The dying Sarkaz warrior stared intensely at the charred remnants scattered across the courtyard stones. If his strategic deductions were correct, these blackened chunks of carbon represented the absolute entirety of what remained of the specialized infiltration team.
The legendary killers and high-priced "fiends"—handpicked from the deep barrens by their shadowy employer specifically to eliminate the Lord—had been reduced to ash as effortlessly as common insects.
Through the lingering smoke, he managed to identify a half-melted silhouette that used to be a distinctive heavy cleaver. It belonged to the vanguard commander of their operation. Though the metal had entirely run like liquid under the staggering thermal heat, the unusual, brutal shape of the hilt remained faintly discernible.
No wonder that stubborn woman had exhibited zero panic during their skirmish. Babel had established a flawless defensive contingency directly within Theresa's private quarters. He simply couldn't comprehend what sort of terrifying mythical powerhouse they had encountered to suffer such a total, instantaneous defeat.
Submerging into these chaotic thoughts, the broken soldier—who had already lost his grip on reality after Jeanne's initial strike—finally closed his eyes for the last time, allowing his consciousness to dissolve back into the eternal spiritual torrent of the Sarkaz race.
Jeanne cast a cool glance at the motionless figure. Once she confirmed the assassin's breathing had completely ceased and he wasn't simply staging a desperate performance, she turned on her heel and glided toward the upper levels to assess the situation.
As for disposing of the physical remains? In a lawless war zone like the Kazdel barrens, there was no local security force or constabulary to march in and demand an explanation for a lethal confrontation. Once the cleanup crews arrived to restore order to the sector, they could simply sweep the debris away along with the masonry ruins.
Still, the sheer magnitude of that upper blast troubled her. She recalled offering explicit guidance to Fafnir before leaving, requesting the child manage any potential combat encounters with a modicum of restraint. Why on earth had she unleashed such an excessive display of destructive power?
While Jeanne hadn't been entirely certain whether Theresis would commit to a desperate, head-on assassination attempt against the royal chambers, she couldn't exactly drag Fafnir along while she cleared out perimeter scouts. Leaving the young dragon to guard Theresa had seemed like the safest logistical choice.
Under normal circumstances, the arrangement should have amounted to nothing more than Theresa treating the child to premium snacks. But the moment an authentic threat manifested, no mortal monster on Terra could hope to survive a direct encounter with Fafnir.
Then again, Jeanne privately harbored the belief that a Sarkaz monarch who possessed zero desire to perish couldn't truly be brought down by conventional steel, regardless of the methods the attackers employed.
Naturally, an explosion of that scale couldn't possibly remain unnoticed. As Jeanne ascended the main thoroughfares, she crossed paths with dozens of anxious guards and logistics personnel sprinting toward the royal wing, their faces pale with worry that their beloved leader had fallen into grave peril.
However, the personnel maintained a cautious distance from the scorched threshold, hesitant to crowd the narrow corridors and inadvertently create a bottleneck in the event of a secondary assault. Instead, they congregated in the wide plazas, urgently waiting for definitive updates from the inner circle.
"Make way, please! Let me through!" Jeanne called out, gently nudging her way through the dense gathering to establish a clear path toward the primary suite.
Recognizing the newcomer as the Saintess herself, the crowd immediately split, smoothly carving out an open lane straight to Theresa's office so she could proceed without delay.
"Jeanne! I think I might have caused a massive problem!"
Before Jeanne could even cross the threshold, Fafnir came hurtling around the corner, launching herself into Jeanne's arms without slowing down for a single second. The child was clearly experiencing a wave of panic after realizing the sheer scale of the mess she had left behind.
Fortunately, outside of the incinerated intruders, no innocent bystanders had sustained injuries. The auxiliary rooms flanking Theresa's main office were completely unoccupied and contained zero essential equipment.
The administration had already transferred their critical archives and strategic assets onto the main decks of Rhodes Island weeks ago. Therefore, Fafnir's dramatic defense had ultimately done nothing more than introduce a massive structural opening to the external wall—a loss that, strictly speaking, fell under standard combat wear and tear.
"Fafnir didn't cause a problem at all! Didn't you successfully shield Theresa from harm? That is a triumph, not a mistake," Jeanne reassured, cradling the frantic child. She quietly regretted instructing the young dragon to hold back in the first place.
Her original concern had been that the child might instantly revert to her colossal, primordial draconic form to swat away minor targets, which would have been an absurd waste of energy akin to using a siege engine to clear out common garden pests.
Stepping into the ruined office, Jeanne noted a massive, ragged slash mark that bifurcated the stone floor and completely shattered Theresa's heavy mahogany desk. Standing beside the wreckage was Theresa herself, looking remarkably composed, though the hem of her pristine white gown was visibly torn.
The clean fabric of her lower skirt had been roughly shredded. Rather than a clean cut delivered by an assassin's blade, the damage looked suspiciously as though a pair of small hands had simply gripped the material and yanked it apart with brute force.
As Jeanne approached, the ring of elite bodyguards surrounding Theresa respectfully stepped aside, recognizing the individual who had orchestrated the defense. They quietly vacated the immediate vicinity to grant the two some privacy, leaving only a single newcomer behind.
Kal'tsit had just arrived, still wearing her surgical garments. Her sharp features were completely rigid, and her complexion had turned a dangerous shade of ash. It was painfully evident that she hadn't anticipated a crisis of this magnitude erupting the moment she turned her back on the command center.
Logically, Kal'tsit's immediate response should have been to track down the Doctor and demand an exhaustive explanation regarding the security failure. Yet today, she showed absolutely zero inclination to seek out the strategist—an omission that piqued Jeanne's curiosity.
"The Doctor was her primary patient just now. She suffered a sudden, severe collapse earlier today, which is precisely why Kal'tsit was entirely isolated from the external communication channels during the incursion."
As if reading Jeanne's unspoken confusion regarding the Doctor's absence, Theresa offered a gentle explanation while sifting through the surviving items on her damaged desk.
Jeanne finally understood why the supreme commander had been missing from the corridors all morning. She had assumed the Doctor was merely orchestrating another deep-cover reconnaissance assignment.
"How severe is her condition? Is she out of immediate danger?" Jeanne asked, her tone shifting into genuine concern. While she was well aware that the strategist's physical constitution was remarkably fragile, she hadn't realized her health had deteriorated to such a critical threshold.
"She has stabilized. Following emergency medical intervention, she can endure for a while longer," Kal'tsit explained, her voice entirely flat and devoid of emotional inflection. Despite the clinical delivery, Jeanne knew the reality behind those words was likely incredibly grim.
For a person who practically consumed specialized medication like regular meals to suddenly suffer an absolute physical collapse—demanding Kal'tsit's total, undivided focus to the point of ignoring a fortress-wide alert—meant the Doctor had likely stood with one foot inside the gates of death just hours prior.
Fortunately, Kal'tsit's legendary medical prowess had successfully dragged the strategist back from the brink once more.
While Jeanne and Kal'tsit were reviewing the medical details, young Fafnir detached herself from Jeanne's side and trotted over to Theresa. She stopped right in front of the monarch, staring up at her with an intense, unblinking gaze.
The display left Theresa momentarily baffled. Why is the child inspecting me with such an agonizing expression? Fafnir's features were twisted into a look of profound heartbreak, as though she were wrestling with a devastating personal sacrifice.
Following a prolonged, agonizing silence, Fafnir finally reached a painful resolution. She plunged her small hand into her tunic pocket, pulled out a heavy, glittering bar of pure originium gold, and extended it toward Theresa, her expression so tragic she looked as though she had just suffered a severe physical scolding.
"Fafnir tore your beautiful dress and broke your favorite room," the child whimpered, her voice cracking with unshed tears. "This is to pay you back for the damage!"
She vividly remembered that whenever she accidentally shattered an object during their travels, Jeanne would always provide financial restitution to the owners. Now that Fafnir possessed her own private wealth, she felt obligated to surrender her most cherished treasure to cover the costs, no matter how much it pained her hoarding instincts.
The puzzle pieces instantly clicked together in Jeanne's mind. The ruined gown wasn't an act of malice by the assassins at all—Fafnir had simply stepped on the hem or grabbed it too roughly during the chaos! She chuckled privately, realizing how absurd her initial theories had been.
Theresa let out a soft, melodious laugh. Instead of keeping the gold, she accepted the bar for a brief second, then reached into a nearby intact storage crate and produced several additional gold bullion bars, piling them gently into Fafnir's small arms.
"In that case, let's consider this a special reward from me to express my profound gratitude for Fafnir protecting my life today."
Watching the child's tears instantly vanish as her face lit up with pure, unadulterated glee at the sight of the extra treasure, Jeanne could only shake her head with a resigned smile. This young dragon was truly an unrepentant little hoarder.
"Who exactly authorized the strike?" Kal'tsit asked, steering the conversation back to the threat at hand. She refused to believe a loose gathering of lawless mercenaries would possess the sheer audacity to challenge a Sarkaz Lord inside her own stronghold.
"Many factions. The attackers represented a vast array of different sub-races from across the barrens," Theresa replied softly, her tone deliberately vague as if she wished to shield the physician from the harsher details of the internal betrayal.
The monarch declined to offer specific names. Her brilliant eyes held nothing but a deep, pervasive sorrow—though whether that grief stemmed from the personal violation of the attempt on her life, or from the tragic reality that her own people felt compelled to slaughter her, remained unsaid.
"The Doctor's recovery chamber still requires monitoring. I shall take my leave," Kal'tsit announced, her posture rigid.
Jeanne watched the ancient physician depart, noting that her fists had remained tightly clenched since she entered the room. Beneath that icy, clinical exterior lay a profound well of burning fury and lingering terror over what might have transpired if their defenses had failed.
Even an immortal scholar like Kal'tsit could feel the crushing weight of vulnerability, despite her absolute faith in Theresa's personal strength.
"Allow me to offer my authentic thanks once more," Theresa murmured, settling onto the remaining half of a fractured armchair as she looked up at Jeanne and Fafnir, her expression radiating warmth and genuine appreciation. "You both have preserved my life yet again."