The tracks in the churned earth were erratic—now shallow, now deep—and the distance between the prints was shrinking with every yard. Richie, watching from the rear of the shivering group, felt a mounting sense of dread that had nothing to do with the freezing mountain air.
He was focused on covering their trail, using the counter-tracking techniques Lady Merlin had drilled into him to mask not just the Knight’s footprints but the girls' stumbling path as well. Suddenly, a chorus of sharp, jagged screams erupted from the front of the line. The girls scrambled in a blind panic; some dove into the frozen brush, while others ran back toward him, their faces pale masks of horror.
Richie didn't need to see it to know. He had already guessed why the Red Knight hadn't pursued: the man he had 'let go' was already a walking corpse, a vessel of shattered organs held together by nothing but fading adrenaline.
Sprinting ahead, Richie found him on a gentle slope. A man in his thirties lay there, gasping for air that his lungs could no longer hold, his Magitech Armor slumped in a semi-seated position beside him like a discarded toy. The man’s eyes were squeezed shut, his chest moving with an agonizingly slow, shallow rhythm.
Richie knelt and peeled back one of the man’s heavy eyelids. The pupil was blown—fixed and unresponsive. There was no medicine in this world that could call him back.
Richie searched the man’s person, finding only a few personal effects. He scrambled into the blood-slicked cockpit of the armor, searching the compartment behind the pilot's seat. There, he found a small glass vial filled with a brilliant, azure liquid—a high-potency restorative.
Beside the seat, a palm-sized device caught his eye. In its center sat a thumb-sized purple crystal—the Armor Key. Richie snatched it.
He uncorked the vial and forced the azure liquid down the dying man’s throat. A few minutes later, the Knight erupted into a fit of violent coughing. His ash-gray face turned a sudden, bruised scarlet, and the veins in his neck bulged like thick cords of rope. When the fit finally subsided, the man blinked, his gaze clearing just enough to see the half-empty bottle in Richie’s hand.
"Do you have a message? Any final words for the record?"
Richie hated the hollow sound of the words, but Lady Dana had hammered this into him: if you find a dying Knight, you allow them their legacy. It was the highest form of respect among those who lived and died in the suit.
"I am... Knight Murphy... 77th Squadron," the man wheezed, the restorative liquid doing its brief, miraculous work. "Tell my wife... Margaret... that I love her. Tell her... I’ll be thinking of her and the child... the one who hasn't seen the sun yet. Tell her... in the cellar of the summer villa... I left something for them. Tell her... I’m sorry I can’t stay for the birth."
Another coughing fit tore through him, a spray of dark, thick arterial blood coating the frozen grass. Richie finally understood why a Knight’s uniform was dyed red; it was the only color that could hide the shame of their own life-blood as it leaked out.
When the man quieted, Richie held out the purple crystal. "This is your key. Please... release the ownership."
He had examined the armor—a Striker model—and found it remarkably intact, save for a shallow, scorched mark on the back of the chest plate. He realized then that the Red Knight had used a focused vibration—an attack that ignored the alloy to shatter the pilot within. Richie had felt the touch of such power once before; he only lived now because the Knight who had struck him was a novice compared to the golden-lanced monster Murphy had faced.
Murphy’s eyes were already clouding over, filled with a mixture of shock and the terminal confusion of the dying. But he did as he was asked, his trembling hand closing over the crystal. A flash of violet light pulsed through the stone, its deep hue fading into a hollow, transparent glass.
As the light died, Murphy’s hand fell limp. His heart gave one final, stuttering beat and then fell silent.
Richie carefully pried the crystal from the man’s cooling fingers. It was diamond-shaped and razor-sharp at the tips. As he gripped it, the points pierced his palm. His blood seeped into the stone, and the glass began to glow with a dark, rich crimson.
Under the wide-eyed, terrified gaze of the girls, Richie climbed into the cockpit and slotted the crimson crystal into the ignition. In a heartbeat, it pulsed back to its original, authoritative violet.
He slid his arms into the control sleeves and gave them a tentative flex. The massive arms of the Striker blurred in response, moving in a wild, uncoordinated thrash. Murphy had been much larger than him; the suit was a poor fit, the feedback sensors lagging.
It took several minutes of intense, teeth-grinding concentration before he could make the machine follow his will. He gripped the hilt of Murphy’s massive two-handed sword—four feet of heavy steel, a hand-span wide. He had practiced with such slabs of metal under Lina; he knew their momentum.
Richie raised the blade high and brought it down in a single, powerful sweep. The earth was plowed open as if by a giant's plow, creating a deep, jagged trench.
It was Murphy’s grave.
There were no priests, no eulogies, and no grand procession. He didn't even know the man’s surname—only that his name was Murphy and he loved a woman named Margaret. He laid the body in the cold earth, filled the trench, and drove the massive sword into the mound as a headstone.
A wave of profound, leaden sadness washed over him. Lady Dana had told him this was a Knight’s inevitable fate: to die in the dirt, with only their favorite blade to keep them company. He wondered if his own end would be so lonely. He wondered if Dana, Merlin, or the others would one day find themselves beneath the cold steel of their own legacy.
"Are you... are you really a Knight?"
Emily was the first to find her voice. She was the best-read of the group, and she knew exactly what the violet glow of the key signified.
Richie climbed out of the cockpit and began to unbolt the armor’s heavy auxiliary plates. "Since you’ve figured it out, there’s no point in the charade. I am a Knight. My assignment to the camp wasn't just to sweep floors."
He gave them a hard, level look that brooked no argument. "But you will keep this to yourselves. Not a word to anyone—not even my parents. In this war, a secret is more valuable than a shield."
The girls could only nod, their reactions a chaotic mix of shock and relief. Isabella was stoic—she had already suspected as much from his sudden growth and quiet confidence. Ginny’s eyes were wide and glittering with a new kind of hunger; she had always dreamed of being a princess with her own sworn protector. The others looked relieved; in these dark times, there was no greater comfort than the presence of a God of Steel.
Richie ignored them, his focus on the machine. He stripped away most of the heavy plating, though he made sure to keep the chest-piece this time—he had learned that lesson the hard way. The Striker was a medium-weight model built for speed and agility; without the extra weight, it would be even faster in the rugged terrain.
He also used the sword to cut a massive pile of pine branches, wedging them into the gaps in the frame until the machine looked like a grotesque, walking thicket. Finally, he checked the energy levels. Murphy had bled the crystals dry, but the three he had salvaged earlier were a perfect fit.
Richie climbed back into the suit and tested its mobility. Even with the poor fit, it felt light and responsive. He turned to the girls. "Get onto the wagon."
They obeyed without a word, their former hesitation gone.
"Hold on tight." Richie reached down and carefully lifted the narrow wagon, with the girls and children perched atop it, and settled it across his armored shoulders. It was the safest place for them. With their feet braced against the chassis and the branches providing extra grip, they were secure.
"If you fall, you die," he reminded them bluntly. "And keep the children quiet."
He began to run. He didn't return to the road, but plunged deeper into the heart of the mountain range.
The mountains surrounding Glasslovar were not high, and with the power of the Striker, the journey felt like a simple excursion. Richie was hyper-alert, hiding at the slightest sign of movement. The camouflage worked perfectly; from a distance, they were just another patch of forest moving through the peaks.
But as the sun began to set, he knew they had to ground the machine. Lady Merlin had taught him that a Knight never moved at night unless they were prepared to be hunted.
He found a perfect harbor—a cave with a slanting entrance that was invisible from the valley below. Better yet, it had a deeper chamber that could mask the light of a fire. He parked the armor at the mouth of the cave and helped the girls down.
"Stay inside. Don't come out for any reason," he commanded. "I’m going to find us something edible." He grabbed a sack from the wagon and turned to leave.
"I’m coming with you."
Ginny draped herself over his arm. It wasn't a request; it was a blatant, desperate invitation. Richie had never experienced anything like it. Isabella was his, heart and soul, but their connection was one of quiet devotion. Seeing the fire in Ginny’s eyes, he felt a surge of unexpected desire. He knew that with a little effort, he could have her.
"I... I want to come too."
Sophie, the quiet, mousy girl, stepped forward. It was a shock to everyone.
"I’ll be safer with you," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the ground. "I won't be a burden. I know the local flora... I can help."
"What good are plants?" Richie snapped, though his hand found Ginny’s rear and gave it a firm, possessive squeeze that made her gasp. "We’re looking for food, not starting a garden. And it’s getting dark."
The sound of the slap echoed in the cave, and Ginny yelped, clutching her backside with a playful pout. The other girls flushed with shame, but for the first time, no one spoke up in protest.
"No, I can help," Sophie insisted. "I have a... a sense. I can find what we need. For example... there’s a grove of Ice Fruits nearby. I can feel them."
Richie stared at her. Suddenly, he saw it—the same spark of something other-worldly that he felt in himself. It wasn't a Knight’s strength, but a Psion’s perception.
Psionic bloodlines were common among the low-born, mainly because Psions could successfully have children with ordinary people. It made them the backbone of many logistical units.
Richie grabbed a handful of grass and hid it behind his back, shifting it between his hands. "Tell me... which hand?"
"Both," Sophie whispered. "But there’s more in the left."
Richie opened his hands. She was exactly right.
"You're a Psion," he said, his voice filled with a new respect. "When did you awaken?"
"Always. As long as I can remember. But I was afraid to tell the school."
The other girls were stunned. Many of them had known Sophie since childhood and had never suspected her secret.
"Maybe I’m a Psion too!" Ginny chirped. "I always knew you were a Knight... that’s why I wanted you for myself."
*Smack.* Richie gave her another slap, partly to keep her quiet and partly because he was starting to enjoy the feel of her resilience. But her words struck a chord. He looked at the others—Melissa’s natural command, Emily’s terrifying intellect... perhaps they all carried a spark of something special.
"Fine. You're with me," Richie said, grabbing Sophie’s hand.
Sophie was the smallest of the group, her development lagging behind the others. She had a round, doll-like face and large, expressive eyes. Her chestnut hair was tied in pigtails, and her short plaid skirt barely reached her knees.
"I want to go too!" Ginny pouted.
Richie raised his hand again, and she giggled, scurrying back into the shadows of the cave. "Stay put," he barked before leading Sophie out.
Once they were clear of the cave, Richie scooped Sophie into his arms. He hadn't dared such intimacy in front of the others, but out here, there were no witnesses. Sophie flushed and curled into him, pointing toward a ridge in the distance. "That way."
After a short trek, they found the grove. The Ice Fruit trees were tall, their heavy clusters of fruit hanging like massive, fist-sized grapes. Richie climbed a tree and tasted one; it was sweet and tart—not yet ripe, but edible enough to fill a hungry belly. He worked quickly, filling the sack with several dozen clusters.
When he dropped from the final tree, Sophie was gone. He heard a rustling in the tall grass nearby. A moment later, she emerged, adjusting her skirt. Richie realized she’d stepped away to relieve herself.
Seeing the fragile, vulnerable girl alone with him in the wild, Richie felt a primal urge take hold. He wasn't a predator by nature, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.
"You found so many?" Sophie asked with a shy smile. "Can we go back now?"
Richie set the sack aside. His heart was hammering. He had never taken a woman by force, and even now, he felt a strange hesitation. But as he looked into her eyes and saw the flickering light of her own desire battling with her fear, he moved.
He reached out and unfastened the silk ribbon of her skirt. The knot came apart with a single tug. Sophie shuddered, but she didn't run.
"I’ll take care of you," Richie whispered into her ear.
Her resistance vanished. She looked at him with a gaze of profound, melancholy surrender. The look made Richie feel a twinge of guilt, so he turned her around, presenting her back to him.
He pulled her leggings down to her knees and tied them with the silk ribbon, effectively hobbling her. Her legs were slender and firm—the skin possessed of a child’s untouched silkiness. He let his hand wander up her thighs to her untouched mound; there was not a single hair to be found.
A cold wind whistled through the trees, and Sophie began to shiver. Richie realized that despite the season, it was freezing out here. She had come with him out of pure trust.
The thought made him feel like a monster, but he was already too far gone. He sat on a mossy slope and pulled her across his lap, his hand kneading her small, unformed breasts while the other explored her thighs.
"I'll make you happy," he promised.
"Can you... can you save my parents?" she asked in a voice like a whisper.
Richie was silenced. It was a promise he couldn't make. "I'll do everything I can," he finally replied.
Sophie didn't speak again. She simply nodded.
Richie pulled his length from his trousers, already surging with blood. Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, her whole body trembling with terror. He lifted her, guiding her onto him.
"Ah!"
She bit her lip, her face twisting in pain as he broke through her maidenhead. For a girl of her stature, he was far too large. The sensation of being torn apart was almost more than she could bear.
Richie felt a surge of possessive lust, but he was careful. Her passage was incredibly tight—not with the practiced muscle of a Knight, but with a raw, unyielding resistance. He felt as if she might shatter if he moved too fast.
He could only go halfway before he hit a solid obstruction. Her passage was not only tight but shallow. He looked down at the half of his shaft that was still exposed and felt a moment of uncertainty.
Then, he remembered Merlin. Merlin didn't like the long, rhythmic strokes; she liked the deep, grinding pressure.
He felt Sophie begin to move her hips with a slow, agonizingly small rhythm. He realized then that her pleasure was also buried deep. He began to rotate his hips, spinning his shaft like a drill within her.
"Ah... ah... ah!"
Sophie erupted into a series of sharp cries, her body bucking against him. She tried to fight, but he was too strong. He caught her pigtails in one hand and pulled her head back, covering her mouth with his own as he continued the drilling motion.
She was caught between a heaven of pleasure and a hell of agony. Suddenly, she felt a sharp, agonizing itch at the very depth of her womb. Her mind went blank.
She began to thrash uncontrollably. The pleasure was a tidal wave, crashing over her again and again without mercy. Richie felt his shaft slide further, the head squeezing through a narrow, muscular ring.
He had penetrated her cervix.
The sensation was dizzying. He had never felt anything so tight. Sophie’s climax surpassed even Lina’s in its duration; she was still shuddering and gasping long after he would have expected her to stop.
*Does penetrating the womb do this?* he wondered. He made a mental note to try it with Lina; she would surely love it.
Suddenly, a wave of heat washed over his lap. A flood of moisture erupted from their union, soaking through his trousers. Sophie went limp, her head lolling back as she gasped for air.
Richie withdrew, his own release still far off, but he knew he couldn't continue. He had already pushed her to the limit. He cleaned her up and helped her back into her leggings with a weary, regretful smile.
As he turned to pick up the sack, a chill ran down his spine. Someone was standing only a dozen meters away.
The man was in uniform—a sleek, dark design with a long row of silver buttons. Richie’s face went white. He had never seen it before, but the squad had talked about it. Lady Dana had warned him: if you see a 'Viper', you run.
It was the uniform of a Varedin Knight.
"A fine performance, boy. Why stop now?"
The Knight approached with a casual, predatory swagger. He looked at the half-conscious Sophie and clicked his tongue. "Not bad. A rare little beauty."
Richie’s voice cracked with panic. "You... you're a Knight! You can't kill civilians!"
"You're joking." The Varedin Knight laughed, a cold, mocking sound. "Who follows those old codes anymore?"
He raised his hand. Richie’s heart, which had been frozen in terror, suddenly flared to life. He realized the man didn't know he was a Knight too. And he had a weapon; the Varedin was empty-handed.
A Knight on a stroll doesn't carry their heavy lances or swords. But they didn't need to; within twenty meters, their Aura was a lethal weapon.
The Varedin’s hand began to glow with a sickly red light. "Be honored, boy. To die at a Knight’s hand is a privilege. I’ll even use my Aura, so I don't get your blood on my boots."
Suddenly, the man’s eyes narrowed. He had spotted Richie’s belt.
Richie didn't wait for him to process it. He whipped his hand back and unleashed a handful of spikes.
With a roar of fury, the Varedin struck. A blade of white light erupted from his palm, slicing through the air. It was too fast to dodge. Richie raised his arm in a desperate block, bracing for the impact.
A flare of agonizing pain tore through his arm. He felt a massive force slamming into him, pushing him back. But in that split second, he remembered the Rubbing Strike—the parallel force. He didn't fight the blow; he caught it, his hand beginning to glow with a faint, golden light.
He reflected it.
Just like light hitting a mirror, the Varedin’s own Aura strike was sent back along its path.
The golden light on Richie’s hand vanished. He looked up to see the Varedin Knight reeling back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Seven or eight spikes were buried in his arm and torso, but the fatal wound was a two-inch gouge in his side, where his own Aura had torn through his liver.
Richie was stunned. He tried to summon the golden light again, but it was gone. He tried a 'Rubbing Strike' in the air and then snapped his wrist back. The light flickered back into his palm. He had finally found the key to releasing his Aura.
The Varedin roared again, refusing to believe what he’d seen. He struck with another white blade, but it was weaker this time. Two blades of light clashed in the night, and both men were thrown back.
Richie went further, his right arm and shoulder shattering under the force. The pain was beyond anything he’d ever felt—a thousand knives tearing through his muscle and bone. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming.
He threw his remaining spikes with his left hand, his aim ruined by the agony. But the Varedin was finished. He tried to stand, then froze, and collapsed face-first into the dirt. A single spike was buried in the base of his skull.
Richie knew he couldn't stay. If a lone Knight was here, a camp was nearby. He scooped up the unconscious Sophie with his one good arm and sprinted back to the cave.
The girls were horrified when they saw him, but he didn't give them time to ask questions. "We're leaving! Now!"
He drove the armor through the night, the pain in his arm a white-hot fire that threatened to consume his consciousness. He didn't dare go fast, fearing the noise would attract pursuit, but he didn't dare slow down.
At dawn, the silhouette of Glasslovar appeared on the horizon. The city was a fortress now, trenches dug and artillery positioned for a siege. Richie didn't dare approach too closely; he knew they’d fire on an unknown machine.
He activated the armor’s comms. "This is Corporal Richie, 105th Squadron. I have intelligence... repeating... this is Richie..."
An hour later, he was in the infirmary of the high command. His arm was a ruin—multiple fractures and shredded tendons. Even a Knight’s healing factor would take time to mend this.
In a darkened briefing room, a group of officers watched a flickering projection. It was the footage Richie had brought back from Murphy’s suit—the slaughter of the Republic Knights by the red elite.
The officers were silent, their faces pale. Some were frantically wiping sweat from their brows. They had known about the attack on Morena, but they had treated it as a minor skirmish—a harassment action. Now, they saw the truth.
"It’s an Honorary Knight," one officer whispered as the projection ended and the lights came up. "And at least one Ace. According to Varedin doctrine, an Honorary Knight is always accompanied by three Aces. That means there are two more out there."
"This isn't a harassment force," a fat officer stammered, his small eyes darting around the room. "It’s a main assault group. If we follow the original plan and send a single squadron to Morena, they'll be annihilated. And without that squadron, Glasslovar’s defense will crumble. The whole sector is in danger."
The fat officer was a man with a garlic nose and a triple chin, but he was no fool. He had seen the 'vile plot' for what it was.
"It's a trap," another officer added. "They're using the refugees as bait. If we don't save them, our reputation dies, and morale collapses. If we go in headfirst, we lose our army. And if we wait, they'll use the civilians as human shields or execute them. We're being condemned from every angle."
The commander of the sector, a man with a poker-face and a perfectly trimmed mustache, puffed on his pipe. "And your solution?"
The room fell silent. No one wanted to be the first to speak. To offer a plan was to take responsibility for its failure.
The commander pointed his pipe at the fat officer. "You. Start."
The fat officer’s sweat began to pour. He thought for a long moment before speaking. "We play their game. We send a force from Glasslovar as a distraction... but we secretly request reinforcements from the neighboring sectors to strike Morena from the flank."
The commander moved his pipe to the next officer—a man known for his cunning.
"I agree," the man said, leaning forward. "But speed is everything. We must act before the enemy can react. It proves we did our duty. Even if the civilians or the rescue Knights are lost... well, it was a tragedy of war. We did what we could with the time we had."
It was a 'poisonous counter' to the enemy’s 'vile plot'. He didn't say it aloud, but everyone knew his meaning: the lives of the civilians and the low-level Knights were expendable, as long as the strategic objective was met and the blame could be shifted to the enemy’s cruelty. It was a plan that could never be written down, only whispered in the shadows of a commander’s office.