Shield of the Rose

A clamorous shouting woke Richie from sleep, and looking through the window, he saw torches swaying outside.

Leaping out of bed, putting on his combat suit, he sprinted outside.

Shadowy figures darted everywhere amidst flickering torches, weeping crowds, and spreading flames. Had Alliance forces been wild enough to reach this border town?

Richie’s heart panicked instantly.

Right at that moment, a crowd carrying torches ran toward his position, attempting to scale the perimeter wall. This time Richie saw clearly.

Those people were by no means Alliance soldiers, but refugees fleeing here. The lead two men harbored fierce, scarred faces, clearly ruthless thugs, while others radiated malicious intent as well.

“Halt! Scaling the wall is prohibited!”

Among the three knights assigned by Manuel to protect Emily, one stood guard every night, stepping forward to intervene.

Richie knit his brows while looking into the distance, where faint gunshots echoed.

Suddenly he saw one of the wall-scalers throw a burning torch overhead.

The torch flipped mid-air, landing atop the second row of wooden houses.

Fortunately, building per Carmen’s design had placed an earth layer across the roof, leaving the torch to burn harmlessly without igniting the structure.

Richie grabbed a handful of soil, hurling it toward the torch. Infused with fierce Aura, the soil blasted the torch out, extinguishing flames while knocking it far into the distance.

Extinguishing the torch, Richie leapt into the air, covering dozen-meter bounds in single leaps, reaching the perimeter wall in moments.

Right then, he saw one of the scalers draw an object from behind to aim at him.

In haste, Richie lacked time to distinguish whether it was a gun or blade—nor did he care to distinguish, for he never viewed himself as a judge requiring evidence to convict.

He was the “Midnight Executioner”, performing the business of killing.

Sweeping outside the wall like a gust of wind, a series of pop-corn crackles echoed behind him.

He didn’t look back, for those struck by “Soul Shatter” couldn’t survive, and corpses blasted from within appeared gruesome.

Outside the perimeter wall lay a scene of living hell.

Toward all this, Richie held zero unfamiliarity, having witnessed similar chaos in Glasslovar—the more chaotic the situation, the more opportunistic thugs emerged to loot.

Nor did this stem entirely from human wickedness and greed, for many acted out of desperation when survival became impossible.

Starting from the fourth day, massive refugee waves had flooded inside.

The refugee wave proved far more severe than initial estimates.

This border town was packed beyond capacity; former open spaces were covered in tents, leaving zero footholds between canvases.

Living space was scarce, let alone food; money couldn’t purchase provisions now.

The town established distribution centers, yet each person received four potatoes daily—children halved—as a full day’s ration.

Looking at flickering flames and shadowy figures, Richie hesitated on how to act.

Rioters bore no labels on their foreheads: who knew who was looting and burning, versus who was being robbed?

Just then, he heard cries for help nearby.

“Help! Help!”

A group of women lay weeping on the ground, surrounded by burly men holding loot, pushing and shoving them, one man tearing a woman’s clothes downward with force.

“I am the police! Stop right there, everyone lie flat on the ground!”

Richie shouted with projected Aura, echoing like a thunderclap across the area.

The weeping women froze on the spot, lying flat on the ground immediately. The burly men stared in bewilderment; even in chaotic times, police authority held deterrent power.

Richie’s hand held several pebbles; killing needed no steel nails now, for small pebbles infused with Aura proved equally lethal.

With a flick of his wrist, several lives were claimed. Richie ignored the women, rushing forward to prevent further tragedies, which meant taking more lives.

Repeatedly shouting “I am the police! Lie flat and don’t move!”, repeatedly launching pebbles, Richie traversed the chaotic refugee camp with a conflicted mind, keeping part of his attention on his own family.

The sentry knight appeared overly rigid, watching people scale the wall without taking initiative to strike.

Toward such rigid individuals, he felt genuine concern.

Suddenly, he heard another voice shouting from the opposite side: “I am the police! Lie flat and don’t move!”—a female voice carrying penetrating force.

Clearly Vilia’s female knights were replicating his method.

Indeed, another voice shouted, sounding familiar to Richie—likely a female knight he had engaged in dual-training with.

Similar shouts echoed across the camp. Vilia commanded over two thousand female knights—enough to form a regiment—spreading out like a net to bring the chaotic situation under control instantly.

No one dared loot further, leaving fire-fighting as the next priority.

This night was destined for unrest; mournful cries echoed in the dark—wives weeping for husbands, children crying for parents.

Fortunately dawn approached, the sky brightening an hour later.

Against morning fog, the refugee camp appeared tragic: burnt tents remained uncleared, shredded cloth and clothing scattered everywhere as evidence of looting.

The entire refugee camp resembled a massive trash dump.

In one corner, injured refugees sat or lay awaiting medical aid, yet doctors were few, supplies scarce, and bandages lacking.

Deceased victims lay beside the medical station—over a hundred bodies—where relatives wept while identifying corpses.

“This cannot continue,” Vilia muttered to herself.

“Didn’t you consider refugee management beforehand?” Richie asked, feeling a blend of sadness, loss, and disappointment.

Vilia felt slightly hurt, for this fell beyond her duties. Yet as highest military officer present, and with Stein possessing only seven elderly border guards, managing the situation fell upon her.

“What do you suggest we do?” Vilia asked, having witnessed Richie control the chaos initially by pretending to be police.

“Enforce military rule,” Richie sighed. From taking the first life, he had pondered this solution—the sole viable path: “Conscript individuals aged fifteen to forty-five into patrol units, while managing women, elderly, and children centrally.”

“What if someone refuses?” Vilia raised a difficulty.

Richie let out a cold laugh: “Refuse? Hard labor, prison, gallows—solutions abound.”

Vilia froze, displaying hesitation: “Is such severity necessary? Wouldn’t expelling disobedient individuals suffice?”

“That invites trouble,” Richie said coldly: “Unless a perimeter wall encloses this place, expelling them means they’ll sneak back in, or block gates to cause riots.”

Pointing around, he added: “Amidst such chaos, what’s needed isn’t tolerance, but order. Even minor over-reach is far better than recurring chaos!”

Nodding toward the corpses, he asked: “Isn’t last night’s lesson sufficient?”

Vilia sank into thought, knowing Richie spoke accurately. Yet behind his words lay implicit concerns.

Historically the Republic maintained vigilance toward knight power and the military: civilian control over military, and regular military control over knights—a foundational principle established at nation-founding. Yet Richie’s proposal overturned that principle completely.

“This represents the best immediate solution, though I’ll bear full accountability. Are you placing me on the hot seat?” Vilia laughed bitterly, wanting to explain the risks, yet stopping when realizing inaction meant more fatalities.

“Relax; you helped me immensely, and I wouldn’t betray a benefactor,” Richie didn’t care.

“I am the highest officer here; pushing blame onto you leaves me accountable regardless. Besides, am I that kind of person?” Vilia cast a glare at Richie.

“I’m not joking,” Richie refrained from revealing Malone’s complete plan, though sharing hints: “Don’t you find it strange? Why did I prepare so many vehicles? Where did those accumulated supplies originate? Why didn’t most vehicles and supplies travel alongside your column?”

Vilia had chatted casually, surprised the topic shifted to this domain.

She had felt curious throughout the journey, assuming Lina prepared those supplies without probing deeper. Hearing Richie’s words, she suddenly felt this boy appeared strangely unfamiliar.

“The delegation sent by Hershaw carries a surrender agreement under the guise of peace talks—seventeen articles in total, key terms including ceding six southern provinces, recognizing Varedin as suzerain, 4.5 billion gold yuan indemnity… beside converting the Republic into a Duchy,” Richie stated calmly: “Monstoke remains, but the Republic is finished.”

Vilia gasped; what terrified her wasn’t Hershaw’s surrender, but Richie knowing such classified information.

“When did you learn this?” Vilia asked when rather than how.

Understanding her intent, Richie smiled: “Two months ago.”

Satisfied by her astonished expression, he continued: “I settle scores clearly; if someone targets me, I won’t spare him. Coincidentally, Internal Security Bureau agents accompanied me then, where two months offered ample time to gather intelligence and plan our course.”

“You intend to enter politics?” Vilia found it hard to believe.

“Not me; I remain behind the scenes. In the future political structure, knights will operate behind the scenes—neither ruling directly like empires, nor suppressed like before. The military will serve as a buffer between both,” Richie shared the strategy formulated with Malone.

Vilia remained shocked, yet harbored a thread of anticipation. Working at headquarters, she interacted with high-level officials, experiencing the suppression felt by knights.

“Impossible; no one will accept it,” she shook her head.

“Who won’t accept it? High-level officials? They hold zero chance of regaining power,” Richie laughed coldly: “Do you worry about them?”

Pointing around, he added: “These people need survival above all. We offer hope of survival—something those officials failed to deliver.”

“What about Boslova? He is a loyal follower of the Republic’s founders,” Vilia asked.

Richie offered zero reply this time, unconcerned about Boslova’s interference. Before departing, he wrote a letter to Boslova referencing his original promise.

He knew that the day Hershaw announced surrender would be the day Boslova ended his own life.

This matter grieved Lina, so he would keep it a permanent secret without revealing it to anyone.

A row of gallows was erected at the valley entrance.

Over fifty convicts were executed that morning—all with conclusive evidence of looting, murder, and assault.

Their bodies would hang there until rotting, serving as a stark warning to others. Trials continued into the afternoon for suspects accused of looting without confirmed major crimes.

Serving as judge was the blonde female knight under Vilia, who visited Richie at noon.

“How do you suggest we sentence them?” She handed the problem to Richie.

“Simple,” Richie stated directly: “Those caught with looted goods: hanging. Those with bloodstained blades: hanging. Others: imprisonment. This isn’t a formal court requiring lengthy procedures; restoring order is the priority.”

“Many claim self-defense,” the blonde female knight said: “Self-defense claims are mostly untrustworthy when stolen goods were found on them, though some possessed zero goods—hard to judge. What proves hardest are those with families, caught with stolen goods after being robbed first—how should they be sentenced?”

This time Richie hesitated.

In Glasslovar, though refraining from robbery, he had pried open vacant houses to harvest saleable items, stealing a sack of beans behind supply trucks—though acting as an ordinary civilian before awakening.

He wasn’t a noble saint, and in similar circumstances, he might have taken items as well.

“Ask their families: if a family member shares guilt by offering an adult for hard labor, reduce the convict’s sentence by one tier—hanging turns to imprisonment, imprisonment turns to hard labor.” Richie cared little for victim complaints, seeking order rather than absolute justice: “As for suspects without stolen goods, assign them all to hard labor. Since they possess energy to riot, let them perform good deeds for the community.”

Sentencing criteria were established through casual remarks.

The blonde female knight didn’t leave immediately, whispering: “One more matter needs your decision.”

She glanced toward Richie’s residential area: “Someone refuses to join the security patrol.”

Richie followed her gaze, understanding immediately.

His entourage contained mostly women, with a few men of fitting age. His father had enlisted early, others posed zero issues, leaving one potential problem: Malone’s brother-in-law.

“Enforce regulations: refusing security patrol means hard labor,” Richie stated calmly.

The blonde female knight smiled, taking her leave.

With such events occurring, Richie refrained from returning immediately, strolling through the camp.

Female knights acted with high efficiency, re-planning the refugee camp while trials proceeded.

In last night’s chaos, wooden houses suffered the greatest damage—targeted first by rioters and burning fiercely.

Looking at charred, smoking debris, Richie felt little sympathy.

Those house owners drew resentment for understandable reasons: compared to surrounding tents, those houses were luxuriously spacious, inspiring envy.

Debris revealed separate living rooms and bedrooms—an extravagant luxury when space for tents was lacking.

He felt fortunate to bring so many people along.

To settle people quickly amidst limited materials, Carmen minimized material usage, keeping rooms modest—slightly larger than tents, yet far below luxurious wooden houses—drawing zero envy from others.

The plan formulated with Malone aimed to highlight politician corruption, demonstrating how former officials enjoyed luxury while citizens suffered in misery.

Regardless of political rhetoric, such unfair treatment guaranteed rejection by the public.

Witnessing the scene, Richie gained new insights into their original plan, realizing future actions required extreme caution—including reducing social gatherings for his mother and Aunt Ling.

Toward that point, Richie held zero concern; his mother was accustomed to hardship, and despite occasional prideful moments, she acted shrewdly when choosing priorities for the future.

Estimating trials were concluding, Richie walked back to his camp.

Upon returning, his father and several others approached him—omitting the old woman he disliked most.

“Son, you’re back! We need to consult you on a matter,” his father spoke. He felt reluctant to ask, for back in Peines, everyone agreed to avoid special privileges, sharing hardships equally.

“Dad, no need to explain; I know what you wish to say,” Richie smiled casually, spotting Malone’s brother-in-law standing at a distance, looking over.

Malone’s brother-in-law matched Richie’s age upon awakening—just past fifteen—shy and quiet despite being male. In truth, he wasn’t an unpleasant person.

Refusing security patrol wasn’t the boy’s idea, but his mother’s behind-the-scenes manipulation.

Spoiling a late-born son was understandable, yet involving collective interests left zero room for tolerance.

“I haven’t revealed one detail to you all, intending to keep it unsaid,” Richie spoke softly, yet projecting his voice with Aura so Malone’s brother-in-law could hear clearly: “When we formulated our initial agreement, a core clause specified that no discordant voices were permitted within our group. Should such a voice emerge, the responsible party must eliminate it.”

Finishing his words, Richie left the group behind, walking over to find Emily.

Everyone—including Richie’s father—froze on the spot.

Richie had emphasized the word “eliminate” with particular weight.

That tone sent shivers through everyone present.

Everyone knew Malone’s group worked in intelligence, a domain associated with spies and covert operations. The word “eliminate” carried chilling connotations of assassination, elimination, corpses, and erasing traces.

A surge of chill rose from his father’s feet to his brow, leaving him frozen. Looking at others beside him, their expressions appeared equally pale.

At a distance, the fifteen-year-old boy’s face turned deathly pale.

He felt genuinely wronged, having wished to join the security patrol—far more interesting than staying beside his mother. Refusing was his mother’s command, provoking arguments between them, while sensing dissatisfaction from surrounding people.

Previously he hadn’t viewed the matter so severely, assuming his mother was merely throwing a tantrum. Yet right now he realized this differed from home: their group was executing a grand plan managed by five Internal Security Bureau agents and a ruthless knight capable of taking lives in an instant.

Should his mother’s tantrum ruin their grand plan, he couldn’t imagine the consequences.

He harbored zero doubt whether Richie was threatening him. In the tunnel, he had overheard fragments of the plan: step one was escaping—which had succeeded—while step two involved eliminating former President Yarno and purging listed high-level figures.

The original plan even contemplated instigating refugee riots to eliminate targets indirectly, abandoned only because creating chaos was easy while restoring order proved difficult, beside leaving a stain on reputation.

The boy even suspected whether last night’s riot was staged by his brother-in-law to enforce military rule—a high probability judging by current outcomes.

Thinking so, he ran back to his room in haste.

The Rose Society girls resided in a corner—an independent domain within the camp. Though lacking a physical wall, an equipment vehicle parked in between, paired with a sentry knight on the roof, kept outsiders away.

Rooms were modest, yet far more spacious than vehicle interiors, allowing testing instruments to be moved inside.

Stepping inside, Richie saw girls gathered around a mechanical arm.

Beside Emily’s group, assistants and mechanics assigned by Manuel worked in adjacent rooms.

Though holding low expectations for Richie, the old man assigned helpers anyway, possessing abundant personnel.

Ever since learning the Alliance lagged behind, the Alliance deployed human-wave tactics at all costs—assigning two Masters per project, supported by original assistants, auxiliary assistants, and numerous mechanics.

Nominally borrowed from Manuel, these personnel were effectively assigned to Richie, managed under the old man’s name, now transferred to Emily.

Mechanics clustered in a corner, cutting synthetic sinews to solder control contact points. Assistants borrowed from Manuel tested each modified sinew—a tedious, time-consuming task.

Assignments like this provoked complaints, which Manuel suppressed directly.

“Simple yet intricate—that represents his design style,” the old man had stated.

Assistants held zero unfamiliarity with that evaluation, previously applied to the “Dragon” standard armor. The Dragon comprised 25,000 components—ranking first in component count among standard armors—surpassing even specialized armors in complexity.

Yet most components were identical; counting unique shapes yielded merely 1,127 types, representing extreme simplification.

With that precedent, no one dared voice complaints openly.

With a Master Craftsman like Manuel supporting behind, progress proceeded smoothly. The control system proved simple, crafted by Emily over one night, refined slightly by the old man.

Testing a single modified sinew confirmed the control system functioned properly, the sinew moving as anticipated.

Though lacking former disfigurement, movement stiffness remained apparent. Refining movements into smoother motion required cutting sinews into shorter segments—multiplying time and effort.

Though test results were modest, Emily assembled a test arm per Richie’s vision.

Test apparatuses appeared crude, and the arm before him was no exception: built to one-to-one scale, appearing thick and short, featuring three broad fingers. Probes covered the arm to collect data, connected by wires to recording instruments.

Seeing Richie enter, Jinny jumped to cling onto his body, acting spoiled: “How is it? We worked fast, didn’t we? How do you intend to reward us?”

Richie kissed the fairy’s cheek: “Reward delivered; are you satisfied with this reward?”

Jinny giggled happily, refraining from overly bold actions with outsiders present.

As if claiming credit, she pulled Richie to the test arm.

“Crafting this was troublesome, but we succeeded! You must thank us properly.” Jinny pulled Emily and Sophie over.

“Success remains unconfirmed,” Richie naturally refrained from indulging her casually, knowing her requested reward was staying beside her without wandering off.

Ever since introducing Ariana to the girls, he had sensed subtle rivalry among them.

The girls knew he shared complex relationships with Squad 105 members, yet never cared, knowing knights and ordinary humans belonged to different worlds. Richie held a unique identity spanning both worlds, so no real conflict existed between them and female knights.

Yet this time differed: Ariana was an ordinary human like them, making them feel threatened.

“Relax; my intuition says your idea will succeed,” Jinny stated confidently.

“Intuition?” Richie laughed, though refraining from dismissing her intuition—an exotic Psion ability.

Compared to knights’ direct physical strength, Psion power appeared abstract and unpredictable, originating from mental energy that was prone to instability.

Take Jinny for instance: evaluating people or objects relied on intuition—sometimes originating from her ability, sometimes being mere illusion—which she herself couldn’t distinguish, let alone others.

Enhancing success rates relied on external amplification devices, all recovered from prehistoric ruins, capable of amplifying “Spiritual Transmission”, “Spiritual Barrier”, and “Refinement”.

“Can I test it?” Richie asked Emily. Here, Emily served as leader, followed by her mother Ingrid. Sophie rarely spoke, while Jinny spoke excessively—mostly nonsense that could be ignored.

“I cannot guarantee success; if you test it, put on cotton sleeves,” Emily hesitated.

Cotton sleeves were thick canvas tubes covering arms from elbows to wrists, padded with dense cotton. Controlling through them reduced sensitivity, yet offered far greater safety.

Donning cotton sleeves, inserting his hand into the mechanical arm, Richie flexed his fingers initially.

With a soft squeak, three steel fingers moved with swift action—resembling a drawn bowstring released suddenly.

Following fingers came the wrist, and Richie flexed his wrist.

With a soft click, fine sweat emerged across his forehead.

Richie’s face twitched: that single movement had sprained his wrist.

If flexing fingers resembled releasing a bowstring, flexing the wrist resembled releasing a wound catapult, while he had accidentally placed his hand on the throwing arm.

That reaction speed was far too fast! In Richie’s perception, the moment his Aura engaged, his wrist bent ninety degrees—a speed far exceeding un-armored movements.

With a soft squeak, straightening his wrist, Richie pulled his hand out to inspect his wrist.

The area was visibly swollen—a genuine sprain from that single movement.

“This is success?” Richie rubbed his injured wrist, glaring at the fairy.

Jinny stuck out her tongue, ducking behind her mother.

“Synthetic sinews were cut to one-tenth original length, naturally reducing contraction time to one-fifth or one-sixth original duration,” Emily explained hastily, having just recalled that detail.

Five or six times faster? Richie sank into imagination.

The test armor witnessed that day operated at “crazy” speed, and five or six times faster than that proved unimaginable.

He understood sinew contraction speed didn’t equal overall armor speed; an unburdened horse ran faster than one pulling a heavy carriage. For magitech armor, frames and plating constituted most weight, preventing overall speed from multiplying five-fold.

Achieving a two-fold speed increase would already excite him.

Rubbing his swollen wrist, Richie inserted his hand into the test arm once more.

Another surge of force engaged, bending Richie’s arm. Having prepared by deploying Vajra Might, he was still startled by the immense force.

Vajra Might was formidable, multiplying physical strength, yet physical strength couldn’t match mechanical power.

Straightening his arm—normally a simple movement—turned into a punch.

Everyone in the room heard a thud—a sonic pop caused by air compression.

Sonic pops weren’t rare; master Dina’s Thunder technique produced sonic pops at the moment of execution. High-stage Thunder mastery reportedly generated rolling thunder and sonic pops with every strike.

Yet producing sonic pops through casual arm movements was extraordinary.

The women, being timid, were startled by the sonic pop.

Right then, a series of squeaks echoed as the mechanical arm moved.

Movements remained slightly unnatural and stiff, yet far superior to the test armor.

Due to extreme speed and sharp halts, vibration proved intense—shaking probes continuously while making the steel frame groan under strain.

Executing the complete test sequence, Richie pulled his hand out. His face turned pale; cotton sleeves were torn into segments, elbow padding shredded into cotton threads, wrist and shoulder areas severely abraded.

Torn apart were not just cotton sleeves, but his combat suit—tough leather shredded into rags.

Richie inspected torn areas, revealing reddened skin. Silk linings inside the combat suit failed to prevent friction damage.

Skin appeared not only reddened, but displayed fine blood traces from mild abrasions.

Richie cared little for minor injuries, yet having deployed Vajra Body, sustaining injuries meant that without Vajra Body, his entire arm would be swollen like his wrist.

Richie recalled early days when he piloted a clumsy bear-like armor, carrying no weapons, holding a massive shield in hand—possessing modest strength, hard to kill while finding it equally hard to attack others, relying solely on shield bashes.

The last time he held a massive shield was in Glasslovar, after which he adopted light armor. Initially learning under Merlin to become a light defender, his path drifted until the current Yaksha couldn’t even qualify as ultra-light.

Suddenly Richie realized he had been absent from true battlefields for a long time.

Even on the front line, he handled reconnaissance, occasionally striking from behind without engaging in face-to-face combat.

Even reconnaissance knights weren’t as relaxed as him; in Squad 105, Nora joined every battle, enduring narrow escapes. Unlike him, flying at two thousand meters, remaining untouched even if spotted.

Did this new armor concept emerging in his mind signify a return to his origin?

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