"This is the 'large vehicle' you promised?"
Richie's mother stared with a dark, thunderous expression at the bizarre three-wheeled passenger cart.
She realized she had been duped, but it was far too late to regret. Her husband's official transfer orders had been finalized yesterday afternoon, and she had already signed the papers at the Military Committee, securing their travel passes and temporary residency permits for the capital, Peines. Attempting to back out now would result in endless bureaucratic trouble.
"Stop complaining," Richie's father muttered, pointing at the crowd lined along the road. "You should be grateful we have a vehicle at all. At least you don't have to walk."
Among the two hundred thousand residents of Glasslovar, there were plenty of clever minds. A vast number of people had made the exact same calculation as Richie.
Every horse and carriage in the city had been requisitioned by the military at the start of the war. Most of the fleeing citizens had to rely entirely on their own two legs, though a few had constructed crude, hand-pulled carts like Richie's.
Reluctant but left with no choice, Richie's mother let out a furious huff and took a seat on the left-side bench.
His father prepared to sit beside her, but Richie quickly grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to the front of the cart.
"Dad, you're in charge of the steering. It's simple enough, right?"
His father gripped the steering bar, turning it side to side. It moved with fluid ease. "Don't treat me like an idiot," he grinned, delivering a playful punch to Richie's chest.
With a heavy *thud*, his father’s fist recoiled, his knuckles stinging. He stared at Richie, rubbing his hand in shock. "What in the world are you wearing beneath your clothes? Is it steel plating?"
"Your own suit is lined with iron plates," Richie deflected quickly. His soft Magitech Suit was perfectly form-fitting, feeling like nothing more than a thick layer of winter underwear beneath his loose civilian clothes. There was no risk of his father discovering the truth.
As they spoke, the girls and their mothers finally arrived. Having been warned beforehand, the girls kept a polite distance, avoiding any overt displays of intimacy with Richie.
The sudden arrival of such a large group of beautiful women made his father’s eyes widen, and the nearby refugees stared in stunned silence. A few men lingered in the distance, clearly trying to summon the courage to approach.
"These are the 'classmates' who are supposed to look after us?" his father whispered, nudging Richie’s ribs with a knowing smirk that said, *You've got talent, kid.*
"Of course we're looking after each other," Richie grinned. "The suits you and Mother are wearing were hand-sewn by them."
Having so many women gathered in one place naturally led to endless chatter. Richie's mother recognized several of the girls' mothers from past school parent meetings.
Richie ignored the women's gossip; he had too much work to do.
He loaded their massive supply of food and water onto the cart’s dual side compartments. The drinking water was stored in a large beer keg equipped with a brass tap; the water was laced with a small amount of spirits to prevent it from spoiling on the road.
After several trips back and forth, Richie finally secured all their gear onto the cart.
He had arranged for them to meet outside the city gates specifically to prevent his parents from discovering that the girls lived in the very next alley. Pushing the heavy cart back and forth had been exhausting, but he accepted it as the tax for his harlotry.
By the time he finished, the women had already settled into their seats.
Squeezing nineteen people onto the cart was a tight fit, but the girls were all petite, and the four children sat comfortably on the adults' laps.
Richie stood at the rear of the cart, gripping the thick wooden handlebar. "Hold on tight! Keep your feet inside the footrests!"
Seeing everyone comply, Richie leaned his weight forward and pushed. He started with a slow walk, transitioned into a light jog, and finally accelerated into a steady, rhythmic sprint.
The cart rolled with remarkable stability. Compared to their miserable retreat from Morena, this journey was incredibly fast and effortless.
At first, the women were in high spirits. They behaved as though they were on a pleasant countryside picnic rather than fleeing a war zone, filling the air with non-stop laughter and chatter. His mother, Aunt Ling, and Melissa's mother, Shaya—all seasoned socialites—led the conversation, their voices carrying across the open fields.
But long-distance travel was exhausting, even when sitting. The open cart offered no protection from the wind, and as the hours wore on, the women’s energy faded. One by one, they leaned against the high backrests and drifted off to sleep.
By two in the afternoon, a cold rain began to fall. Richie halted the cart, retrieved their heavy canvas survival suits, and had everyone put them on.
The canvas suits offered decent protection, but wearing them was miserable. The areas where water managed to seep in felt freezing cold, while the rest of their bodies felt stifled and damp.
Richie noticed his mother throwing him a highly resentful glare.
As the downpour intensified, the women huddled close, their bodies shivering as the damp cold sapped their warmth.
Richie considered stopping to rest, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Survival was his priority, and only by reaching Peines as quickly as possible could they truly be safe.
By twilight, they reached the outskirts of Morena. The once-bustling city was now a silent, charred mountain of ruins.
Richie steered the cart around the perimeter of the ruins. The grim sight of their former home silenced the women, and Richie heard several of the girls weeping softly.
This was no place to linger. He accelerated his pace.
He had originally planned to camp at seven, but he wanted to put as much distance between them and the ruins as possible. He pushed the cart through the dark, only stopping when the night grew so black he couldn't see ten feet ahead.
Steering into a dense forest near the road, Richie and his father set to work pitching their massive tents.
"Son, trusting you was the greatest mistake of my life," his mother groaned, shivering as she stepped off the cart. She was cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable.
Richie swallowed his tongue and kept working.
Pitching tents in the pouring rain was a grueling chore. They had to clear the sodden leaves, dig a drainage trench around the perimeter, and secure the pegs in the slick mud. He chose a slightly elevated clearing within the trees, which provided excellent cover and natural drainage.
Half an hour later, the tents were up. Richie ushered the women inside, then retrieved their water keg and food bags from the cart.
Inside the tent, the damp cold was stifling, the heavy patter of rain against the canvas creating a relentless, drumming din.
"A warm fire would be a miracle right now," his father muttered.
Richie set the supplies down. "We thought about bringing a brazier, but it was too dangerous. We'd have to cut a vent and install a chimney, and there was no room on the cart for coal."
He crawled back out into the rain.
He didn't want to remain in the tent; his mother was a volatile powder keg right now, and his presence would only invite her wrath. If she saw him out in the cold rain, her motherly concern would eventually override her anger.
Besides, he had scouting to do.
Walking to the cart, Richie opened a hidden compartment behind the rear seat and retrieved a helmet.
Like his soft armor, the helmet was flexible and could be folded flat. It was a terrifying piece of gear: a curved, one-foot-long blade protruded from the crown like a horn, and the surface was studded with walnut-sized metal spheres and raised, vein-like wiring. The eyeholes were fitted with thick, crimson glass, and a solid plate covered his lower face. When worn, the helmet sealed his head completely.
The moment he pulled the helmet over his head, the dark world transformed.
To his eyes, the pitch-black forest was bathed in a pale, clear light. He could easily map the terrain up to five hundred meters away.
His hearing, however, remained muffled by the relentless roar of the rain and rushing streams.
Richie sprinted toward a nearby steep hill that rose some three hundred meters above the road. Standing at the peak would give him an excellent vantage point, and in case of an emergency, the rugged terrain would offer a perfect defensive retreat. These were lessons he had drilled into his mind during his time with the squad.
The hill was exceptionally steep, but to an armored Knight, it presented no obstacle.
With a series of soft *clicks*, sharp steel claws snapped out from his gloves, while steel studs emerged from his boots and knee guards.
He scaled the cliff face with the agility of a mountain ape, his enhanced strength and specialized tools making mockery of the steep incline.
Within minutes, he stood at the summit, scanning the surrounding landscape. He could see the dark, tragic silhouette of Morena in the distance.
Along the main road, several campfires flickered in the dark—the miserable encampments of refugees who had failed to reach a town before nightfall. Richie ignored them; no enemy patrol would be foolish enough to light fires in the rain.
He focused his gaze on the dense woods lining the road some two kilometers away. That was the most logical place for an ambush.
A Magitech Transport could travel across rough terrain, but standard refugee carts were bound to the main road.
Switching the helmet’s display mode, the gray world shifted to a vibrant thermographic spectrum. The distant campfires flared like miniature suns, while the cold stone road remained a dark, heatless ribbon.
Richie scanned the woods again. Most of the terrain registered as a uniform, cold blue.
Seeing no immediate threats, Richie sat on a wet boulder. He didn't want to return to the tent until his mother had fallen asleep.
After a long silence, a sudden, brilliant flash of crimson heat flared within the distant woods. It lasted only a fraction of a second before vanishing.
Richie tensed, instantly dropping behind a boulder.
That sudden heat signature was the unmistakable sign of an armored transport’s door opening, releasing the pressurized heat of its cabin. Only a highly insulated, military-grade transport could contain its thermal signature so perfectly.
He waited for a long time, but the heat signature didn't reappear. Richie quietly slipped down the hill.
Stowing his helmet back in the cart, he crawled into the tent. The women were already fast asleep, utterly exhausted by the day’s journey.
Richie took a few survival cakes, some strips of salted meat, and a cup of water, settling down by the tent entrance. The dry cakes swelled in his stomach, and the fat in the meat provided a much-needed surge of warmth.
Despite his exhaustion, the knowledge that an unidentified military transport was hidden only two kilometers away kept him awake. He spent the entire night listening to the rain, his senses alert for the slightest discordant sound.
***
At dawn, Richie woke the camp.
His mother grumbled, but seeing no one support her complaints, she quietly put on her wet survival suit.
They packed the gear, pushed the cart back onto the main road, and set off. The women sat in silent exhaustion, leaning against the backrests as they drifted off to sleep.
"Go get some rest, Dad," Richie said, stepping to the front.
His father looked at his son, patted his shoulder, and climbed into the passenger seats without a word. He had noticed the girls' strange deference to Richie, and he was smart enough to realize his son was far more than a simple military errand boy. A mere commoner could never secure a military transfer or a customized cart. He knew Richie was harboring massive secrets, but he chose to trust him.
With his father resting, Richie pushed the cart himself, gradually accelerating into a rapid sprint. The heavy morning mist cut visibility to fifty meters, which was exactly why he had taken the helm; his enhanced sight allowed him to navigate the fog with ease.
The mist also ensured they had the road entirely to themselves.
By eight in the morning, the fog burned away, and the main road became choked with refugees. Richie handed the steering back to his father and returned to the rear to push, maintaining a high speed.
They repeated this grueling routine for six days—sprinting from dawn till dusk through relentless rain. Once they crossed the border of Lawor Province, both Richie and his father let out a collective sigh of relief.
They were finally out of the immediate war zone.
But the road ahead grew incredibly crowded, the massive sea of refugees slowing their progress to a crawl.
Richie walked to the front of the cart. "Dad, we should stop and rest. We'll sleep during the day and travel at night. The road will be empty then."
"Whatever you say, son," his father agreed.
His mother instantly sat up. "If we're stopping, let's find a town! I haven't bathed in a week; I feel absolutely disgusting."
"You always find something to complain about," his father snapped.
But seeing the same desperate pleading in the other women's eyes, Richie’s heart softened. "Let's find a place to rest, Dad. After today, we'll be traveling through the night anyway."
Checking the map, Richie found a small border town located just off the main road along a secondary path.
They turned onto the fork, and within an hour, the town came into view.
Though small, the town was remarkably prosperous due to its location. A single, U-shaped cobblestone street was lined with stables, inns, and general stores, all catering to the endless flow of travelers.
They stopped outside a modest inn near the entrance of the town.
The women practically tumbled out of the cart in their haste.
"Waiter! Do you have rooms with private baths?"
"Bring us some hot food immediately!"
"Do you sell scented soap?"
Their excited chatter instantly drew the attention of the inn's patrons. The travelers stared in confusion at their bizarre, steel-lined canvas suits, wondering if they were some strange military uniform. But seeing the four young children dressed in identical small-scale suits, they realized it was a private design.
Once they looked past the strange clothes and saw the stunning beauty of the women, many of the men’s eyes gleamed with interest.
Richie stood by the cart, his brow furrowing. He felt a cold, phantom gaze lingering on his back. He spun around, but the street was empty.
*A hallucination?* Richie couldn't be sure. He had felt this strange sensation of being watched for several days.
Suddenly, his gaze locked onto a figure across the street. This time, there was no mistake.
A scruffy, middle-aged officer in a blue reserve uniform stood there, his cap tilted at a rakish angle, staring directly at them. Behind him, inside a nearby building, several reserve soldiers were peering through the windows.
Richie knew trouble had found them.
Since the war began, many local thugs and gang leaders had been drafted into the reserve forces, using their authority to abuse the local population.
Richie stepped beside his father, whispering with his back to the officer, "Dad, we’ve got trouble."
His father looked up, instantly spotting the officer and the hidden soldiers. Having served in the reserves himself, he knew exactly how these thugs operated.
"Damn it," his father muttered. "This is all your mother's fault."
"We can't blame her entirely; everyone wanted a bath," Richie sighed. "But I made the mistake of changing our plans."
"Can you handle this, son?" his father asked, his tone surprisingly calm.
"I can handle the soldiers. I'm just worried about the women."
His father cursed under his breath.
Across the street, a squad of reserve soldiers emerged, quietly blocking the town's only exit.
Seeing his men in position, the reserve officer strolled over, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket.
"Hey there," he sneered, turning the paper to face them. It was a genuine arrest warrant for Paro Silva, the mastermind of the Morena disaster, who had fled after the defeat. "Have you seen this man?"
Richie glanced at the drawing. "Many people would love to find him," he said flatly.
"I have reason to believe you are all accomplices of this fugitive," the officer declared. "You're coming with me for questioning."
"Questioning?" his father spat. "Since when do reserves handle high treason? That's a matter for the military police. Bring me a real MP, and we'll talk."
"You'll see the MPs once we reach our headquarters," the officer grinned, his men closing in.
"Fine," his father said, to Richie's utter shock. "We'll cooperate. But my wife is bathing. We'll head over once they're finished."
The officer shrugged. In his mind, these beautiful women were already trapped in his web. Letting them wash up first only saved him the trouble of cleaning them later.
Whistling a tune, the officer walked to the three-wheeled cart. "Nice toy. I'll take it for a spin." He pushed the cart down the street toward a fortified stone house.
With the cart gone, he believed the family had no hope of escape.
"Dad, what are you playing at?" Richie whispered.
His father lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. "Your mother’s vanity has grown out of hand, especially since her sister arrived. She’s reckless, and her foolishness nearly cost you your life in the past."
He looked at Richie. "You've worked yourself to the bone for us—the cart, the suits, the transfer orders... everyone knows how much you've sacrificed, except her. She needs a harsh lesson, or she will get us all killed."
"But what if they hurt her?"
"I'm not blind, son," his father smiled. "I saw the girls hiding weapons in their sleeves."
Richie grinned. His father was indeed sharp.
The six girls each had a folding hand-crossbow concealed in their sleeves, capable of launching a bolt with lethal force within twenty meters. Emily also carried a three-shot revolver.
After an hour, his father patted Richie’s shoulder. "I'm going up to set the stage. Wait here."
His father entered the inn. Fifteen minutes later, a furious argument erupted upstairs, followed by the sharp *crack* of a slap.
Richie rushed up to the second floor. In the hallway, his mother was weeping, clutching her red cheek as she hid behind Aunt Ling. His father stood before them, his expression furious.
"I've pampered you for far too long!" his father roared. "In war, your foolishness will get us killed! I'll deal with you once we get to Peines!"
He grabbed Richie’s arm, dragging him toward the stairs.
As they passed the girls, Richie gave Isabella a subtle sign. The clever girl nodded, adjusting her sleeve to reveal the grip of her hand-crossbow.
Richie let out a breath. The girls were ready.
Once outside, Richie muttered, "That was a bit harsh, Dad."
"A harsh disease requires a harsh cure," his father sighed. "If she doesn't learn now, she won't survive the capital."
They walked toward the stone house where the cart had been taken.
A dozen reserve soldiers stood outside, watching them with mocking grins. Richie returned their stares with cold indifference.
Inside the stone house, several burly, tattooed thugs sat around a table, their eyes gleaming with malice. The reserve officer sat in a plush armchair, looking immensely smug.
But Richie's gaze locked onto a figure in the corner.
A man sat tied to a chair, his head hanging low. His hair was long and matted, and his face was covered in a filthy, tangled beard. He had once been quite stout, but his clothes now hung loosely over his emaciated frame.
Richie found the face familiar. He recalled the warrant.
"You actually captured Paro Silva?" Richie remarked, genuinely surprised.
"Indeed I did," the officer grinned. "And I've also captured his wealthy accomplices who tried to smuggle him out."
The plot was clear. The officer had captured the real Paro Silva, but rather than simply claiming the reward, he wanted to frame Richie's family as accomplices. This allowed him to seize their beautiful women and custom cart while claiming the credit for the arrest. The military tribunal wouldn't care about a few dead commoners.
Before the officer could speak, a massive thug behind Richie lunged, throwing a heavy punch at Richie's neck.
Richie perceived the strike easily. He didn't dodge; he simply focused his Aura at his neck.
With a sickening *crack*, the thug’s fist collided with the amber light of Richie's *Mirror Reflection*. The thug let out a blood-curdling scream, clutching his shattered, broken arm.
At the same moment, a sharp gunshot echoed from the inn.
Richie’s arm blurred.
A heavy steel nail buried itself directly between the reserve officer's eyes, piercing his brain. He died instantly, his body slumping in the chair.
His father gasped in horror. He knew his son was capable, but the cold, emotionless efficiency with which Richie took a life left him shaken.
"Oh no, Dad!" Richie cried out in mock terror, his voice dripping with panic while his hands remained perfectly steady. "He just confessed they're Paro's accomplices! They're going to silence us!"
His hands blurred again, launching steel nails at the remaining thugs. Every nail struck a lethal point—the forehead, the temple, or the base of the skull.
He loathed these opportunistic thugs who preyed on the helpless. Against such beasts, he showed no mercy.
With the room cleared, Richie walked to the corner, hoisting the emaciated Paro Silva under his arm.
"I've captured the fugitive! I've captured Paro Silva!" Richie roared, his voice carrying out the window. With the real Paro in his hands, they held the absolute moral high ground.
His father quickly recovered his wits. He grabbed a loaded rifle from the wall rack, aimed through the window, and fired at a reserve soldier outside.
The border town instantly erupted into chaos.
***
The gunshots carried across the valley.
A mile away at the main checkpoint, Lieutenant Jack Jab of the regular guard forces heard the gunfire. Fearing a riot, he gathered half his company and rushed toward the town.
But a few hundred meters from the entrance, a heavy military transport blocked the road.
Standing atop the cabin was a tall, handsome Knight in a pristine white commander's uniform adorned with gold shoulder straps and sashes. He leaned against the railing, looking thoroughly bored and sleepy.
Lieutenant Jack broke into a cold sweat. A white uniform signaled a Commander of the Elite Guards.
He knew the corruption that ran rampant in the border town, and he had happily accepted a share of the thugs' profits. But seeing a high-ranking commander block his path, he realized his career was on the line.
Running to the front of the transport, Jack delivered a crisp salute. "Lieutenant Jack Jab of the 2927th Division, reporting!"
The Commander offered a lazy wave of his hand. "Are the men in that town under your command?"
Jack quickly deflected. "They are reserve forces, sir. I've always found them troublesome, and I only tolerate them under High Command's orders."
"Excellent," the Commander drawled. "It seems your reserves were harboring the fugitive Paro Silva. You should draft a report for the High Command."
The lieutenant swallowed hard. harboring a high-treason fugitive was a capital offense.
The Commander shot him a lazy glance. "The war is going poorly, and the military is under immense pressure. If this scandal gets out, the fallout will be... unpleasant for everyone."
He raised an eyebrow. "You know what to do?"
Jack understood perfectly. Rather than sending the thugs to a messy military trial that would expose his own involvement, he would simply file a "desertion" report. In the military, a missing soldier with a record of misconduct was assumed to have fled.
No one would ever look for them.