"Mmph! Mmph, mmph!"
The man shook his head desperately, eyes filled with pleading — but in Sophia's gaze, he was nothing more than an ant beneath her feet.
"This Queen has no interest in knowing who his master is. Olan, Leighton, or the Imperial Capital — it makes no difference."
Sophia rose to her feet. The moonlight fell across her shoulders, making her look like a cold stone idol standing in judgment over all living things.
"Since he enjoyed Mason's roads, ate Mason's bread, and drank Mason's meat broth — yet chose to flee when Mason needed a blade..."
"Then this is the greatest desecration of Order imaginable."
"Victor. This man is yours."
"This Queen does not wish to see this sort of weed spoiling the scenery when the morning light comes.
And remember — don't soil the freshly laid cement road. That road is for heroes to walk."
"As you command, Your Majesty."
Victor's expression remained utterly cold as he seized the man by the scruff of his collar and dragged him out of the study like a dead fowl.
By the time the next morning's light split the horizon above the Royal City, every trace of the bloody business Victor had attended to was long since buried beneath the fresh, clean scent of earth and dawn.
But what truly sent the entire Royal City — indeed, the entire Kingdom of Mason — into a state of near-boiling frenzy was the conscription notice plastered on every street corner and alleyway.
Everyone had assumed the specter of war would bring panic. Yet Sophia had underestimated the ferocious, protective zeal that had taken root in her people — nourished as they had been by cement roads, Avalon dried fish, and the work-point system.
In the square before the Palace gate, ten conscription interview stations were laid out side by side in a single row.
Viewed from above, ten long serpentine queues of rough-spun linen and homespun cloth coiled out from the square, snaking all the way onto the still-unfinished black stone cement road beyond the city walls.
Because the conscription order had been issued across all of Mason's territory, it wasn't only residents of the Royal City who came. Even subjects who lived dozens of li away — those who had only just received their identity cards — packed their rations on their backs and traveled through the night, all for the chance to leave a fingerprint on that roster.
At each interview station, rough wooden tables had been stacked into makeshift counters, each one surrounded by subjects whose eyes burned with something close to sacred fire.
The selection criteria were strict — brute strength alone wasn't enough.
The Captains carried out Sophia's directives to the letter: a sound body, clear eyes, and the ability to lift a specific weight with one hand.
Captain Brown at Station Three wiped the sweat from his brow with a complete lack of dignity.
His once-immaculate armor was now caked with dust. The fingers that gripped his quill had developed thick calluses from three straight days of record-keeping, and his voice had been worn down to a rasp, as though someone had taken sandpaper to his throat.
"Next! You lot from the villages — stop shoving!
Slots are limited! If you're not in top physical shape, go home and farm for work-points!"
Brown bellowed, but there was a proud grin hiding behind those sharp eyes that he couldn't quite suppress.
This isn't a conscription drive. This is a market fair.
In three days I've slept less than four hours total.
These rough-handed farmers used to scatter the moment they saw anyone in armor. Now they're practically coming to blows with me over a reserve slot.
Watching them roll up their sleeves one by one to show off the muscle they've built through hard labor... I feel this strange ache in my chest I can't quite explain.
Tired? My old back is about ready to snap in half.
But what can you do — we drew the lot of serving under a sun like Her Majesty.
Watching these subjects fight like madmen to protect the roads she built and the homes she gave them — I think, wearing this Black Rose armor my whole life? Worth every single breath.
Even if I keel over dead behind this table, I'm going to pick out the sharpest fangs in the land for Her Majesty!
Deep in the queue, a broad-shouldered man drenched in sweat was thumping his chest and hollering at his companion.
"Brother, you've got to give it everything you've got!
I heard that once you're in the ranks, you get fitted with the bullet-resistant inner lining that Lord Irene designed herself.
That thing saves lives! Once I get mine, I'm taking it home to show the wife — our Mason soldiers are worth their weight in gold!"
"Stop showing off. I'm here for the Tier One wartime rations.
All-you-can-eat Avalon fish broth and salted wheat cakes, they say.
Her Majesty treats us like human beings — so we'll lay down our lives to be her city walls!"
Willow stood on the terrace, sweeping her monocular telescope across the endless queue below, then turned and gave a quiet report to Sophia, who was bent over her documents.
Three days. Ten stations spread across the city. Not a single incident of conflict — only orderly, spirited competition.
Your Majesty, do you see this?
This is Mason's true Order — flawless and unassailable.
You gave them a future through your compassion, and gave them confidence through your logic. Now they are giving you back bodies that will bend to nothing and break before they yield.
This state of total mobilization cannot be forced out of people with harsh laws and fear. This is the spontaneous evolution of their souls, accomplished beneath the radiance of your light.
If those cavalry riders knew what kind of people they were about to face, they would have fallen off their horses in terror right there at Iron Throat.
The last rays of sunset dyed the vast plains beyond the Royal City a deep, smoldering gold-red.
The wilderness, ordinarily silent, was shaken awake by the rolling thunder of footfalls — a sound like an oncoming storm.
It was ten thousand pairs of military boots, striking the newly hardened cement road in perfect unison, hammering out the rhythm that belonged to Mason alone.
In the Council Hall, Victor laid a weighty parchment scroll on Sophia's desk.
His voice was as cold as ever — but if one listened closely, there was a hoarseness in it born of something close to overwhelming awe.
"Your Majesty, the final selection roster is ready."
Victor knelt on one knee, and in his eyes burned a fervor unlike anything he had ever shown before.
"After removing those who failed the physical assessment and adding in our existing elite forces...
Mason's total armed strength has officially broken through ten thousand."
Sophia's fingertip slid lightly down the column of densely packed names.
Appended to that figure of ten thousand was an annotation that would cause every old-blood noble on the continent to drop their jaw:
Among the recruits: three thousand two hundred and six female soldiers, physically fit and work-point-assessed.
Sophia repeated the number softly. The pale gold of her pupils held not a ripple of surprise — as though this had always fallen within her calculations.
But she knew, with perfect clarity, what it meant to be able to field a professional army of ten thousand in this sparsely populated northern land.
Victor stared at the numbers on the page and felt, with absolute certainty, that he was standing at the dawn of a new age.
This isn't a conscription drive. This is a martial miracle Her Majesty cultivated from the bare earth with her own hands over the last six months.
In Olan, assembling ten thousand qualified soldiers would mean stripping dozens of territories bare — conscripting countless gaunt, starved serfs.
But every single one of Her Majesty's ten thousand has a healthy color in their cheeks and real muscle on their bones. That is the accumulated result of nearly six months of solid, plentiful nutrition.
And those three thousand female soldiers especially... the strength they built hauling cement on construction sites surpasses the male soldiers of neighboring kingdoms.
Her Majesty gave them equal work-points, and in return they gave her a devotion that borders on self-annihilation.
Opening conscription at exactly this moment — she did it to verify the final product of her farming plan.
These ten thousand are not cobbled-together cannon fodder. They are the terrifying chess pieces Her Majesty filled in, square by square, using Order and food.
On the flank of the Drill Ground, those three thousand female recruits stood in their own formation.
None wore powder or rouge. Their long hair was tied back in tight, practical knots, revealing faces reddened by the northern wind — but with eyes hard as iron.
Some had once been refugees in flight. Others had been farmwives who never dared step out from behind their husbands' shadows.
But in Mason, they had learned to work. They had learned to use their own two hands to earn a place in the world.
And when they looked up to see Sophia — their Girl Queen — blazing above the throne like the sun itself, the seed of awakening that had long lain dormant in their hearts finally grew into something that could reach the sky.
"We don't need to be protected. We want to be Her Majesty's shield!"
A female soldier lifting a stone weight growled the words under her breath, low and fierce.
For them, enlisting was not about the pay. It was about defending the Black Rose age that had allowed them to live as human beings.
With General Delilah away on the Olan border intercept mission, training on the Drill Ground had been handed to the Captains she had personally trained.
"Everyone, stand up straight!
Don't think that because the General isn't here, you can slack off!"
Captain Brown's voice was nearly gone — barely a croak — but he still cut through the formations, training rod swinging.
I'm tired enough to lie down on this cement floor right now. But looking at this formation — endless, and alive with something I can't name — every drop of blood in me feels like it's on fire.
General Delilah isn't here, but her killing intent lives in our bones.
Her Majesty entrusted the shaping of ten thousand raw soldiers to us, the lowest-ranking officers. What kind of trust is that?
We're teaching them more than three killing moves. We're teaching them Her Majesty's logic.
Watching these recruits transform from loose sand into something as hard as a city wall — round after round of running and shouting — I finally understand why Her Majesty has them training right after a full day of labor.
This is what Her Majesty called dynamic equilibrium.
When these ten thousand are fully forged into a single edge, forget a thousand cavalry — even if all of Olan came at us at once, they would be shattered to dust the moment these soldiers let out a single unified roar!
Willow stood on the terrace, watching ten thousand soldiers run their final large-scale formation drill beneath the moonlight.
The steady, unified beat of their footsteps sent a faint tremor through the solid walls of the Palace itself.
Your Majesty, the first batch of bullet-resistant inner linings has been issued to the three thousand female soldiers as priority testers.
Willow draped a cloak gently over Sophia's shoulders.
"Lord Irene says that female soldiers have greater physical flexibility, which makes them better suited to testing the articulation of those composite layered panels.
If the design proves sound, all subsequent units will be produced to the same standard.
And Lord Daphne... she has nearly filled every wooden barrel in the laboratory with coagulant solution."
Sophia gazed out the window, fingertips tapping lightly on the sill.
"Now that our troop strength has reached ten thousand, the original defensive plan needs to be expanded accordingly.
Tell Valery: don't be stingy with the grain. Have the logistics department activate Level Two wartime rations."
―――
From the far end of the Drill Ground came a series of deep, rhythmic cracks — muffled, yet piercingly sharp even beneath the roar of ten thousand voices.
That was the expanded Black Musketeer force, now eight hundred strong.
From the day-and-night roar of Irene's factories, these weapons — which Mason's subjects regarded as a covenant with thunder itself — had at last completed their first phase of large-scale deployment.
These eight hundred were isolated in a separate cement-floored shooting range.
Unlike the close-quarters combat of ordinary soldiers, the additional training here resembled a discipline in cold precision.
"Load! Level! Lock your breath!"
The Captain's whistle rang through drifting smoke.
Eight hundred soldiers moved as a single body. Black gun barrels caught the dying light of the sun, gleaming with hard, merciless luster.
They ran not only the standard loaded long-distance runs, but held their firing stances with bricks hanging from both arms.
Her Majesty says we are Mason's ranged Order.
My shoulders are bruised purple from the recoil. The smoke has my eyes streaming. But when I look at those wooden targets torn apart by the rounds, I feel a pride I have never felt before in my life.
Lord Irene says that every single bullet in these black muskets represents the work-points of every last subject in this city.
Her Majesty entrusted us with the most costly resource she has. Then we owe it to her to repay that trust with the skulls of her enemies.
Tired?
In the face of a sound like this — like the earth cracking open — fatigue is nothing but an insult to the force we carry.
We are not merely firing weapons. We are tolling the death knell that greets Her Majesty's enemies into her glorious age.
Deep within the Palace, in a small private training courtyard, the air was so still one could hear the whisper of cloth and the heavy thud of impact.
Sophia wore nothing but a clean, close-fitting training tunic, silver hair tied back with a single silk ribbon.
Her wooden practice sword and Willow's flexible blade wove a tapestry of overlapping afterimages in the moonlight.
Crack!
The two swords met. Sophia's wrist snapped forward with a force as immovable as a mountain — and Willow's arm shuddered at the impact, a dull ache blooming in the web of her palm.
Willow slid back like a violet shadow, breathing slightly ragged.
She looked at the cool, composed young woman before her, and her heart turned over with a shock she couldn't contain.
Has Her Majesty's rate of growth... transcended the human boundary?
Even drawing on every combat technique I possess, I feel as though I'm walking on thin ice against her strength.
It isn't merely muscle. It is Her Majesty's absolute, total command of every inch and fiber of her own body.
There is no ornamentation in her sword style — every strike is the logical endpoint of pure efficiency.
The Her Majesty of today is no longer the princess who needed to be shielded at every turn. She is personally forging herself into the sharpest, hardest core of the Black Rose.
Sophia lowered her blade, breathing lightly, and accepted the warm cloth Willow held out.
"Delilah's letter came through five days ago."
Sophia's voice was level and clear, her fingertip tracing the hilt of the practice sword.
"At her march speed, she's likely already past the mouth of the old mine road by now."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Willow steadied her still-racing heart and replied softly.
"Since General Delilah has already recovered the samples, the moment she enters the city will be the same moment that thousand-strong enemy cavalry rides into the encirclement around the City of Hill."
"A thousand men..."
Sophia let out a cold laugh. In the darkness, the pale gold of her pupils carried a bone-deep chill.
"Earl Guderian has miscalculated two things."
"First — he has no idea how smooth Mason's roads are now."
"Second — he has no idea what kind of fanatics his thousand men are riding into. People who would fight to the death for their work-points."
"Your Majesty is brilliant."
Willow dipped into a slight curtsy, her eyes full of reverence.
"The trap in the City of Hill is laid and waiting. All that remains is for those arrogant knights to come and fill Her Majesty's cement mold."
The night deepened. The gunfire on the Drill Ground gradually fell silent, replaced by an eerie, pre-storm stillness.
Sophia had just been helped into a long robe embroidered with the dark Black Rose pattern when rapid footsteps sounded outside the study door.
Heavy, deliberate steps, accompanied by the scrape and clink of metal plates — clearly a messenger who had been riding hard over a long distance.
"Urgent report!"
A border sentinel entered at a near-run, his armor caked with dust and stuffed with dried grass at the joints. He didn't pause to wipe the sweat from his face — just dropped to one knee, his voice tight with the urgency of someone who had been on high alert for too long.
"Your Majesty, an urgent dispatch from the border!
Multiple suspicious shadows have been spotted in the forest near Iron Throat Pass.
They travel light and move fast, attempting to slip through the dense woodland alongside the old mine road and into Mason's territory.
The border garrison is now on full alert. As per your instructions, we have not flushed them out — only sealed every exit point tight."
Sophia walked to the window and pushed it open, letting the cool night air rush in.
No surprise crossed her face. If anything, she looked like someone who had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
"Three separate groups of shadows?
It seems Earl Guderian's appetite is even more impatient than I imagined."
Sophia tapped lightly on the windowsill.
"They probably haven't realized yet that Mason's walls are nothing like the crumbling stone heaps they remember."
At the mention of the border defenses, the sentinel's eyes blazed with something close to zealous pride.
Those spies must be out of their minds.
They could slip in before because the old border walls were riddled with gaps.
But now?
Under Her Majesty's grace, the combat engineering squads used that grey powder — black stone cement, hard as wrought iron — to connect all the old broken sections into one seamless iron curtain.
I watched a boulder weighing a thousand jin get welded into the foundation by cement. Unless they can sprout wings and fly over, any attempt at infiltration under Her Majesty's Order is nothing but a farcical act of suicide.
And besides — our eyes are a lot sharper than they used to be. That's what you get when you're eating dried fish every day. Energy to spare.
Sophia turned from the window. The pale gold of her pupils burned deep and clear in the candlelight — and then she spoke words that shook the exhausted sentinel to his core.
"You've worked hard."
"You rode hard to get here, and the horse is spent — and so are you."
Sophia turned to Willow and said, with unhurried calm:
"Willow, see to him.
Have the kitchen bring out a bowl of fresh fish broth with thick cuts of meat, and a portion of soft wheat cakes with white salt.
Give him a room in the side quarters of the Bedchamber wing to rest. After three hours, have him collect this Queen's sealed orders and ride back to his post."
The sentinel froze.
Then he drove his forehead into the ground with a force that rang out across the room.
"Th-thank you, Your Majesty, for your grace! I would die ten thousand deaths in your service!"
Her Majesty knew I was hungry... she even arranged a place for me to rest herself.
Under other lords we were nothing but messenger rats. You could run a horse to death and no one would spare you a second glance.
But Her Majesty treats us as brothers-in-arms. As heroes.
That bowl of broth is her way of saying our lives matter to her.
I'll eat fast, and ride back even faster. And if anyone dares scratch a mark on Her Majesty's walls, I'll plug that gap with my own body.
Willow led the grateful sentinel away, and felt her veneration for Sophia rise yet another notch.
That move of hers is worth more than any sum of gold.
She doesn't need coins to buy loyalty.
One bowl of hot broth. Two words — 'you've worked hard.' And it's enough to turn soldiers on the frontier into the hardest nails in the wall.
She makes sure this kind of hardship is seen by everyone — and in doing so, she tells all of Mason: sweat for the Black Rose, and Her Majesty will never let your heart grow cold.
That is why those ten thousand soldiers are so utterly ferocious — because they know that beneath Sophia's wing, every act of loyalty will receive the most sacred answer.
After settling the grateful sentinel in, Willow passed through the quiet corridor and gently pushed open the door to Sophia's room.
The chamber was dim, lit only by a few elegant alchemy lamps casting a soft, warm amber glow.
Sophia had already removed her heavy cloak and reclined in a silk sleeping robe on the chaise beside the window.
Her silver hair spilled loose like liquid moonlight, shimmering faintly in the low light.
Willow did not speak at once. Instead, she reached for the ivory comb on the nearby ebony stand and moved quietly to Sophia's side.
Her slender fingers eased through that cool, silken silver hair with the delicacy of someone handling the most precious thing in the world.
"According to the attendant I sent to check, the soldier has already fallen asleep — he cried his way through two whole bowls of broth and kept saying that even his dreams would be filled with Her Majesty's grace."
Willow's voice was low and soft, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, as she leaned slightly forward, her warm breath drifting past Sophia's ear.
Sophia let her eyes fall half-closed, allowing Willow's precise, tender strokes to ease the exhaustion from her neck.
"Grace is for the living."
Sophia's voice floated through the night air like something otherworldly.
"The dead have no use for broth. They only need headstones.
And the thousand Olanese soldiers who are about to arrive — they don't even deserve that much."
A quiet agreement surfaced in Willow's eyes.
So many rulers neglect the living, yet lavish posthumous honors and grand funerals on the dead — who can no longer receive anything at all.
But Her Majesty is different.
The way she looks right now — I want to keep her here, locked in this night, forever.
This mingling of cold serenity and deadly intent is more intoxicating than the strongest spirits.
Watching this silver hair flow between my fingers, I know — nothing in this world could ever catch my eye again.
"Your Majesty."
Willow continued to press gently on Sophia's shoulders, and gathering her nerve, asked softly:
"The trap in the City of Hill is already set — but those thousand cavalry are Olan's finest. You seem so certain they will simply vanish. Have you already arranged their final ending within your logical framework?"
Sophia opened her eyes. The pale gold of her pupils caught the lamplight, intelligence shimmering within.
"Willow, why do you think Delilah chose to send back news of Avalon at exactly this moment?"
Sophia reached back and closed her fingers around Willow's hand — the one still pressed against her shoulder in massage. The touch was cool, yet carried the force of someone who held all things in their palm.
____
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