Shield of the Rose

Dark, cramped, the air emitting a subtle odor of mildew.

Richie held a hurricane lamp in his hand, inspecting his surroundings. This place closely resembled the storage room packed with pamphlets at Knight Headquarters. Rows of bookshelves stood filled with labeled file folders.

This was the location dedicated to processing discarded archives for the Internal Security Bureau. When Malone handed over his duties previously, he had used excuses to send the most critical records here.

Currently, Malone was rummaging through a pile of unfiled archives on the floor. After a long while, he walked over cradling a stack of documents.

“This is what you wanted to see,” Malone whispered, placing the stack of files at Richie’s feet. Drawing one file out, he flipped through it rapidly, finding the target section in a flash.

Opening the document and spreading it before Richie, Malone stepped aside to sit against a row of bookshelves.

Richie touched the open document with extreme caution, as if feeling the paper scalding hot, holding only a tiny corner to turn the file toward himself.

The file held considerable age, the paper somewhat stiff with yellowed moisture stains along the edges. Across the open page, several horizontal red ink lines had been drawn—judging by the color, added quite recently. The thickest red line was drawn right beneath the title: Pureblood Subject Disposal Scheme Modification. Richie refrained from reading every word, scanning only the sections highlighted in red ink.

In his heart, he had never doubted Binder’s words, merely harboring a faint shred of wishful thinking. Yet right now he understood completely that he was indeed a “product” produced by that sinister laboratory.

Seeing Richie slowly close the file, Malone spoke in an unhurried tone: “Do you believe it now? All the records are gathered here—the original paper trail—meaning beside us, no one else knows this secret.”

“I’m contemplating whether to silence you to keep the secret,” Richie said casually.

Malone burst into laughter, knowing that since Richie could joke with him, the boy hadn’t taken the secret too harshly to heart.

“You seem remarkably confident regarding your own safety,” Richie wondered why this man could still laugh.

Malone leaned closer, explaining with a smile: “As the saying goes, a biting dog doesn’t bark. You act just like that kind of dog. Back in Glasslovar, you killed plenty of people, yet never spoke of it to others. Now that you’ve opened your mouth, it means you hold zero intention of moving against me.”

“You certainly possess confidence,” Richie said coldly.

“It’s not confidence, but faith in my own judgement,” Malone flattered Richie appropriately: “You’re a fine fellow; everything you’ve done from start to finish was executed brilliantly. After connecting with Espol, you maintained a low profile without acting arrogant like others. As for your deeds in Glasslovar, they prove you aren’t bound by rigid rules. You are precisely the partner I sought.”

“Partner?” Richie felt somewhat astonished, having never anticipated Malone uttering such words.

Turning the thought over in his mind, Richie understood why Malone had accompanied him here alone—clearly Malone held many affairs he wished to keep hidden from his former subordinates.

“Working in the Internal Security Bureau carries one great advantage: knowing many things, and knowing them far earlier than others,” Malone seemed to sigh over something: “When the war began, I already knew the outcome would turn out like this. Not just me—any officer of decent rank in the Internal Security Bureau began transferring family and assets abroad after the first campaign ended. The main reason Hershaw’s men occupied various departments so swiftly was that bureau supervisors held zero interest in competing for power.”

He turned suddenly to smile at Richie: “Pardon my frankness, but I originally harbored identical intentions, even selecting a destination—a military attaché slot at the Ormorr consulate. Yet just at that moment, command tasked me with investigating you, and probing into your background revealed numerous interesting and valuable secrets.”

“What did you see in me?” Richie’s heart rate accelerated involuntarily.

“Plenty…” Malone organized his thoughts, finding it hard to decide where to begin, eventually choosing a direction after a long pause: “You possess talent and immense potential, details others have recognized as well—Lina, Haigert, Trisli, and many others. But what I saw was ambition. Don’t bother denying it…”

Malone held back Richie’s rebuttal: “Your performance before Hani proves nothing. Ambition doesn’t mean wanting to control others openly; some prefer manipulating everything from behind the scenes. Your ambition differs from ordinary ambition: yours stems from fear—numerous affairs escaped your control, making you narrowly survive repeatedly, so you wish to change things. You had your father form that failed association, got your women connected with the two Great Craftsmen, and did business with the Junior Army—all to lay a foundation. Unfortunately you lacked experience and trusted personnel, so everything you constructed resembled a sandcastle built along a shoreline—once the tide surged, everything collapsed.”

Malone offered his commentary while Richie remained silent, speculating on Malone’s underlying motive.

Had Aisha been present right now, it would have been ideal, for that woman excelled most at analyzing hidden implications behind spoken words. She was an expert at reading human minds.

Naturally that was merely a passing thought; Richie would never bring Aisha to a place like this, nor let her hear these words, merely lamenting privately that he lacked Aisha’s talent.

“You’re eyeing my father’s position?” Richie asked, for that was his sole logical deduction.

Malone sensed Richie didn’t care much about the commentary just now, realizing his words hadn’t carried sufficient weight.

In that case, he might as well state something of true weight. Thinking so, Malone let out a soft laugh: “Like you, I prefer manipulating from behind the scenes, holding zero interest in standing on the front stage. Having your father occupy that position is actually quite fitting—he possesses good relations, acts fairly, and treats people politely. Pushing him out as a figurehead is an excellent move.”

Hearing Malone put it like that, Richie understood immediately. This meant using his father as a marionette—appearing grand on the surface while every movement was dictated by handlers behind the scenes.

Such an arrangement sounded unappealing, yet for a man like his father, it was actually quite fitting.

His father lacked grand ambitions, used to being managed by his mother at home, accustomed to being directed, so as long as he looked prominent on the surface, he would feel thoroughly satisfied.

Seeing Richie remain silent, Malone knew Richie had accepted his suggestion, so it was time to apply strong medicine.

“The Republic is finished. What follows is determining how to establish a government-in-exile. The absolute worst possibility is Yarno leading the government-in-exile again—his original administrative team exists ready-made, requiring no new appointments, simply transferring the original lineup. I believe the Alliance nations likewise wish for that outcome, as it fits their interests best. But I refuse to let things end that way.”

Malone’s medicine proved strong indeed, and Richie stared wide-eyed at the man.

“Your target is far too grand, isn’t it!” Richie couldn’t refrain from gasping. He had heard people brag before, but no one had bragged on such a scale, nor with such solemn seriousness.

“I’m not deceiving you; this is genuine truth. I could have moved my family and relatives abroad, yet refrained from doing so, dragging my group members along to gamble with you for this exact goal,” Malone pressed his point relentlessly.

Richie was completely dumbfounded, realizing increasingly that affairs weren’t as simple as he had initially assumed.

“What do you plan to do?” Richie asked—by no means his first time asking a similar question.

“The wanted poster has been signed. Although Hershaw’s men proposed issuing that wanted poster, the person signing it was Yarno, for he remains President. He held numerous ways to avoid signing, yet failed to do so—his greatest blunder. As long as we lock onto that point, he will never be able to clear his name,” Malone sneered repeatedly.

“Are you expecting me to accuse him?” Richie thought little of it, not believing such a minor issue could damage Yarno significantly.

This time Malone’s sneer turned into a cold, sinister chuckle—like wind whistling through a door crack, making one’s body feel chilled.

“The logic is simple: Yarno acts with extreme caution, leaving few handles for enemies, nor can battlefield failures be pinned on him, for everyone knows the Republic’s own strength couldn’t withstand the Alliance’s invasion. Yet this single time, he erred—erred monumentally,” Malone explained.

Richie interrupted him again: “He holds numerous excuses to defend himself—claiming Hershaw forced the issue behind the scenes, leaving him no choice but to sign…”

Malone interrupted Richie in return: “Don’t forget, his subordinates attempted to seize your family’s assets—something known to many. Furthermore, Hershaw will certainly surrender to the Alliance, so Yarno’s signing constitutes collusion. From that point, numerous narratives can be spun—for instance, portraying him and Hershaw as two covert agents working in tandem. Given a little time, I can convince every citizen of the Republic of that narrative. Whether for personal or public reasons, Yarno held every motive to frame you. Killing him means protecting yourself and your family, while eliminating a traitor for the nation.”

Richie stood speechlessly, having to admit this plan possessed a genuine chance of success.

The question was: did he want to execute it?…

Malone paid no mind to Richie, continuing to detail his plan, confident that once Richie understood the entire picture, he would certainly be willing to execute it.

“When Yarno is assassinated by you, his family won’t sit idly by, attempting to press charges against you. Yarno’s subordinates will use the opportunity to select a new representative, claiming you fabricated charges, using the momentum to push for a government-in-exile. That will be the exact moment to push your father forward. The association your father formed includes both locals and foreigners; we can unite the locals to form a political party, using the foreigners to generate momentum. Among citizens fleeing abroad, beside wealthy individuals and celebrities, most are high-level workers, technicians, and designers prized by Alliance nations. With your title as designer of new magitech armor, backed by the two Great Craftsmen and numerous masters, I don’t believe we will lose.”

This time Richie was genuinely terrified, having never imagined Malone’s plan would be so colossal.

“Are you joking?” Richie wished to touch Malone’s forehead to see if the man was running a fever.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Malone smiled internally, having finally stirred the boy up.

“Haha! Having my dad act as leader of a government-in-exile? That joke is far too big!” Richie laughed briefly before shaking his head with a sigh.

Truth be told, he indeed cared about the plan, for it represented what he had desired all along, though taking such a massive leap felt far too drastic. There was hardly anything more absurd than his father acting as supreme leader—a man who had never led anyone in his life, used to being managed even at home.

“I didn’t say your father would act as leader of the government-in-exile,” Malone had to offer clarification; otherwise the plan appeared genuinely absurd: “Once this political party is established, crushing Yarno’s former henchmen, seeing this party command vast support and grand momentum, numerous opportunists will scramble to join. Selecting a few among them to form the government-in-exile will suffice; your father’s seat will only be—and only needs to be—party chairman.”

Party chairman—that seat was formidable enough, yet far more realistic compared to leading a government-in-exile. In Glasslovar there were various political parties, and whenever mayoral elections arrived, party members flooded the streets campaigning for votes—a scene as lively as could be. For ordinary families like his, election periods were the most enjoyable times, for generous parties handed out small gifts that were fun to receive, occasionally yielding free meals.

In his memory, candidates were all dazzling and prominent, whereas party chairmen stood in the front row without drawing special attention.

Richie didn’t bother asking what would happen if his father couldn’t hold onto the seat and got pushed out, confident that since Malone dared propose the plan, he had calculated everything.

The man had stated he preferred manipulating from behind the scenes, so let him worry about future management. Furthermore, even if his father got pushed off the seat, his father wouldn’t care much—having experienced prominence once was reward enough. His father wasn’t power-hungry; his mother loved prestige but was easily satisfied, and entering high society would make her ecstatic. Aunt Ling and his cousin valued vanity, yet cared even more about practical benefits.

Now he was genuinely tempted.

The heavy iron gates of the Internal Security Bureau headquarters shut behind them, the two casually tucking their credentials away, for those items were useless now.

Richie following close behind Malone let out a quiet sigh of relief. Until a moment ago, he hadn’t fully trusted Malone, accompanying him into this grim building precisely to secure those original records.

Before coming here, he had even suspected the entire affair was a trap—including the rescue of his father and cousin—designed to solidify their guilt.

Now he could finally relax completely.

As his mind settled, Richie felt an urge to laugh.

No one would ever imagine that after executing such a monumental crime, they didn’t flee immediately, but strolled casually back to headquarters to report for work—stepping openly into the most dangerous, improbable location.

The credentials were genuine, belonging to Hershaw’s henchmen, selected because of their physical build.

Malone possessed an average build, making finding a replacement relatively easy. Richie was seventeen with a shorter stature, requiring a smaller agent to impersonate, and two agents matching their builds lived together, becoming the unlucky targets. Better yet, those two agents were unremarkable figures who blended easily into crowds, making impersonating them exceptionally safe.

Only after walking through the Internal Security Bureau personally did he comprehend why Malone and Binder claimed the Republic had lost control. From the outside, the bureau appeared heavily guarded with sentry posts everywhere, corridors separated by iron gates requiring credentials at every turn. In reality, carrying fake credentials behind Malone, he had toured virtually the entire headquarters building.

When leaving, Malone used the excuse of investigating yesterday’s case—an entirely logical justification while Hershaw’s men were scrambling. Using that pretext, Malone even requisitioned a dedicated carriage.

The carriage stood waiting at the building entrance.

The moment he sat inside, Richie pulled the file from beneath his cloak. The carriage featured a copper brazier to keep the interior warm during winter. Currently lit with fire, Richie sat by the brazier, feeding the file pages into the flames one by one.

Through the narrow door of the brazier, watching sheets of paper transform into dancing flames and ultimately turn to flying ash, Richie experienced an indescribable feeling inside.

When all original records vanished in the fire, Richie finally breathed a sigh of relief. His unmentionable past had ceased to exist; even if someone suspected his origins in the future, finding proof would be impossible, with no trail to investigate.

Watching Richie urgently destroy the evidence, Malone showed a subtle smile beside him. Once Richie finished burning the pages, he nudged Richie aside to crouch by the brazier. Shaking the brazier gently, he pulled open the ash tray at the bottom.

Inside the ash tray lay unburnt embers and tiny unconsumed fragments of paper. Seeing this, Richie froze in surprise, realizing he had been careless.

Malone picked out the unburnt fragments, tossing them into the fire box until nothing remained, then used an iron poker to stir the ash pile until all ashes blended together completely.

Sitting back in his seat, Malone uttered not a word, having conducted a silent dialogue with Richie just now.

He wanted Richie to realize that with him present, zero oversights would occur. Otherwise he could have stopped Richie from destroying the file initially, for erasing traces after the fact couldn’t match exercising caution from the start.

Malone believed Richie could comprehend his intentions.

The two sat silently in the carriage, sentry posts echoing along the road, yet their carriage bore Internal Security Bureau license plates, so even if stopped, credentials were checked briefly before letting them pass.

The carriage pulled up at the outer warehouse of the Logistics Bureau.

Contrary to the city’s desolation, this place appeared extraordinarily bustling.

The outer warehouse spanned a vast storage complex surrounded by high walls, featuring only two gates—one for entry and one for exit. Lineups of cargo vehicles stretched like long dragons, forcing their carriage to stop far back.

Malone dismissed the carriage.

That move was executed brilliantly: sending the carriage back was entirely logical, for this area experienced heavy congestion twenty-four hours a day, and leaving the carriage parked here risked getting trapped in traffic. Furthermore, vehicles were abundant here, and given Malone’s rank, no driver would refuse him a ride.

Watching the carriage depart into the distance, Richie felt far more relaxed. Once those two unconscious agents woke up, their infiltration into headquarters would be exposed, and tracing the trail would lead straight here.

Richie watched the long lineup of vehicles with amusement; most of these trucks were bound for the front lines without stopping for rest, so tracking the trail would prove an entertaining task for the Internal Security Bureau. After a quiet laugh, Richie felt a chill run down his spine. If previously he had viewed Internal Security Bureau agents with a mix of mystery and fear, now that the veil was lifted, he felt even greater dread. The minds of these bureau elites were terrifyingly sharp, their calculations interlocking seamlessly to trap enemies before they even realized it.

Arriving at the outer warehouse under the pretext of gathering clues, Richie’s father had worked in the Logistics Bureau, making the outer warehouse a frequent destination. Numerous subordinates of Hershaw had explored this angle, so warehouse workers seeing Malone and Richie in Internal Security Bureau uniforms kept their distance, many choosing long detours rather than walking past the two.

For Malone and Richie, being feared was a welcome asset. The two crossed the busiest zone, walking toward a quieter section.

The quietest section of the outer warehouse sat in the northeast corner—the discarded goods depot, where damaged or damp uniforms, moldy rations, and decommissioned vehicles were stacked.

This location represented their destination.

All decommissioned vehicles had been stripped down into individual components, categorized and stored neatly. Stood in a mountain-like pile, the vehicle frames were covered beneath a massive tarpaulin. Beside them sat a dozen iron drums filled with removed axles, submerged in engine oil to prevent rust.

“Truly wealthy and lavish—these items could easily be used after minor repairs,” Richie commented from the side.

“Did your father tell you about this place?” Malone inspected even more carefully than Richie, pulling an axle from an iron drum to examine it. The ends showed minor wear, yet remained functional; considering these vehicles ran between the front lines and rear daily, decommissioning them wasn’t unreasonable.

Naturally those words couldn’t be said in front of Richie. Malone understood clearly that Richie and his father were accustomed to frugal living where every penny was calculated meticulously.

Yet such people were useful in their own right, for Malone admitted he would never have contemplated re-using these discarded components.

He walked swiftly around the corner.

For an outer warehouse, this corner spanned an area larger than two athletic fields.

Estimating briefly, Malone calculated that reassembling all these decommissioned vehicles would yield five to six hundred trucks. Most were heavy supply trucks with iron frameworks encased in hardwood and thick rubber rings around the wheels—sturdy and lightweight, capable of being pulled by horses or fitted with power engines. The cargo beds were spacious enough to hold forty or fifty adults without issue.

“I thought evacuating so many family members would be a tedious affair, but it turns out to be remarkably simple!” Malone made clicking sounds with his tongue continuously.

He felt as though he had suffered a loss; had he known this earlier, he would have brought along more relatives, for who lacked friends and family? Unfortunately it was too late now, as their remaining relatives were certainly under surveillance.

Looking at this corner of discarded supplies, the two gained greater confidence in the future. Right now no one valued these items, but in the near future, people would scramble for them.

During wartime, whoever commanded sufficient supplies held the deciding voice. Malone’s mind was exceptionally sharp; having failed to see this previously, he now pondered how to secure as much of these supplies as possible before others reacted.

Malone’s understanding of such matters surpassed Richie’s. He knew clearly that by offering small bribes or promising future favors, many officials would decommission perfectly functional supplies under minor pretexts, allowing them to be acquired easily under the name of clearing trash.

He immediately calculated how to execute the plan.

Working in the Investigation Division made him thoroughly familiar with bribery, corruption, and networking. Knowing officials across every department, a checklist alongside a rough plan formed in his mind within moments.

Yet executing anything required paying a price, and he lacked funds.

Leaning against the perimeter wall, Malone stroked his chin in thought.

Spending years in the Internal Security Bureau, observing various political transactions, he understood clearly that accomplishing anything relied on three paths: using money, wielding power, or leveraging external influence.

Money he lacked; power he temporarily lacked; the sole remaining path was leveraging external influence.

What influence could be leveraged? Malone rubbed his chin back and forth, turning the skin red.

“Are you leaving? Those two fools we knocked out might have woken up by now,” Richie walked over to pat Malone.

“Sure, I’ve been wanting to leave for a while,” Malone spoke contrary to his thoughts.

“I’ll take you to Queen’s Avenue, and we part ways there,” Richie said, for his group was hiding in a different location.

Richie hadn’t gathered the two groups together—partly out of inconvenience, and partly because he still harbored mild reservations toward Malone. Furthermore, putting all eggs in one basket was far too dangerous.

The sanctuary where Malone’s group hid was another hiding spot meticulously prepared by the women. Malone’s group possessed their own secret hideouts, but worried those hideouts were unsecure.

“I understand. Your sweet sanctuary is something you’d never share with us, nor do I plan to go. Staying with so many beautiful women is something only you can handle; ordinary men like us would enter alive and come out dead,” Malone teased, slapping Richie’s back forcefully while muttering: “You insatiable stallion, you cheating philanderer stepping on hundreds of boats.”

Malone laughed after muttering, finding the nickname “stallion” fitting for Richie. A donkey was small in build, yet its manhood was terrifyingly large, far exceeding a horse’s. The more he thought, the funnier it seemed, his laughter growing boisterous.

Suddenly his laughter snapped shut, as if someone had slit his throat in an instant—an extraordinarily eerie sensation.

Even eerier was Malone’s face, displaying a mix of delight, realization, and a touch of wild ambition.

Richie was startled, scanning the surroundings hastily before breathing a sigh of relief. Zero suspicious signs existed nearby; let alone pursuers, not even a single worker could be seen.

“What’s with that reaction? You scared me to death,” Richie complained.

“Nothing, nothing! Just remembered something suddenly,” Malone’s face returned to normal, his spirits noticeably higher than before.

Just now he had realized the exact “external influence” he could leverage.

Right now, no one possessed certainty regarding the future. Those preparing to flee abroad feared the Alliance might ultimately fail, while those planning to surrender to the Norman Alliance worried the Alliance might lose. If possible, many wished to keep a foot in both camps.

If he posed as an Alliance agent, threatening those preparing to flee abroad to grant a “minor favor” by exercising their waning authority, they wouldn’t refuse. Conversely, posing as an Alliance agent to intimidate surrender factions while promising safety if the Alliance won would yield enthusiastic cooperation.

His rough plan was gradually becoming refined.

Parting ways at Queen’s Avenue, Richie returned directly to that warm, vibrant underground tunnel.

The moment he stepped into the tunnel, his manhood stood erect instantly, for his vision was filled with voluptuous buttocks and bare breasts.

The women’s former attire had been casual, and with the tunnel temperature warm and muggy, they wore minimal clothing.

Minimal didn’t mean sheer exposure; previously they had kept their bodies covered. But now, some wore low-cut tops, while others wore thongs, exposing pale buttocks.

Richie was no stranger to such attire. Back when Aunt Ling brought a trunk of such clothes to his house, he still remembered Aunt Ling, his mother, and his cousin wearing those provocative garments while chatting about female topics inside the bedroom.

Yet while Aunt Ling, his mother, and his cousin had worn subtle designs that hinted rather than exposed, the women before him possessed zero reservations, wearing the most provocative designs possible in uninhibited seduction.

Richie steeled his heart, walking toward the far end of the tunnel. He liked women, but what he truly enjoyed was the feeling of conquering them; now the roles were completely reversed, these women’s eyes burning with desire as if wanting to devour him, which proved far less enjoyable.

Across a short stretch of a few hundred meters, he felt walking was an arduous effort. As he passed, numerous women crowded around to rub against him, their hands exploring his body. The most popular target was his erect manhood; though separated by trousers, being touched by so many soft hands made the object almost burst through his pants.

With great effort he reached the end of the tunnel, seeing Ariana leaning against a bed with a smile, while Monica and Carmen approached from both sides, each placing a hand on Richie’s buttocks while gripping his manhood with the other.

“What’s going on? Was aphrodisiac mixed into lunch?” Richie asked Audrey in surprise, for among everyone, only Audrey looked normal.

“This IS an aphrodisiac—the finest aphrodisiac,” Aisha approached with a cat-like gait. She no longer wore the transparent silk shirt, having changed into a form-fitting silk robe that highlighted her graceful figure.

After seeing so much explicit exposure, this elegant yet alluring attire made Richie’s eyes brighten, though he soon noticed Monica and Carmen looked equally transformed.

Monica dressed simply: a leopard skin wrapped around her waist, complemented by a necklace strung with sharp teeth and claws across her chest. Though wearing little, she gave off an impression not of lust, but of wild, primitive beauty.

As for Carmen’s attire, it startled Richie even more: a red long-sleeved open-collar formal blazer on top, a black pencil skirt below, paired with narrow black-rimmed glasses—looking identical to his former class advisor. Yet beneath this attire that made him uncomfortable, she wore nothing at all, her pale skin visible through the open collar.

Richie swallowed his saliva involuntarily; this was far too tempting to crime.

“What is going on here?” Richie shouted: “Give me an explanation first!” Other women wished to tease Richie further, but fortunately Aisha monitored Richie’s expressions constantly. Seeing Richie’s brows knit tight, she realized playing further was dangerous, for provoking this formidable “boy” would yield zero good outcomes.

“Alright, alright! The women who fainted from your thrusts that day woke up to find themselves drenched in foul sweat, with dark spots like black mold on their skin. At first everyone felt terrified, but checking their bodies revealed an extraordinary sensation—especially Ariana and several others who held old injuries. Previously, after intense lovemaking, their waists felt broken upon waking, and rainy days or temperature shifts triggered severe pain. Yet this time, not only did that pain vanish, but their physical health improved significantly.” Aisha suddenly assumed a sweet, pouting expression, speaking with regretful pity: “Had I known earlier, I wouldn’t have played smart tricks that day! In the end you thrust me all night long, leaving me exhausted without reaping those health benefits.” She began pouting, unbuttoning Richie’s trousers while saying: “I don’t care, I don’t care! You must treat me the exact same way once!”

What Aisha said afterward went completely unheard by Richie. He stood frozen in place, allowing Aisha to unbutton his trousers and cup his manhood in her hands, his mind filled entirely with her previous words.

Healing physical ailments naturally wasn’t caused by lovemaking; that day, feeling guilty, he had inspected every woman after the session, injecting a thread of Aura into their bodies during the inspection.

He had assumed Aura injected into ordinary bodies dissipated completely, for when making love with Emily and the girls, he frequently injected Aura into their bodies—especially Jinny’s mother, Kristina, his most cherished partner, whose body had been thoroughly cleansed by Aura without showing such dramatic reactions.

Could it be due to extracting Yin Energy?

Richie could only deduce so. On Emily and the girls, he had never dared extract their Yin Energy, unsure of the potential harm. On Kristina and the others he had tested it, but their vital energy had been depleted long ago, yielding minimal Yin Energy, and he hadn’t dared extract aggressively.

Must all Yin Energy be completely extracted before Aura can fill the void?

This recalled how his mother prepared cured fish: buying fresh fish, salting them to draw out all internal moisture, before submerging them in marinade to let the marinade penetrate deep into the flesh.

Mere speculation served no purpose; testing was required to yield answers. Richie scooped Aisha up in his arms, pressing her roughly onto a nearby military cot.

Flicking the hem of her silk robe aside, she indeed wore zero underwear, her entrance wet with fluid that trailed down her thigh.

“The tide was flowing long ago!” Richie slapped Aisha’s buttocks forcefully, his hand landing with a loud thud that left a clear palm print. “Ah… it hurts!” Aisha screamed.

In that instant, Richie exerted force with his waist, plunging his massive shaft deep inside.

Executing this maneuver had grown increasingly proficient, his control over his manhood sharpening steadily. That day, making love to so many women in a daze, he had discovered a secret trick: using a thread of Aura to thrust straight into the cervix in a single stroke.

Aisha let out another sharp cry, unable to utter another sound afterward. Her body stiffened instantly, her hands gripping the mattress tightly.

Now she believed Ariana’s description that “enduring hellish torture inside heaven” wasn’t an exaggeration at all, for she experienced that exact sensation right now. She even felt Ariana had omitted one detail: inside this terrifying heaven, “time” passed agonizingly slowly.

When watching Ariana and the others collapse previously, Monica had endured the longest—yet under fifteen minutes—while others collapsed within five or six minutes before fainting. Yet right now she felt as though hours had passed.

Aisha felt time drag on, though barely four minutes had elapsed. Her body was relatively delicate, having never encountered a fierce partner, naturally lacking stamina.

Her tense muscles gradually gave way, turning limp—the first to go being her slender thighs, twitching uncontrollably.

As her legs relaxed, her waist followed suit, swaying up and down with increasing amplitude and slowing speed. Suddenly her entire body shuddered, collapsing completely as a wave of fluid gushed from between her legs, soaking the edge of the cot.

Previously, Richie would have withdrawn to find another woman, but this time he refrained. After stroking Aisha’s smooth buttocks, his finger pressed against her tailbone, slowly injecting a thread of Aura into her body while guiding it to circulate through her channels.

With deliberate intent and a larger injection of Aura, a single circuit revealed noticeable differences.

His Aura indeed dissipated, yet rather than vanishing, it dissolved into Aisha’s body. Injecting another thread of Aura, having gained experience, his observation proved far more precise.

Sure enough, as the Aura dissipated, the areas absorbing the most Aura aligned with Aisha’s sensitive points. Once Aura vanished there, local life energy underwent abnormal shifts, gradually spreading to internal organs.

What astonished Richie even more was that different sensitive points influenced specific internal organs without cross-interference.

Suddenly he recalled reading a book previously that mentioned interesting hypotheses matching the current phenomenon perfectly.

Unfortunately he couldn’t recall the book’s title, remembering only that the hypothesis posited the human body, like the universe, was composed of Water, Wind, Earth, and Fire. Back then he had skipped that section, for the four-element theory was an ancient hypothesis formed before humans understood the world properly, and even schoolchildren knew cosmic composition was far more complex.

Yet right now Richie felt somewhat bewildered, recalling another detail: Aura attributes comprised primarily Water, Wind, Earth, and Fire, while Ice and Frost were derivative branches—a truth holding for thousands of years.

If ancient understanding were entirely wrong, why had no new Aura system ever emerged?

Richie felt utterly confused, unsure whether human understanding of the world had taken a wrong turn, or whether knights had fallen behind the world’s pace—perhaps both.

Richie’s hands kneaded Aisha’s body with force, carrying Aura that penetrated her flesh to stimulate those sensitive points.

As time elapsed, Aisha showed unusual reactions; though unconscious, her body responded to the stimulation.

Where Richie’s hands kneaded, surrounding muscles twitched subtly, skin flushing red, while her vagina and anus contracted rhythmically, secreting abundant fluid. In intense reactions, her entire body flushed crimson, pores opening as sweat beads emerged.

Richie gradually discovered the technique, memories buried deep in his mind emerging piece by piece.

Knights learned not only how to kill, but also battlefield emergency first aid. Aura could be used for first aid—less effective than a Psion’s mental healing, but crucial on battlefields lacking Psions.

Aura healing techniques were relatively crude—comprising hemostasis, pain relief, numbing, clearing blood channels, protecting cardiac channels, and forced cardiac stimulation—taught in one or two classes.

He understood Aura healing better than ordinary knights because among books Trisli recommended, one was Sword Saint Robert Obaro’s Hermitage Records written seven centuries ago, whose Addenda Chapter detailed Aura healing techniques—that Sword Saint being likely the sole master who devoted effort to studying healing techniques.

Back then he hadn’t paid close attention, reading carefully merely because the author was a renowned Sword Saint, storing it in his memory. Reflecting on it now, numerous techniques inside were well worth testing.

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