Lin stumbled forward as a rough shove sent her tumbling to the ground.
"Ouch…" she winced, the cold dirt scraping her palms as she caught herself.
"We'll rest here."
The voice was stern, cutting through the air with authority.
Lin looked up, blinking against the light. The woman who spoke stood tall, arms crossed, her presence commanding. A blue feather adorned the top of her helmet, which covered her face from the eyes up—leaving only her mouth and delicate face exposed. Her revealed muscular arms bore faint scars, polished armor, and her shoulder plate, larger than most, gleamed with insignia.
Lieutenant: Rosalind Miley.
She scanned the perimeter with the cold vigilance of someone who'd seen too many battles to rest easy.
"Shouldn't we hurry back to base?" came a gruff voice from behind.
The second knight lumbered forward. His body was unusual, almost boulder-shaped, thick and dense like the earth itself, with limbs and helmeted head protruding from a round, plated core. A blue feather jutted from the center of his chestplate, like a brooch pinning his massive form together. His armor clanked with every lumbering step, dented from countless skirmishes.
Lieutenant: Cyrus Leofric.
He crossed his stubby arms with a metallic creak.
"The captain won't be pleased if we're late."
"I know," Rosalind replied in a low, serious tone.
Then her voice shifted completely.
"But my feet hurt so much!" she whined dramatically, flopping down on a nearby rock and pulling off one of her armored boots with a clank. "They're all swollen! I am not walking another step until someone does something about it."
Cyrus blinked behind his visor.
"You can't be serious."
"Of course I am, Cyrus. Now…" she pointed her foot at him with a triumphant smirk. "Massage. My. Feet."
A pause. Then, like a switch flipped in his brain—
"Of course, Miss."
The giant knight dropped to his knees in full armor with a metallic clatter, cradling her foot with surprising tenderness for someone his size.
Lin watched, deadpan.
"Knights are really weird."
Rosalind's gloved hand shot out, grabbing Lin by the collar and lifting her effortlessly into the air.
The mood shifted instantly. Her voice turned cold.
"You will tell us where Knife the Sharp is."
Her grip tightened. Lin's feet dangled.
"That man has slaughtered too many of our own," Rosalind continued, eyes sharp beneath her helmet. "Knights. Good men. All cut down."
She leaned in closer.
"He's not some petty criminal. He has proved himself as a threat."
Lin's eyes widened.
"And threats," Rosalind whispered, "get eliminated."
Rosalind dropped her without warning. Lin fell with a soft thud, catching herself on her elbows.
Rosalind turned, tossing her boot aside and slipping the other one off lazily. "Now be a good girl and cooperate."
She reclined dramatically, sticking her other foot at Cyrus again.
"Lead us to Knife the Sharp."
She didn't know what scared her more: Lin gritted her teeth and looked up at Rosalind defiantly.
"I won't tell you anything," she said. "He's my friend. And in 'The 100 Rules of Heroic Conduct', Chapter 37, page 5, it says: Never sell out your friends, no matter what."
Rosalind paused, one eyebrow twitching beneath her helmet.
She leaned down slowly, her smile curling in amusement.
"Oh? So you really do know him then."
Without warning, she dropped Lin back onto the ground.
Beside her, Cyrus's usual dopey posture shifted, his eyes sharpening behind the visor.
"Eventually," he said, his voice now deep and firm, "we'll get the information out of you, in some way or another."
He cracked his thick, armored knuckles with a metallic pop.
Rosalind stretched and yawned theatrically as she lay back on her makeshift bedroll.
"Cyrus, wake me up in an hour."
"…Understood," Cyrus said in a low, submissive tone, immediately moving to his post like a statue made of iron.
Lin curled up, her fists clenched around the hem of her skirt.
Branches cracked underfoot. Leaves scattered.
Matsu soared from tree to tree, every movement sharp with urgency. His breath came fast, the wind whipping past his face as he pushed forward, eyes focused.
"Hold on, Lin… I'm coming."
***
The ceremony was beautiful—balloons drifting overhead, confetti raining down as the people of District 1 cheered. Captain Iron rode through the celebration, the crowd applauding wildly as his caravan passed.
He paid them no mind.
"Wally, at least wave," Prudhomme said beside him, grinning. "There are some beautiful ladies out there," he added shamelessly.
Iron gave his master a strange look, then sighed.
"…Alright."
He turned toward Prudhomme—
—and Prudhomme froze.
His face twisted in horror.
"…Maybe not," Prudhomme muttered.
Iron blinked. "Is it my face again?"
"Yes," Prudhomme replied quietly.
Without hesitation, Iron punched himself square in the face. There was a dull crack, and his expression snapped back into place.
"Better," Prudhomme nodded.
Iron exhaled calmly. It was just a side effect of having once had a sword pierced straight through his skull
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through Iron's head. He bit his lip hard, blood welling as his face flushed red. He clutched his skull with both hands and slumped forward.
"Wally!" Prudhomme was instantly at his side.
He clicked his tongue in frustration. Another one…
One of Iron's attacks again—this time striking his brain.
"Why today…?" Prudhomme muttered.
The caravan came to a halt.
The door swung open, and Prudhomme stiffened. Outside stood the royals, waiting.
"…Not now."
He stepped out quickly, positioning himself to hide the fact that Iron was still inside. His face shifted instantly into a polite smile.
"It's an honor," Prudhomme said smoothly, gesturing in greeting.
Before him stood a royal family—two parents and their child. The boy looked around with clear disdain.
"So this is the Stone Wall of Level 2?" the child scoffed. "Good thing he's getting replaced."
Prudhomme ignored the insult and kept smiling.
"Now, now," the father said calmly. "Don't disrespect the Captain. He has done his best surveilling this… unfortunate level."
"Yes," the mother added, pinching her nose. "And why does it smell so bad?"
Prudhomme's smile twitched.
"Mr. Shepherd," the father continued, glancing around, "where is the new addition to the Tenka Goken?"
A vein bulged on Prudhomme's forehead.
"He is—"
"I'm here."
Iron's voice cut in.
Prudhomme turned sharply.
Iron had stepped out of the caravan.
Impossible.
He hadn't recovered—brain attacks usually took hours.
You're forcing yourself… putting on a brave face, aren't you?
"Oh! Captain Iron, of the Tenka Goken," the father said, startled. "I have heard much of your achievements." He extended a hand.
Iron shook it steadily.
"Actually," Iron said evenly, "I'm not part of the Tenka Goken yet. My master still holds that title." He gestured toward Prudhomme, who nodded.
The father froze, shock and embarrassment flashing across his face.
He cleared his throat.
"Ah… well. Shall we?" he said, gesturing toward the stairs leading up to the platform.
Iron nodded.