"You are abusing your authority."
"Whether I am abusing my authority is not for you to judge. If you feel I have overstepped, you are free to file a formal complaint with High Command. But until then, I am taking these three captives with me."
"They are my prisoners. I should be the one to dispose of them."
"And I have reason to suspect they are on a mission of special significance. As the head of Intelligence, I have the right to question anyone—including you, Lord Anderson. Though, of course, I am certain you would never harbor any thoughts of betraying the Empire."
"You're joking. I will be sure to relay your 'concerns' to Lord Korsakov."
"A pity, then, that Lord Korsakov is not currently present."
"Is that why you feel you can act with such impunity?"
"I only act with impunity within the scope of my duties. Lord Korsakov is a reasonable man; when he hears my justification for this action, even he will find no fault in it."
"..."
Inside the large central tent, the Knight of Honor, Anderson, was locked in a heated argument with a smiling, obese man.
The man was Lader Genitz, head of Military Intelligence. He was a man who wore a constant, oily grin, appearing harmless to the uninitiated, but those who knew him knew he was a sadistic, cunning serpent.
Almost everyone in the camp wished him a swift death; the only people who might actually like him were his own subordinates.
In terms of actual competence, Lader was mediocre at best. Since he had taken over the front-line intelligence bureau, it had become a cesspool of corruption and dysfunction.
Many had tried to remove him from his post, but all had failed.
Eventually, it became clear that Lader had powerful backers and had used every means at his disposal to curry favor with various influential figures. He was essentially untouchable.
Aside from his cruelty, Lader was insatiably lustful. Any woman who caught his eye—be they an officer or a Knight—would eventually find herself in his clutches. His position allowed him to use his authority to frame anyone he wanted to bring down.
Anderson knew another, even uglier truth: Lader's impunity was maintained by a specific cabal—a group of high-ranking officials' scions. The women Lader broke were eventually presented to these spoiled noblemen for their depraved enjoyment.
Anderson was well aware of the filth at the upper echelons of the Empire. All he could do was protect those immediately around him. Fortunately, Lader and his backers knew better than to cross certain lines.
Still, Anderson had no intention of letting this particular worm have his way.
"Among these three captives, there is one whose identity is... unique. You would do well to be careful. If something happens to her, I believe the Emperor would be more than happy to use your head to appease certain very powerful individuals."
Anderson's tone had turned ice-cold, carrying a unmistakable edge of lethal intent.
Lader narrowed his eyes at the Knight. He didn't like being spoken to in such a manner, but he knew Anderson was a man of his word. If he spoke like this, he was truly enraged.
Lader was arrogant, yes, but he was also survival-oriented.
His position gave him access to secrets most would never know. The people he associated with might have wealth and title, but true power was concentrated in the hands of a few. Those few protected their key pieces and wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice anyone else to keep them safe.
Anderson was one of those untouchable pieces.
Lader also knew that for all his bravado, he was a disposable tool, a target and a scapegoat placed in this position for exactly that reason.
His behavior was a form of lashing out at a fate he knew he couldn't change. but he wanted to delay that final day as long as possible.
He began to analyze Anderson's warning. Which of the three was the untouchable one?
He was no fool; he was actually more intelligent than most gave him credit for. He quickly surmised that the woman Anderson meant was the one with the vibrant red hair.
"Thank you for the warning," Lader said, his oily smile returning instantly. He turned to his men, his voice snapping with authority. "What are you standing around for? Take the prisoners back! I want them interrogated immediately. I suspect they have accomplices who have already infiltrated the camp."
The Intelligence Bureau's quarters were located in a far corner of the camp. Very few soldiers ventured near it, a testament to the department's foul reputation.
This isolation made it safer than other areas for Lader's purposes, but he was well aware that the number of "allies" who wanted him dead far outnumbered his enemies. For his own safety, he had built a ten-meter wall around the facility, with guard towers at each corner.
The wall made him feel secure, turning the facility into his own private kingdom.
The main gate was a single, unremarkable-looking door, but anyone who had ever passed through it knew better. It was a foot-thick slab of iron disguised with a thin layer of wood—a door far too heavy for a normal person to move easily.
As Lader and his entourage approached, the scouts in the towers recognized them, and the gate ground open.
Once inside, Lader pointed to the six Enforcement Knights guarding Calli, Lina, and Nora. "You six, follow me."
He waved a hand dismissively at the rest. "The rest of you, dismissed."
Most of the men he'd taken to Anderson's tent were regular soldiers. They scattered quickly, including one man who clutched his trousers and hurried toward a corner, looking as if he were about to burst.
To any observer, he was just a soldier relieving himself against a wall. Who would spare a second glance for such a common sight?
Richie carefully scanned his surroundings. While his face was toward the wall, he held a small mirror in the palm of his hand, allowing him to see everything behind him with perfect clarity.
The argument between Anderson and Lader had bought him the time he needed.
The Intelligence Bureau's terrible reputation had worked in his favor. No one wanted to be near them, which had allowed Richie to easily kill a lone soldier and take his place.
In the heavy rain, everyone was wearing thick raincoats, which obscured their features and made them almost indistinguishable. The only thing that mattered was the style of the coat, which marked him as one of Lader's men.
Infiltrating the camp was a success, but Richie still didn't have a solid plan for the next step.
All he could do for now was observe, familiarize himself with the layout, and figure out who was allowed where.
Suddenly, he saw a group of boys, roughly his own age, emerging from one of the barracks.
They were wearing Knight Apprentice uniforms, and one of them was wrapped in bandages.
They were chattering away in a language Richie didn't understand, and a few of them were pointing in his direction.
Richie felt a bead of cold sweat roll down his forehead. He had realized a fatal flaw in his plan: he didn't know a word of Varedin. If someone spoke to him, he would be exposed instantly.
But it was too late to turn back.
He ignored the boys, pretending not to hear them.
Once they had all filed into a large central building, Richie turned and moved toward the barracks they had just left, praying for a bit of luck.
The barracks were empty. He slipped inside.
When he emerged, he was dressed as a Knight Apprentice, his head wrapped in bandages to obscure his features.
He headed toward the central building. It seemed to be a place where someone of his "rank" could go without question.
The interrogation wing, where Lina and the others had been taken, was only ten meters away, but he didn't dare approach it until he had a better understanding of the situation.
The central building was a complex of seven or eight interconnected barracks. Even before he entered, Richie heard a chorus of female screams and moans, punctuated by bursts of crude laughter.
He already knew exactly what kind of place this was.
Inside, the scene was one of total debauchery.
The room was filled with women, all of them completely naked and crawling on the floor like dogs. More disturbingly, each one had a tail—some were made of ostrich feathers, others of horsehair, but most were the soft, bushy tails of foxes or minks.
A closer look revealed that the tails were inserted into the women's rectums.
The Knight Apprentices he'd seen earlier were there, picking through the "pack."
One of them made his choice and led four of the women toward a series of private booths along the walls. The booths had no doors, only heavy curtains for a modicum of privacy.
Suddenly, Richie's ears pricked up. He heard a woman speaking a language he understood.
They were Republic citizens—likely the women taken from Morena who had simply vanished.
Richie's heart skipped a beat. He remembered his promise to the girls of the Rose Society.
He began to scan the room.
But with so many naked women crawling through the mud, it was impossible to tell them apart.
He felt a wave of frustration. He didn't even know if he could save himself, let alone Lina and the others. How could he possibly help everyone else?
But then, he had another thought. He was completely blind in this camp. If he could find the mothers of the Rose Society girls, they might be able to provide him with vital information.
The only question was: would they betray him?
Richie hesitated, but eventually decided to take the risk.
He wouldn't rely on their goodwill or intelligence, though. He would make it clear that cooperation was their only path to survival.
He began his search. He remembered a detail about Emily's mother—she had rare, vibrant blue hair.
He had been stunned when Emily showed him a portrait of her, even wondering if the color was natural.
He scanned the room and, sure enough, found a woman with a shock of brilliant blue hair.
He stripped off his raincoat and boots, leaving them at the door like the others. Barefoot, he walked into the fray, heading straight for the blue-haired woman.
Walking among these "human dogs" was a surreal experience.
He had thought the sessions in Randy's room were the height of decadence, but this was on another level entirely.
These women had been broken of all shame. They didn't hide; they flocked to him, some arching their backs to wag their tails, others pressing their soft breasts against his feet, and a few even licking his toes.
Richie felt his desire rising, a thick "tent" forming in his trousers. He wanted to grab one of them and lose himself in her.
Fortunately, his reason held. This was no time for games.
He reached Emily's mother and knelt down.
Like the others, she crawled toward him, her tail—a tuft of red ostrich feathers—bobbing as she moved.
Richie lifted her chin.
One look at her face was enough to confirm her identity.
This was no place for a conversation. He took hold of her collar and led her toward one of the curtained booths.
He chose one in a remote corner.
As he stepped inside, his eyes widened.
The booth was large, with a specialized chair in the center—much like the one in Randy's room, but far more elaborate. Its arms and back were covered in leather straps and buckles. A table and a set of shelves were cluttered with a nightmare of devices: dildos, anal beads, enemas, needles, whips, and syringes. There were a dozen types of whips alone—snakes, cat-o'-nine-tails, riding crops, and even thorny briars.
As he mentally cursed Lader as a monster, Richie also found himself memorizing the layout. If he ever got out of this, he wanted a room exactly like this.
He felt someone fumbling with his belt.
It was Emily's mother.
She didn't use her hands; she was using her mouth to undo the buckle, like a well-trained dog.
She was clearly an expert. In a few practiced movements, his trousers were down.
Richie's member was already rock-hard.
Without hesitation, the woman took him into her mouth.
"Oh..."
Richie took a sharp breath and leaned back, his eyes closing in bliss. Her technique was flawless—even Lina, the "Juicer," seemed like an amateur by comparison.
She used every part of her mouth and tongue with surgical precision. When she licked the head of his member, her tongue seemed to search for the opening, creating a sensation that was almost more than he could bear.
But the real surprise was the way she used her tongue to stimulate his perineum and anus simultaneously. Her tongue seemed impossibly long and flexible, and the way it probed and swirled sent Richie over the edge. A massive discharge of seed erupted from him, coating the floor.
Even after he finished, the woman didn't stop. She swallowed the head of his member, and with a few deft movements of her tongue, he felt himself rising again.
She flipped onto her back, her upper body supported by her arms in a bridge, her legs splayed wide. She had been completely shaved—not a single hair remained on her body. Richie had noticed all the women here were the same.
As he wondered what she was planning, she took him in again.
Richie watched in awe as his member disappeared inch by inch into her mouth. She didn't just take the length; she took his entire testicles into her mouth as well.
His member was nearly a foot long. No woman had ever been able to take it all—not even Lina.
To take the full length, it had to slide into her esophagus. Lina had tried once, but the thickness had made her gag and vomit.
Richie closed his eyes, savoring the unprecedented sensation. It wasn't necessarily "better" than sex, but the psychological impact of such a feat was undeniable.
Having his testicles cradled in that hot, wet cavern while her tongue swirled around them was a sensation he wouldn't soon forget.
Just as he was losing himself, she spat him out.
She turned and began to wag her tail, a look of desperate pleading in her eyes.
Richie remembered why he was here. He leaned down and whispered into her ear, his voice barely audible. "You're Emily's mother, aren't you?"
The woman's body went rigid. Her beautiful face was flooded with shock and terror.
"Don't make a sound," Richie warned. "Emily is my classmate. She's safe and well. She asked me to find you. You can rest easy now; our men have already infiltrated the camp. You'll be rescued soon, but I have a few tasks to complete first."
He didn't dare tell the truth.
If he told her he was alone, she might scream for help and betray him. By claiming there was a rescue force, he gave her the hope she needed to remain loyal.
Sure enough, she whispered back, "How much time do you need?"
"Four or five hours. We'll move at dawn."
It was another lie, but one he needed to tell.
The woman's face flushed, and she looked down with a mix of shame and desire. "You... you should do something. If you don't do anything, they'll notice."
Richie was momentarily stunned, but then he saw the moisture pooling beneath her, a thin strand of fluid reaching the floor.
Her body had been broken to the point of insatiable desire.
"I... I'm a bit large. I wouldn't want to make it difficult for you to move later," Richie said, unsure how to proceed.
Emily's mother looked at the size of him and nodded. "You're large, yes. But don't worry about me."
Her eyes were filled with a profound sadness. "Many of the men who come here are Knights. Any woman who has survived this place can handle you."
Without another word, she arched her back. She didn't even need to aim; her entrance met the head of his member perfectly. She sat back, and Richie felt himself being pulled deep inside her.
Her technique was even better than Lina's. Lina's passage felt like a single hand, pulling and squeezing, but this woman's was different. It felt as if a dozen tiny, incredibly dexterous hands were working on him—some pulling, some pushing, some swirling in a spiral. Even the cervix seemed to have a life of its own, biting and grinding against him.
Richie was in heaven. He surrendered to the incredible pleasure.
If he ever got her out, he was going to make her the head "coach" for the Rose Society girls. She could teach them everything they needed to know about serving a man.
He even wondered if Lina could learn a thing or two from her.
As Richie enjoyed the service, Emily's mother reached her own limit. She lacked a Knight's endurance, and after twenty minutes of intense thrusting, her body began to shake. She gripped the floor, her breathing coming in sharp gasps as wave after wave of climax washed over her.
Richie reached his own peak at the same time, his passion erupting in a flood of seed that filled her to the brim and began to spill out onto the floor.
He slumped onto her back, savoring the afterglow. Being inside her, even while still, was incredibly comfortable.
He noticed that the women here were remarkably quiet during the act. Unless it was a cry they couldn't suppress, they kept their mouths shut. They had been trained to be silent.
It made the act feel less like sex and more like pure, animalistic breeding.
Emily's mother caught her breath. "My technique... it was good, wasn't it? I have even better ones. If you get me out of here, I'm yours. I'll give you this every single day."
Richie didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but he remembered his mission.
"Besides Emily, there are other girls who asked me to find their mothers. Do you know Sophie, Melissa, Caroline, or Ginny? They're all my classmates."
"I know them. They're part of that 'Rose Society,' aren't they?"
She began to think. She knew rescuing several women would be far more difficult than rescuing one.
Eventually, she decided to be honest. "Caroline's mother was the lucky one. She died three days after arriving here. I can help you find the others."
Richie knew then that she wouldn't betray him. He finally asked his real question.
"I need to get close to that fat head of Intelligence. Do you know who is allowed into the interrogation wing?"
The answer was surprisingly simple.
"It's easy. That pig often drags us in there for his 'interrogations.' He rarely uses that place for prisoners; the devices there are all meant for us."
Her face went pale as she spoke, clearly haunted by the memory.
Richie decided to take one more gamble.
"Find Sophie, Melissa, and Ginny's mothers. I'm taking you all with me."
***
The rain grew even heavier. Richie led the four women toward the interrogation barracks. They were walking instead of crawling, as the mud and water made crawling impossible.
They were unsteady on their feet, a result of their long confinement on all fours and the cocktail of drugs in their systems that made their bodies incredibly sensitive.
No one questioned them. Everyone assumed it was another order from Lader, a common occurrence.
As they reached the interrogation wing, Richie's heart hammered against his ribs. Two Enforcement Knights stood at the door.
They wore the same ugly Varedin "Salamander" uniforms, but theirs were a striking white—the mark of the Enforcement corps.
The wing was divided into two rooms by an iron gate. Richie moved to the gate and saw Calli and Nora strapped into two chairs.
They were the same type of chairs he'd seen in the booth. Calli and Nora were spread-eagled, their wrists and ankles locked in steel cuffs. More cuffs held their waists, necks, knees, and elbows. They couldn't move a muscle.
Their lower halves were completely naked, and like the other women, they had been completely shaved.
Richie saw a pile of used waxing strips on a nearby table.
He felt a shiver of horror. He had thought they were shaved, but they had been waxed—their hair ripped out by the root. He could only imagine the agony.
Beside the wax were enemas, syringes, and a dozen empty medicine vials.
Calli was a woman of ice, Nora a stone. Neither ever showed emotion, yet now their faces were a deep, burning crimson, their bodies trembling with effort.
Like Emily's mother, moisture was dripping from them uncontrollably. Their clitorises had swollen to the size of peanuts.
Richie knew the damage would be permanent. From now on, they would be incredibly sensitive, their desire triggered by the slightest touch.
And it wasn't just their clitorises. Their nipples, their vulvas, even their rectums had been injected with the drugs. Every part of them was now a trigger for pleasure. The drugs were designed to break a woman completely.
Richie couldn't bear to look, but he didn't move. Each chair was guarded by an Enforcement Knight.
There were four Knights in the small room. Not even an Honor Knight like Anderson would dare to strike openly here.
Fortunately, he had a plan.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bronze ball, the size of a walnut.
He twisted it, and the ball popped open, revealing a grey-brown substance that began to dissolve into the air instantly.
Just then, one of the guards at the door spoke to him.
Richie didn't understand a word. He didn't even know if the man was talking to him.
If he ignored a direct question, he'd be caught. If he answered when he wasn't being spoken to, he'd also be caught.
He put a finger to his lips and made a soft "shh" sound, then pointed toward the inner room.
The gesture was meaningless, but it could be interpreted in a dozen ways.
He waited for a reaction.
The guards didn't say anything more. Richie let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Now, all he could do was wait for the knockout incense to take effect.
Randy had given it to him. It was odorless and colorless, but prolonged exposure would leave anyone completely paralyzed.
He, Calli, Nora, and the four women had all taken the antidote before starting, so they were immune.
But the drug took time to work.
Lader picked up a whip from the table—a cat-o'-nine-tails with a dozen frayed ends.
He swung it, the air whistling as the ends cut through it.
With a sharp *crack*, the whip slammed into Calli's buttocks. A dozen red welts appeared instantly.
Calli's body jolted with pain, but her expression shifted. She didn't look as if she were in agony; she looked as if she were experiencing a profound pleasure.
Another *crack* sounded as Lader struck Nora. Her reaction was the same.
The rhythmic lashing continued, welt after welt appearing on their skin. Soon the red marks turned to blood, and then to purple. Not a single inch of their skin was spared.
The pain should have been unbearable, yet Calli and Nora were moaning with delight, their bodies arching toward the whip as if begging for more.
Richie felt a surge of heat in his groin. Seeing the untouchable Calli in such a state was more than he could handle.
Just as his resolve began to waver, the two guards at the door began to murmur to each other.
Richie's senses snapped back to the present. They had realized something was wrong with their bodies.
He couldn't wait any longer. He spun and drove his fists into their throats.
Normally, he wouldn't have been able to touch two true Knights, but the drug had slowed their reactions.
His fists found their marks perfectly. He struck the second cervical vertebra—the most fragile point. His fists were reinforced with Aura.
Two soft *cracks* echoed as their necks snapped. They died instantly.
The sound was faint, but the four guards inside realized something was wrong. They tried to move, but the drug had already taken hold.
Richie slammed into the iron gate, his Aura-reinforced shoulder tearing it from its hinges.
The incense had worked. The four Knights inside were sluggish. Richie threw two steel pins, each finding a guard's face. The pins tore through their brains and emerged from the back of their skulls. They collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.
Richie dispatched the remaining two in a blur of motion, then lunged for Lader. He seized the fat man's throat and "clicked" his jaw out of its socket, then did the same to his shoulders and knees, leaving him a paralyzed, silent heap.
He turned to Lina.
She was strapped to a separate chair, but her clothes were mostly intact. Lader hadn't touched her yet.
He cut her free and pressed an antidote pill into her mouth.
He turned to help Calli and Nora.
Lina grabbed his arm. "The drugs have destroyed their reason. If you release them now, they'll only cling to you like animals in heat. Get some water."
Richie found a jar and filled it with rain from a puddle at the door. He dragged the two dead guards into a corner on his way back.
Lina frowned at the muddy water but didn't complain. She splashed it over Calli and Nora's lower bodies, then their faces, and finally forced a few mouthfuls down their throats.
The shock of the cold water brought them back to their senses, though their faces remained a deep, burning red.
"We have to go. The water is only a temporary fix," Lina warned.
She began to strip the uniforms off the dead guards.
Calli and Nora dressed quickly. They had no choice; their own clothes were gone, and they couldn't exactly run out naked.
***
Night had truly fallen. The camp was quiet, save for the patrols and the scouts on the walls.
In the busiest corner of the camp, wagons were still moving in and out.
Richie sat in a small wagon pulled by two scrawny horses. It had a canvas cover, though it did little to keep out the drifting rain.
The wagon was crowded. Lina was driving, her appearance transformed into that of a middle-aged, bearded man. Only she could drive without attracting suspicion. Calli and Nora sat beside her as guards, their bodies trembling under their raincoats as the drugs began to take hold again. They were constantly wiping their faces and their increasingly itchy groins with rain.
Lader was wedged in the middle, appearing to be asleep. Emily and Ginny's mothers sat on either side of him, with Melissa and Sophie's mothers opposite them.
Emily's mother was wearing Lina's uniform, making her look like a prisoner.
Their excuse was that they were transporting important captives to a rear base. With Lader "present," no one questioned them. The fat man's reputation was such that no one dared to interfere with his business.
This wasn't the first time he'd transported women in the middle of the night. It was a common occurrence.
But they couldn't leave yet. They had to wait for a convoy.
Convoy rules required at least twenty wagons, with soldiers guarding the front and rear.
In the dead of night, traffic was slow. The wait was agonizing.
Richie felt a cold sweat breaking out. He was terrified that something would go wrong at the last second.
Just as he was praying for luck, a figure approached. The man moved with a relaxed gait, but Richie knew he was coming for them.
"Got a light? I need a smoke," the man called out from a distance.
Richie's heart hammered against his ribs. He knew this man could destroy him without breaking a sweat.
"I'm sorry, I don't," Richie replied.
The moment the words left his mouth, he went pale. He had answered in his mother tongue—Monstockian—and the man had asked in the same language.
His mind went blank.
A full minute passed, yet no alarm was sounded.
Richie looked at the man in surprise.
It was then that he noticed the man wasn't wearing a raincoat, yet not a single drop of rain was touching him.
He was a Knight of Honor.
Anderson.
Anderson was looking at Richie with a mix of curiosity and amusement. The light was dim, but he could see Richie's face and the people in the wagon—including the fat man in the middle.
He pretended he saw nothing.
He had known Richie was in the camp from the moment he'd killed the intelligence soldier. Despite his argument with Lader, he had been aware of his surroundings. Richie's moves had been stealthy, but not enough to fool him.
When Richie had changed into the uniform, Anderson had guessed what was coming.
If it hadn't been for Lader, and if he hadn't been so disillusioned with the state of the Empire, he wouldn't have allowed this. But now, he simply looked away. He had even moved the body Richie had hidden near his tent.
The sound of rhythmic footsteps reached them. A patrol.
Richie's tension reached a breaking point.
Suddenly, the Honor Knight began to speak to him in a rapid string of Varedin.
Richie was confused. He didn't understand a word, yet Anderson kept talking, his voice calm and steady.
He realized the man was helping him.
Because the Honor Knight was standing there talking to them, the patrol didn't even slow down, giving the wagon a cursory glance before moving on.
Once the patrol was gone, Anderson stopped speaking Varedin and switched back to Monstockian.
"You have more talent than anyone I've ever seen. I'm curious... what Art do you practice?"
Richie didn't hesitate. "The *Stealing Heavens Technique*. You might not have heard of it; it's a minor Art."
Anderson didn't doubt him.
"Stealing Heavens?" he murmured. "Stealing the light of heaven to reflect an attack... an apt name."
Richie's face burned. He couldn't exactly explain that the name came from the Art's ability to "steal" Aura from female Knights during sex to bolster his own power. It had nothing to do with reflection.
"It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you survive this war; I'd very much like to see what you become."
Anderson raised a hand to his chest—an ancient Knightly salute.
Richie returned the gesture.
Anderson turned and walked away, his gait as relaxed as ever.
Watching the man's retreating back, Richie felt a strange sense of pity. Anderson didn't belong in this era. His actions were, by modern standards, treasonous. If anyone found out, it would be his end.
The convoy finally moved. Richie's wagon was third from the back.
Five or six kilometers out, a sharp *crack* sounded. The wagon's rear-left wheel flew off. The wagon didn't flip, but it came to a dead stop.
Lader's head popped out, his mouth open as if to shout, but he quickly withdrew back into the canvas as the rain soaked him.
Lina jumped down from the driver's seat. She chased after the wheel and, after a quick inspection, began to shout in a flurry of Varedin.
Her voice was deep and gruff, her appearance transformed by a fake beard and some clever padding. She looked like a middle-aged teamster.
Lader's angry muffled roars echoed from inside.
The entire convoy ground to a halt. One of the guards ran back and looked at the wheel.
The axle was snapped. It could be fixed, but not quickly.
There were two options: wait for a repair, or leave the wagon behind. But since they were only a few kilometers out, a third option appeared: send the wagon back.
Lina pretended to be furious. "Can't any of you help? Go back and get another wagon! We're losing time!"
The guards weren't about to help. For them, it was more work for no gain.
Only their fear of Lader kept them polite.
They left Lina and her broken wagon behind, the convoy continuing its journey into the night.
Lina shouted a final insult and threw the broken wheel after them in a show of frustration.
Once they were gone, she headed for the nearest guard tower.
The towers were wooden structures ten meters high, with two guards in a small hut at the top.
Lina shouted up at them, and because they'd seen the whole scene with the wagon, they didn't suspect a thing. They thought she was asking for help.
Suddenly, a dark shadow lunged up the tower. Two flashes of steel followed, and the guards were decapitated before they could draw their weapons.
Lina leaped back down. The outposts were every two hundred meters; she moved to the next one and did the same.
A six-hundred-meter blind spot was created.
She returned to the wagon and signaled for everyone to get out.
They pushed the wagon deep into the woods and buried Lader. He was already dead.
If they'd left him alive, he might have shouted for help or signaled a patrol. A dead man was much easier to manage.
Nora was their secret weapon. As a scout, she was trained in more than just observation; she was an expert in mimicry. Lader's voice had been her performance. She could even use corpses or decoys to distract enemies.
Richie was the one who buried the body. He searched Lader one last time before finishing.
In the man's inner pocket, he found a small ledger.
He flipped through it. It was a record of transactions—dates, amounts, and names.
It was Lader's record of selling the "human dogs" to various officials.
He didn't know how useful it would be, but he kept it anyway.
Lader also had a ruby ring that looked incredibly valuable, and a pure gold necklace with a complex crest on the pendant.
Richie took both.
He also found a wallet stuffed with Varedin currency. While it wasn't useful in Glasslovar, he took it anyway, following his own rule of "never leave anything behind."
He finished the burial and caught up with the others.
Their retreat plan had been set before they started, but with the addition of the four mothers and Calli and Nora's condition, they had to adapt.
They were heading for the river. Traveling by water would allow them to evade pursuit and move the "dead weight" more easily.
The broken axle had been Lina's doing, a calculated move to leave the convoy at the perfect spot.
The terrain here was complex—dense woods and a long slope that provided excellent cover.
And most importantly, the river was only six hundred meters away. It flowed directly into Glasslovar.
When Richie reached the riverbank, the others were already there. Lina was tying together bundles of reeds to make a raft, while Calli and Nora were cutting them down and throwing them to her.
Despite being in the cold water, Calli and Nora were constantly stopping to clutch themselves, their legs squeezed tight. Even the icy river was no longer enough to suppress the drugs' effects.