Shield of the Rose

Inside the pitch-black underground tunnel, squeaking shrieks echoed everywhere—a domain belonging to rats. Yet today, this “quiet and peaceful” kingdom welcomed a frantic killer.

Glacial beams of light flashed out of nowhere, each beam consisting of five neat slash marks that resembled beast claws, yet carrying an indescribable aesthetic grace.

The rats naturally held zero appreciation for such beauty; to them, it represented an absolute nightmare. With every flash of light, a companion was sliced cleanly into several strips.

Those glacial slashes were sharper than razor blades; let alone fragile rats, even the steel pipes, iron racks, and concrete blocks cluttering the tunnel were left with paper-thin slice marks.

The glacial light flashed faster and faster, and the squeaking shrieks grew fewer. Eventually, the surviving rats learned to be smart, emitting zero sound while fleeing headlong or scrambling into corner crevices.

Yet that trick held zero utility against Richie. The tunnel spanned barely six meters wide, completely encompassed within his “Field”—wherever rats hid, regardless of light, he could “see” them clearly.

Hiding inside wall cracks proved equally useless. Beside “Gale Sever” and “Shadow Tear” derived from “Half-Moon Cup”, he possessed another move named “Soul Shatter”, evolved from standard vibration attacks.

Back when he traded with Tidi for her family’s secret techniques “Nine-Transformation Gale” and “Ten-Ring Drizzle”, and retrieved similar manuals from the Librarian Uncle, he had been pondering how to blend them together into a unique martial system of his own.

During the days when Trisli beat him into a pig’s head, he had uncovered several clues, lacking only the time to study them in depth. Now he finally possessed the leisure.

He had lived inside this tunnel for over two months. Beside visiting his father every few days to inquire after their health, he spent most of his time biding deep underground. Initially, surrounded by so many women chatting softly, he would pull a woman into bed whenever desire struck, or lie down to let them pamper him with endless imaginative tricks, enjoying a thoroughly indulgent lifestyle. Yet as time dragged on, such an absurd lifestyle brought a sense of satiety.

Fortunately, beside making love, he could pass the time refining his martial techniques.

With a casual palm strike delivering “Soul Shatter”, a wave of vibration rippled through the air, followed by a squeak behind a concrete pipe—a rat’s death shriek before impact.

Richie held zero interest in inspecting rat corpses, for rats struck by “Soul Shatter” burst apart from within, dying gruesome deaths.

Pacing back and forth across the hundred-meter tunnel section, Richie confirmed zero surviving rats remained. He paused, pressing a button on a recorder device.

He had always felt a subtle deficiency in his execution, yet could identify nothing through intuition alone. Thus he had taken a risk to slip outside, procuring a recorder device.

Replaying every movement in slow motion, Richie focused not on the movements themselves, but on the row of charts beneath the screen.

He switched continuously between these charts—dozens in total, each representing a crucial dataset.

To different people, these datasets carried different meanings.

An armor designer could evaluate armor performance, while a knight could assess the pilot’s true operational strength.

Replaying the entire sequence from start to finish, Richie knit his brows. From the data, he still failed to spot any deficiency. His newly created martial technique was by no means weak: beside moderate attack power values, all other metrics were impressive—especially attack continuity and output consistency, paired with astonishingly high Aura efficiency. Among formal members of Squad 105, not a single person could match him in Aura efficiency.

Naturally, Richie never attempted to compare himself against their sole off-payroll member: Trisli’s divine art harnessed external atmospheric energy directly, achieving theoretical Aura efficiency over one hundred percent—a truly monstrous existence.

After studying for half a day without discovering what was missing, Richie wondered if it were merely his own misconception.

The recorder continued replaying his movements, restoring the charts to default settings.

This recorder had originally belonged to a research institute Richie knew well, where equipment management was exceptionally slack, allowing him to sneak inside to pilfer the device. Thus the charts displayed parameters related entirely to magitech armor.

Modified using technology Espol spent a lifetime researching, and tuned personally by Yiluo, this suit indeed possessed astonishing performance—especially in operational responsiveness and movement precision, far surpassing standard Yaksha models. Yet ultra-light armor inevitably inherited innate deficiencies.

Several dark red lines on the chart made Richie’s expression turn increasingly grave.

Different colors represented gaps compared to peer armor models: yellow indicated far superior, green indicated superior with narrow margins, while dark red indicated severe deficiencies.

Those dark red lines represented defensive durability, power output, structural tolerance, and maximum load capacity.

In short, it was insufficiently sturdy—like paper, tearing upon impact.

Switching to a standard suit would solve the problem instantly—a thought popped into Richie’s mind.

Yet the thought vanished the moment it arose. Switching suits would eliminate those flaws, but overall performance metrics could never look so beautiful.

Just at that moment, another thought surfaced from deep within his heart.

Vajra—the strongest defensive divine art, and equally the most comprehensive. Once mastered, all deficiencies would vanish instantly.

Richie let out a sudden bitter smile. If Vajra were easy to master, it wouldn’t be a divine art.

Anyone with minor connections could procure divine art manuals, and countless people had attempted practicing them throughout history. Yet those who mastered basic fundamentals were few, those reaching minor mastery were rare as phoenix feathers, while those reaching grand mastery could be counted on one hand.

Among all divine arts, Vajra was the hardest to practice—a terrifying art where failure meant becoming a complete invalid. Without a firm mind and absolute resolve to burn all retreats, one lacked qualification to attempt it.

Yet Vajra was also the easiest to master once fundamentals were grasped. Though few mastered the basics, almost all who did reached minor mastery, and thirty percent achieved grand mastery.

Those achieving grand mastery in Vajra outnumbered all grand masters of the remaining sixteen divine arts combined.

Richie had long obtained Vajra’s manual from the Librarian Uncle, along with notes from past grand masters.

Claiming he felt un-tempted was impossible, yet Richie understood himself well: he wasn’t a man of unyielding resolve, holding far too many attachments to abandon. Forcing him into such a high-stakes gamble was something he would never accept.

Thus that path was equally blocked.

With a quiet sigh, Richie turned off the recorder, walking to the middle section of the tunnel.

A sewer pipe outlet sat there, currently covered by a stone slab. Richie kicked the slab aside with his foot.

This sewer connected to the entire underground network of Peines, housing countless rats. When he returned tomorrow, this tunnel section would be packed with rats once more.

Stuffing to attract rats was abundant here—shredded meat across the floor represented the most irresistible bait for rats.

Stepping out of the tunnel section, closing the iron door behind him, Richie leapt into the air.

The instant he left the ground, fierce Aura erupted across the armor’s surface.

Grime clinging to the suit was blasted away by the surging Aura, restoring the gray, spiderweb-draped Yaksha to pristine cleanliness as if washed in water.

That tunnel section functioned essentially as a trash room. When the women cleared this secret passage initially, they discovered vast trash. Dumping it outside risked drawing suspicion, so they sealed one end of a side passage, installed an iron door at the other, and used it as a trash room.

Discovering such a training spot was an unexpected delight.

Returning to their hideout, Richie stripped off his armor, standing completely naked.

The tunnel was quiet, smelling of post-coital warmth—a scent growing heavier over the past two months.

Packing the armor back into its backpack state, Richie walked to the far end of the tunnel.

Ariana and the others lay lazily on their cots, finally sitting up upon seeing Richie approach.

To Richie’s surprise, Milia was actually present as well.

Milia didn’t reside with the group, maintaining a separate hideout, visiting only when intelligence was gathered. Toward this woman, Richie held mild respect—with both gang bosses and police searching for them, she could still wander around freely.

Respect aside, he disliked dealing with her, for she belonged to Robin’s faction, viewing him as an enemy.

As before, Milia turned her face away, refusing to look at him.

That was understandable, for Richie wore zero clothes, his manhood standing erect as if saluting the room.

Richie’s personality resembled Milia’s in holding a stubborn streak. Seeing Milia’s disgusted expression, he felt an urge to show off right in front of her.

He pulled Carmen into his arms, sitting down beside Mitty—the 6th sister—while casting a glance at Aisha.

Among the women in the hideout, he cared most about these three. Toward their eldest sister Ariana, he sensed she acted far too formidable, while toward Audrey, he felt embarrassed to move against her.

Carmen still wore her teacher’s attire—the exact clothes from her days as a middle school teacher. Initially Richie held a neutral impression of her, but after learning her past, he had grown fond of her.

Whether out of sympathy or unresolved resentment toward former teachers, Richie enjoyed making love with Carmen, pushing her to intense peaks every single time.

Flicking the skirt of Carmen’s dress up to her waist, Richie held her atop his lap, plunging his massive shaft into her body while his hands pressed and tapped her body in rhythmic patterns.

This was a new technique he had tested on these women recently, named the “Soul-Melting Touch”—capable of bringing women to rapid climaxes using his hands alone.

Yet its strongest feature was aphrodisiac stimulation. Testing it on Audrey with a few taps, the young woman’s cheeks flushed crimson while her entrance overflowed with fluid, almost making Richie devour her whole.

Aisha and Mitty knew Richie was competing with Milia, coming over hastily to share the load.

Among the sisters, Mitty possessed the most distant personality, resembling Nora. Though called Seven Sisters, she was close only to Carmen, stepping up only when Carmen needed help.

Mitty knelt beneath Richie’s groin, taking both his testicles into her mouth, while her hands reached behind his buttocks to trace his entrance and perineum with her fingertips.

Among these women, Mitty was the sole woman who could inspire genuine physical sensations in Richie, though relying not on sexual technique.

Like Jinny, Sophie, and Emily, Mitty was an awakened Psion, possessing abilities akin to a bat—emitting imperceptible sound waves to “see” surroundings via sound reflection.

Locating this hidden sanctuary had relied entirely on her and Carmen. Carmen retrieved historical maps and sewer designs, yet design blueprints never matched actual conditions perfectly, so tracing the abandoned main sewer had relied on Mitty’s ability.

Currently Richie’s testicles experienced a “baptism” of imperceptible sound waves—an indescribably marvelous sensation that made Richie hum softly, though his voice was swallowed by Carmen’s sweet moans.

“I didn’t come here to watch your performance!” Milia shouted with a flushed face. She was a normal woman, and despite disliking intimacy, she wasn’t frigid like Monica. Watching an intimate session at close range—one man against three women—while smelling semen, fluids, and sweat, she naturally reacted.

“If you have business, state it,” Richie cast a glance at Milia.

Milia felt both furious and helpless, stomping her foot before sitting on a nearby cot, glaring at the three making love while saying coldly: “Yarno has stepped down. This morning Hershaw formally assumed the Presidency, issuing his first order to halt hostilities and dispatching negotiation delegates to the Alliance.”

Though anticipating it, hearing the news suddenly still made Richie feel uncomfortable inside, though his face displayed zero emotion.

The women remained silent as well; politics felt far too distant for them, and hardliners versus surrender factions made zero difference.

Perhaps only three women cared: Ariana, who had to plan for so many sisters; Audrey, a university student sensitive to current affairs, though her harsh background made her cautious; and Carmen, who was currently enduring an intense session atop Richie’s lap, hearing nothing at all.

“It’s about time for us to depart,” Richie stopped teasing Carmen, letting her lie atop his chest while pondering quietly.

No one interrupted him, for he had stated long ago that the day Yarno fell from power would be the day everyone departed the Republic.

As for rationale, he had explained previously—omitting the assassination plan—stating Hershaw’s rise meant local security would crumble, while peace talks would trigger a massive wave of refugees. Moving alongside that refugee wave ensured a large group like theirs wouldn’t draw attention.

“How are the citizens reacting?” Richie turned to ask Milia.

“Fleeing began yesterday,” Milia answered: “Mostly officials, moving rapidly, many carriages holding a single person without luggage on the roof.”

“Naturally,” Richie said calmly. Those officials had certainly sent their families abroad long ago, likely transferring assets as well, so leaving required only a small suitcase carried on person.

Richie felt he should begin moving as well, stopping his actions on Carmen, for making her unable to walk right now wasn’t wise.

“The massive refugee wave will likely begin in three days. Everyone rest well,” Richie patted Mitty’s cheek, signaling her to stop.

“With you around, they can’t rest well even if they want to,” Milia poked at Richie, while Audrey nudged her from the side.

“Relax. Over the next three days, I’ll be exceedingly busy,” Richie lifted Carmen onto Mitty’s lap, standing up to walk toward the other end without looking back. After a few steps he paused: “Over these days, you’d better refrain from wandering outside; otherwise if we can’t find you at departure, it’ll delay everyone.”

Milia naturally resisted, for staying here meant watching explicit sessions daily—and intense ones at that. She couldn’t imagine how Audrey survived every day, nor how Audrey hadn’t been devoured.

Nor was Milia confident Richie would spare her; Audrey preserved her purity because she had known the boy early with prior friendship, and perhaps because she was a university student.

Looking at herself, Milia possessed zero such advantages—holding no prior friendship, and acting merely as a thief.

Yet just as Milia prepared to refuse, Audrey covered her mouth from the side. Nor was Audrey alone; Mitty placing Carmen onto the bed stepped between her and Richie.

Once Richie left the tunnel, the women breathed a sigh of relief.

“Relax, if you refuse, he won’t force you,” Audrey hugged Milia’s shoulders, speaking on Richie’s behalf.

“Indeed! He isn’t as bad as you imagine, nor can he be called purely lustful. Truly lustful men—haven’t we seen plenty? Grabbing any attractive woman they see—have we seen few such men?” Aisha approached as well, her voice soft yet carrying weight: “He acts uninhibited when playing, but what boy his age doesn’t? Mostly overflowing energy paired with greedy appetite.”

Milia looked at Aisha; her bond with Monica ran deep, while her bond with others proved distant—especially Aisha, whose personality stood opposite to hers.

She said no more, reaching out to pinch Aisha’s buttocks. Aisha’s buttocks felt like a sponge, deforming under the pinch before springing back, leaving a clear handprint behind.

“Your body is completely depleted,” Milia said coldly, standing up to walk beside Monica, pinching Monica’s buttocks as well. Compared to Aisha, Monica’s skin felt firmer and more elastic, leaving no handprint, though identical elsewhere: “You too—all of you.”

“That proves nothing,” Monica laughed without care, pulling Milia over: “Try breaking free from my grip?”

The two had played together since childhood, frequently doing such things, and Milia exerted force to break free.

To her surprise, unlike her expectations where Monica’s grip would slip, several thrusts failed to break free, her grip tightening instead.

Having played together for years, both understood each other’s strength; Monica had been stronger, but the gap had been narrow—definitely not this forceful.

“See that?” Monica released Milia: “Transforming like this is indeed strange.” She pressed her own buttocks, deformation occurring immediately, and smiled: “But claiming our bodies are depleted because of this seems unnecessary. I know only one thing: that boy uses our bodies for martial training, which means he can’t be called purely lustful.”

“Could there be zero harm?” Milia pinched Monica’s body in astonishment, the soft texture feeling like cotton or a balloon.

Monica didn’t know how to answer, looking at their eldest sister.

Ariana smiled, pointing at Aisha: “Youngest, show your trick.”

“Why me?” Aisha stood up reluctantly, grabbing the bed frame rail to flip her body upward.

Her pale long legs swayed in mid-air, her entrance gleaming with moisture.

With a flip, Aisha landed back on her feet atop the rail, expanding her arms smoothly. Her movement appeared exceptionally light, her legs taut and powerful.

Without explanation, Milia understood their sister’s point. Aisha had practiced dance to maintain a slender figure and elegant posture, yet high-difficulty maneuvers like this were impossible previously, requiring not just skill, but immense strength.

“It’s not entirely positive,” Ariana sighed, looking at the others: “Have you noticed that if three days pass without getting thrust by that boy, an intense itch develops below?”

“Yes!” Monica shouted first. Among the seven, she was less favored by Richie, so she had experienced that sensation. Recalling that deep, unbearable itch made her heart shudder.

“Could it be a venereal disease?” Aisha’s face turned pale; to Monica and the others, venereal infections were routine affairs treated with wash solutions, but she felt terrified.

“Relax, it’s not that,” Monica dismissed the thought; if it were a routine infection, she wouldn’t care in the slightest.

“I’m actually not certain,” Ariana hesitated slightly: “Just a intuition—it resembles legendary aphrodisiac toxins.”

“Aphrodisiac toxins?” Whispers echoed across the tunnel.

How could women in this trade have never heard of such things? Aphrodisiac toxins were legendary substances used to control women—once infected, even the most independent woman became bound to a single man, obeying his every whim.

“What do we do after departing? Escaping past the border takes a week at minimum, let alone settling down,” Monica recalled that unbearable sensation, raising the immediate concern.

Nor was Monica alone; most women had been neglected by Richie for days, assuming the discomfort stemmed from watching others without realizing it linked to legendary toxins.

No one could provide an answer, and all the women sank into troubled thought.

At the same old building, within the exact same shadows, Richie reconnected his private communication channel.

Over these two months, he contacted Randy once every week, trusting Squad 105 above all others.

Their group had indeed acted uninhibited—executing a monumental crime without fleeing, wandering freely outside. Truth be told, this stemmed from the current political chaos, where no one possessed heart to work, while high-level power struggles created friction across all departments, keeping them safe.

A soft “beep” pulled Richie back from his thoughts as the channel connected.

Randy’s voice came through: “Have you received news? Hershaw formally assumed power.”

“I know,” Richie guessed they would contact him upon receiving the news, which was why Randy spoke so directly.

“I remember you mentioned that when Hershaw assumes power, it’ll be time for you to leave Monstoke,” Randy’s voice carried a note of sadness.

“What are your plans? Waiting for peace talks?” Richie asked.

Ever since that incident, Squad 105 had remained in Peines without being dispatched to the front—whether out of protection or distrust remained unclear.

Squad 105 didn’t care, spending their days refining their skills, but now a decision on departure had to be made.

Anticipating Richie’s question, Randy answered directly: “We are being transferred soon—exact location unknown, but definitely the northern border.”

Richie understood immediately: this was a strategic retreat.

“Another detail: Haigert has pulled back as well. After minor rest, his corps will head north too,” Randy shared another good news.

Hearing Haigert was heading north, Richie’s mind settled completely. Over the past two months of weekly contacts with Randy, Haigert’s news had come up frequently.

Since becoming corps commander, Haigert had proceeded smoothly—aided by commanding an assault corps capable of harassing supply lines. Twenty days ago, Varedin forces attempted a grand flanking maneuver like the first campaign, but Haigert’s assault corps operating across wide ranges accidentally destroyed a secret Varedin supply depot, discovering assembly signs and terminating the operation before it began.

Richie even suspected whether the Alliance accelerating diplomatic pressure to force Yarno out linked to that failed operation.

Earning such monumental credit, Haigert would likely gain another promotion upon return.

“I almost forgot—you must have business contacting me. Do you need help on your end?” Randy spoke with mild apology.

Richie thought for a moment, deciding to contact Lina directly, though the Junior Army would gladly help: “Is Lina there?” he asked.

After rustling sounds, Lina’s voice replaced Randy’s: “What do you need me for?” Lina spoke with mild irritation, still angry over Richie’s previous independent actions.

“In a few days, a massive refugee wave will flee outside. I have people who wish to leave as well. Are there units being transferred north soon? I wish to travel alongside them,” Richie actually wished to travel with Squad 105, but worried Hershaw’s agents still monitored the squad.

Silence fell on the line as Lina pondered. Her connections were extensive, but finding a fitting route on short notice wasn’t easy.

“How many carriages do you need arranged?” Lina decided to confirm numbers first before checking connections.

“No need for help on carriages; I have everything prepared,” Richie felt proud of this detail. Over these two months while he refined skills, Malone’s group had been busy issuing threats, resulting in a surge of decommissioned vehicles and supplies.

In peacetime, this would constitute a major crime, but under current conditions, bringing supplies along was far better than leaving them for the Alliance, so no one cared.

“Can you help me recruit workers? Preferably experienced in carriage depots or ironworks. My vehicles are disassembled into parts, requiring assembly,” Richie decided to reveal more details: “Recruit as many as possible—I have over a thousand vehicles and vast supplies to bring along if possible.”

Lina was indeed startled. Knowing Richie’s background and knowing he had only contacted them over two months, procuring a thousand vehicles silently was astonishing.

Yet hearing the second half, she guessed the source of those vehicles.

Richie’s habit of finding treasures among discarded items had spread within their inner circle.

Knight Headquarters’ storage room—rarely visited in a year—had been frequented recently, an obvious result of his influence.

Though guessing the truth, Lina didn’t expose it.

“You have that many people to send out?” Lina asked.

“Not that many—under four hundred people in total. You can manage the remaining vehicles as a charitable deed,” Richie decided to hand the matter to Lina. Those were heavy six-wheeled transport trucks; packed tightly, they could transport tens of thousands of people. If some walked alongside while carrying elderly, women, and children on board, moving during the day and resting at night, even more people could be evacuated.

Whoever accomplished such a deed would be remembered forever.

Such a grand opportunity was something Richie would only offer to those he cared about most.

Lina guessed Richie’s intention, falling into silence. She cared little for minor fame, but knowing someone held her in mind made her heart feel warm.

Agreeing on a response time with Lina, Richie left the building.

Packing his armor back into a backpack, he walked toward the hideout of Malone and his father.

News from the morning had spread, with people gathering on street corners whispering. Food shops were most crowded, surrounded by people. Heavy trucks normally barred from urban districts drove openly on avenues. Everyone was preparing to leave the city, or even the country.

Scenes prior to the great evacuation of Glasslovar re-appeared here.

Perhaps because he wasn’t born here, or because he had witnessed many farewells, he felt none of the former sadness or melancholy.

Turning a corner, Richie spotted police officers standing ahead, ducking into a side alley immediately. Unwrapping the cloth cover, he stood ready to deploy his armor.

At that moment, slogans echoed from afar.

“Resist the surrender faction taking power! We will never surrender!”

“Resist humiliating negotiations! We will fight to the end!”

Slogans echoed from two or three blocks away, audible only to a knight with superior hearing like Richie.

This wasn’t Richie’s first time seeing protests; compared to the grand protest of hundreds of thousands packing city plazas, the current momentum was far smaller—barely a few hundred people by his guess.

Knowing it didn’t concern him, he let out a sigh of relief, re-wrapping his armor.

The protest march moved slowly, passing the intersection fifteen minutes later—mostly young university students.

Once the march passed, police officers dispersed. To Richie’s astonishment, three officers ducked into a shop, emerging in civilian clothes while cradling large sacks of purchased food. Clearly, those three officers had decided to flee the city as well.

Richie realized fleeing refugees would far exceed initial estimates; previously he and Malone assumed most citizens would stay, for poor people predominated. Yet now even poor citizens planned to flee, likely driven by recent Varedin atrocities.

Richie couldn’t comprehend why Varedin forces contained so many rabid individuals committing violence for violence’s sake. Yet claiming all Varedins were madmen was inaccurate—the honor knight who captured Lina had been a rigid, pure knight, let alone Heavenly Knight Korsak, whom even Boslova acknowledged as a formidable, respected knight.

Crossing the avenue, walking half an hour, Richie reached the hideout.

This location sat in the upper district within an abandoned sewer branch. Ariana’s group understood retreat options, establishing hideouts across different sectors—including one in the dock district for water evacuation. Yet rivers flowing through Peines ran north-to-south, so traveling north required sails or towing, which was unfeasible in early spring, leading them to abandon that route.

The hideout entrance sat in an alley, featuring a small door at the end. Yet forcing that door revealed only an ordinary room.

Unlocking the door, Richie pressed a hidden latch, a soft click echoing. Pushing the wall beside the door, a crack opened—the true door sat right beside the frame.

Like the carriage depot, a short passage led into the hideout.

“It’s me,” Richie called out first to prevent misunderstandings.

“Knew you’d come; you must have received news that Hershaw assumed power,” Malone greeted him at the passage entrance.

“Son, you look well,” Richie’s father stood beside Malone.

“Everything is fine,” Richie greeted his father, embracing him tightly. He felt no different than before, no longer caring whether he was biologically related.

After embracing his father, Richie greeted Emily and the girls: “We can leave this place soon, and we’ll be together again.” That was his promise to the girls.

“How are my younger siblings? Are they alright?” Isabella asked. Other girls had relatives present, while her siblings were outside, keeping her worried for two months.

Richie felt guilty inside, having forgotten that detail, but lied to prevent her from worrying: “They’re doing great! I promise you’ll see them soon.”

The girls pulled Emily aside, knowing Richie came to discuss serious business.

Unlike the other hideout, this place carried a family atmosphere, partitioned into men’s and women’s sections by cloth curtains. These women had families, making the layout feel cozy.

Sitting on a cushion made from military bedding, Richie felt as though he had returned home.

A single table was cleared for Richie, Malone, his group members, and Richie’s father. A pot of coffee sat in the middle to keep them alert.

“Connections on my end are nearly finalized; confirmation will arrive tonight, so issues should be minor,” Richie shared good news first.

“We can move anytime,” Malone said, for everyone had accepted his leadership over two months, including Richie’s father.

“The refugee wave is coming soon. Based on past experience, few people flee during the first three days, after which the true wave begins, lasting about a month—assuming the Alliance makes no sudden moves during peace talks,” said Abraham, a man in his thirties with a receding hairline who handled analysis in Malone’s group.

“These analysis data stem from the first refugee wave and other cities,” Malone added, Abraham nodding beside him.

“Moving at the front is too conspicuous, but waiting for the peak risks severe road congestion. During our journey from Glasslovar, we suffered from traffic jams, moving at a crawl,” Richie didn’t suggest waiting until the wave passed, for that was far too dangerous. Those who fled Glasslovar slowly had been intercepted by Varedin forces.

“That’s not a major issue,” Malone pushed the coffee pot aside, spreading a map across the table, drawing a red line with a pencil: “We take this route.”

The red line highlighted a narrow, obscure road—a local country road passing through villages and small towns, connecting Peines to Xunoplik, then merging onto Route 276 to the border.

“We have abundant supplies and don’t need roadside replenishment, so avoiding main thoroughfares fits us perfectly. We can travel smoothly while leaving the refugee peak behind,” Malone explained.

“You’ve clearly pondered this deeply; I trust your choice,” Richie stated, settling the decision while agreeing to coordinate with Lina.

“Nor will everyone take this route. We have abundant vehicles and supplies accumulated over two months, procured to serve this exact moment,” Malone drew several blue lines along main routes: “We split into teams, propagating our ideas while traveling.”

“Ideas?” Richie’s face looked strange, not knowing what ideas he possessed.

An agent brought over a stack of mimeographed flyers. Richie inspected one, realizing it was a flyer advocating resistance to the end while calling on people to work for national salvation, attaching a list of factories below.

Compared to fierce flyers picked up on the street, this flyer felt pragmatic—offering ways to earn a living to support families, which was what fleeing refugees needed most.

Malone pointed to family members chatting in the women’s section: “Our families are entrusted to you along the safe red route. I take Route 6, Binder takes Route 9, Simons takes Route 10, Abraham takes Route 14, and Tomsey takes Route 19.” He added Phoenix, Bellen, and Monel as another team for training.

Richie held zero objections, for as a knight, he belonged to a different world, and Malone managing administrative affairs suited everyone.

As they settled details, a soft “beep” echoed from Richie’s backpack.

Richie stood up, unwrapping his armor to answer the communicator, hearing Lina’s voice: “Richie, I settled your request! A headquarters unit is heading north in a few days, and your people can blend in. I found the workers you needed too—now tell me where those unassembled vehicles are located?”

Richie felt intense joy, for Lina getting results so quickly meant she had sought connections the moment she received his message.

Lina added softly: “The person helping me needs a minor favor from you in return.”

Hearing that, Richie’s worries vanished: “No problem!” he agreed instantly.

​