knowing their ultimate goal was surrendering and joining the Alliance. He likewise understood that the Alliance valued these individuals immensely.

He began speculating wildly: was this batch of people being transferred directly to the Alliance?

A cold shiver ran down the chief’s spine. This was no minor affair; a minor figure like him getting dragged into such a massive vortex could easily be crushed to dust.

As the chief pondered, one of the drivers walked over to him.

Leaning near the chief’s ear, the driver whispered: “Have your men dress identically to us, then we depart separately. We take the secret passage from the conference room.”

The chief muttered internally: this is being far too theatrical! If taking the secret passage, why bother creating fake targets to confuse eyes?

Unfortunately he didn’t dare voice such thoughts, knowing Bartel’s personality better than anyone—an incompetent amateur who acted arrogant. This theatrical style had likely been copied from some novel. Every Internal Security Bureau sub-branch featured secret passages—usually more than one—and conference rooms invariably contained one, allowing secret meetings to be entered and exited without detection.

This facility was naturally no exception.

Lifting the blackboard at the front of the conference room revealed a hidden door behind the wall. The chief pushed gently, and the door swung open, revealing a pitch-black secret tunnel.

The tunnel was quite long, stretching roughly two hundred meters. State construction strength far surpassed what Ariana’s group could build; while narrow, the tunnel was wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, lined with stone walls free of moisture.

The far end of the tunnel opened inside a house beneath a staircase.

Richie emerged first from the tunnel, pricking his ears to listen to his surroundings.

Zero sound echoed from the surroundings, allowing him to finally relax.

Reaching this stage, the plan was virtually a complete success.

Shifting his body aside, he cleared the exit.

Simons emerged next—having played the role of Bartel—followed by Binder, and then Malone.

When Malone stepped out of the tunnel, he cast a glance at Richie. Understanding immediately, Richie slid into the shadows, raising a hand high.

The moment the next agent emerged from the tunnel, Richie’s hand whipped down, delivering a solid hand-blade strike to the man’s neck. Before the man touched the floor, Richie caught his body, carrying him aside.

The next agent suffered the exact same fate, and in a flash, five henchmen of Bartel fell unconscious.

“Hurry up, everyone change clothes,” Malone pulled a pile of garments from beneath his cloak like magic.

Binder hurried to strip Richie’s disguise, for playing the short man was no longer necessary.

The clothes Malone prepared were all men’s attire in large sizes. For the women, taking off their original clothes was unnecessary—simply slipping these garments over their clothes sufficed, for drawstrings at the waist, collar, cuffs, and pant legs allowed instant tightening for a snug fit.

Malone and his core men didn’t need such trouble; stripping off their Internal Security Bureau uniforms revealed regular clothes underneath. Rapid disguise and costume changes were mandatory courses for these bureau elites.

With Malone’s four subordinates plus Richie carrying one unconscious agent each to the basement, the others had finished changing upon their return. Under Malone’s supervision, zero flaws were exposed.

Once everyone gathered, Malone pushed open the door.

Stepping outside revealed a narrow alley within a grid of interconnected streets. The Internal Security Bureau had selected this location precisely to enter and exit without drawing attention.

Moving in such a large crowd was far too conspicuous, so upon leaving the house, the group split into pairs and trios.

The more interconnected a district was, the more side alleys existed, and soon the group dispersed completely, exiting from several different alleys.

Crossing a road and ducking into an alley opposite, all retreat routes had been pre-established, with a carriage waiting at the end of every route. Although Peines was desolate with few carriages visible, an occasional carriage driving past drew zero special attention.

Two hours later, a furious roar echoed inside the Military Commission building. A balding old man glared with murderous eyes at the group below, among whom stood the chubby chief of the 9th District Sub-branch—currently trembling all over, his face pale as paper.

“Are you telling me that over a dozen living people vanished right under your noses?” the old man asked through gritted teeth, wishing he held a blade in his hand to slay several people on the spot. The first he wanted to slay was that incompetent fool currently lying unconscious.

Toward Bartel—a useless fool who ruined affairs—Hershaw swallowed his fury in silence. He understood clearly what kind of fool Bartel was; placing such a person in the Internal Security Bureau had been intended to keep a fool in charge so the department posed zero threat to his power.

Yet now he realized his mistake—a monumental mistake.

Suppressing his fury slightly, Hershaw asked in a deep voice: “Now tell me, what did you do after discovering the escape? You didn’t merely come here to report to me, did you?”

Hearing those words, the crowd below let out a collective sigh of relief, for this represented an opportunity to redeem themselves.

“I ordered all public carriages halted, and established sentry posts along all roads leading out of the city.”

“I notified several nearby cities under our control to monitor strangers arriving from Peines.”

“I dispatched agents to set up sentry posts along the border.”

“My men are leading police hounds along the scent trail; we should yield results before dusk.”

The group listed their remedial measures one after another.

Being summoned here by Hershaw meant they weren’t fools like Bartel; understanding the old man’s temper, taking swift remedial action offered a fifty-percent chance of earning forgiveness, whereas failing to act meant total ruin. As for whether remedial measures would succeed? That depended entirely on luck.

Hershaw listened patiently, understanding clearly that at this stage, any remedial action arrived far too late.

Peines wasn’t a small town of tens of thousands; hiding a dozen people in a metropolis made finding them virtually impossible, let alone guaranteeing they remained inside Peines.

Two hours were sufficient for a carriage to reach neighboring cities, and he didn’t believe whoever devised such a meticulous plan had failed to prepare escape routes. As time progressed, the probability of capturing them shrank continuously.

Nor was that his greatest concern; what truly worried him was whether other powerful factions operated behind this operation.

He didn’t believe a grand deception like this could be executed by a seventeen-year-old boy leading a few street thugs. The plan was meticulous, daring, and required deep knowledge of Internal Security Bureau operations to formulate.

When hearing the prisoners were rescued initially, his first suspicion fell on the Junior Army, followed by Boslova’s faction. Yet after hearing details, he realized neither group possessed deep connections with the Internal Security Bureau, standing in adversarial positions instead.

That realization brought zero relief; he would rather it were the Junior Army or Boslova scheming in the background, for otherwise the situation was far more troublesome—perhaps the mastermind was Yarno, whom he was forcing out of office. That old fox was difficult to deal with—a true venomous snake currently biding his time due to the political atmosphere.

The moment that possibility crossed his mind, Hershaw felt his head throb. Having dealt with Yarno for a lifetime through open and secret clashes, he understood the man’s formidable capability better than anyone.

Nor was Yarno his sole fear; he suspected whether the Dante Alliance had meddled as well. Everyone knew that once he assumed power, Monstoke would defect to the Norman Alliance—something the Dante Alliance certainly wished to prevent.

Those two suspect factions might well join hands against him, which represented the absolute worst-case scenario.

The more he pondered, the slimmer the hope of recapturing the fugitives appeared. In his view, if even ten percent of his subordinates’ remedial measures were strictly executed, it would be a miracle.

Sealing Peines was fundamentally impossible. It was wartime, with tens of thousands of troops moving in and out daily; halting military movements was absurd, and inspecting every soldier was equally impossible. Establishing sentry posts faced identical obstacles.

As for tightening checks in nearby cities, that offered near-zero utility. According to files, that young knight excelled at long-distance raids, having led large units across wilderness terrain multiple times. He would likely avoid cities altogether, bypassing main highways to travel through wilderness and mountains. That rendered border blockades completely useless as well.

The old man felt increasingly frustrated the more he thought.

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