As those two slender yet uncommonly agile figures vanished completely into the black night of the Yurilland wetlands, the atmosphere inside the tent fell into an eerily dead silence.
Bardess's half-joking word — "elope" — had landed like a pebble dropped into a deep pond. Even Daphne couldn't stop her eyelid from twitching.
Willow slowly turned her head. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the tent canvas and fell across one half of her face. That signature polite smile still rested at the corner of her lips — yet it carried a calm so bone-chilling it made one's spine go stiff.
"Commander Bardess, every step Her Majesty takes is as precise as the gears of a Griffin timepiece."
Willow's voice was gentle, yet carried an edge of steel beneath it.
"That word — 'elope' — is a piece of illogic I have no wish to hear again inside a Mason military camp. Now. We have more important things to attend to."
Bardess immediately nodded. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that Miss Willow had suddenly become an entirely different person.
She didn't know why — but Bardess decided this was very much a moment to keep her mouth shut.
With that said, Willow shifted her gaze toward Victoria, who was sitting to one side, attempting to use her ivory folding fan to conceal a deeply awkward expression.
With Sophia and Irene gone, and Delilah still unconscious, it fell naturally to Willow to take charge of what came next.
"Then, Your Highness the Third Princess."
Willow gave a slight bow, her tone courteous:
"Since you are to impersonate Queen Sophia going forward, we must ensure this performance is flawless on the surface. The first matter — is the question of your figure."
Victoria's fan-waving hand froze. Her pale-gold eyes filled with wariness.
"My figure? My face is already covered, my hair color and eye color both match — what else is there to nitpick?"
For some reason, she had a very bad feeling about this.
Willow said nothing. She simply turned to the luggage at her side and fished out a long roll of coarse white linen bandages.
"Her Majesty is sixteen this year, but due to prolonged overwork and a certain... inherent condition of her development, her figure has remained at an exceptionally streamlined level."
Willow spread the linen strip out without changing expression, her gaze passing — entirely without pretense — over Victoria's shapely, full silhouette, so thoroughly imbued with the refined air of a mature imperial noblewoman.
"And you... fall rather considerably short in this regard. If you were to be seen inside the carriage — even in profile alone — those shrewd Yurilland lords would notice that the Queen of Mason appears to have become substantially more... voluminous, over the course of a single day."
Victoria instinctively glanced down at herself, then recalled Sophia's chest — flat as a gentle slope in a meadow.
Victoria opened her mouth. She had been fully prepared to retort with dignity that such things were called charm.
But the moment she imagined actually being exposed for exactly that reason — and the look Sophia would give her upon returning, that stare as blank as a plank of wood — her whole body felt deeply uncomfortable.
"...Is this really necessary?"
Victoria offered a feeble protest.
"This is for the sake of logical rigor, Your Highness."
Willow smiled pleasantly.
Victoria heaved a long sigh, snatched the roll of linen, and — with the air of a condemned woman marching to the scaffold — stalked furiously behind the folding screen at the back of the tent.
From behind the screen came the soft rustle of fabric being adjusted.
Bardess watched Willow — whose demeanor had shifted so completely from moments before — and instantly understood why Her Majesty had entrusted the position of Chief Steward to the seemingly gentle Miss Willow.
Miss Willow looks so soft and sweet on the outside — but when she moves, she doesn't waste a single stroke.
She'd even accounted for a detail like this.
Then again, it made sense. Her Majesty's personality was like a straight, fine-edged blade. If Victoria had gone and sat in that carriage with all those conspicuous curves on display, that wouldn't be a tyrant — that would be the star of the Imperial Capital opera house.
That look Her Majesty gave before she left — she must have handed all of this over to Miss Willow without a word. She'd known all along that Victoria was different from herself, and had specifically left the linen behind.
The kind of wisdom that could treat an opponent's physical characteristics as a tactical obstacle to be managed — there probably wasn't a second person in the world capable of that, except for Her Majesty.
A moment later, the folding screen was pulled aside.
Victoria walked out wearing a thunderous expression.
The lake-blue dress she'd been wearing was gone. In its place was Sophia's signature black Gothic gown.
The high collar and wide cuffs concealed her originally vibrant presence, and under the brutal compression of the linen binding, her upper body had been rendered into a near-frigid flatness.
Willow stepped forward and carefully draped the heavy cloak embroidered with the Black Rose emblem over her shoulders, then finally set that small yet exquisite golden crown — the symbol of Mason's supreme authority — atop Victoria's own pale-gold hair.
When Victoria put on the mask, leaving only a pair of cool pale-gold eyes exposed, even Bardess, standing guard at the entrance, couldn't help rubbing her eyes.
"She looks... holy hell, she really looks just like her."
Bardess murmured under her breath.
"As long as you don't open your mouth and speak, and don't suddenly smile — those lords will be on their knees in the mud, trembling."
Willow regarded her creation with satisfaction and said softly:
"Very good. Your Highness, from this moment on, you are Sophia Mason. Every decision you make will determine the lives of four thousand soldiers."
This move was audaciously bold.
If anything went wrong on Sophia's end, Mason's side would need to immediately elect a new person to take charge.
Fortunately, Sophia had left Willow behind. She could manage the overall situation with room to spare.
The conversation inside the tent gradually faded.
Victoria sat in the seat Sophia always occupied, feeling the sensation of being pinned down by both logic and the weight of it all.
It was a strange experience. She was clearly playing a role — playing Sophia — yet through this crushing constraint, she touched for the very first time the weight that the little deadpan had been carrying all along.
"From here on, all we can do is wait."
Willow extinguished the extra oil lamps, leaving only one flickering faintly beside Delilah's cot.
Hailey and the little girl had already curled up in their bedding in the corner and fallen into a deep sleep. They knew — that formidable young queen had already slipped away into danger. They couldn't breathe a word.
Outside the tent, the insects of the wetlands chirped on and off through the night.
Willow, Bardess, and Daphne sat gathered around the dim lamplight, each busy with their own tasks — yet every breath they drew carried a silent prayer cast toward the distance.
Please let Her Majesty and Miss Irene... be safe.
On a forest path ten miles from the main camp, two black warhorses were streaking forward like bolts of lightning.
Sophia sat astride her mount, her body moving with the horse's rhythm in a near-mechanical steadiness.
She had already shed the heavy, elaborate black Gothic gown. In its place was a set of athletic wear that Irene had sewn by hand.
This garment — designed to Sophia's own specifications and refined by Irene — featured a tight-cuffed, wrist-bound cut, the fabric thick yet highly elastic, and concealed within it was even a layer of alchemical soft armor as thin as cicada's wings yet extraordinarily tough.
This kind of clothing is so much better to wear.
Sophia stared expressionlessly ahead, letting the cold wind beat against the brim of her black wooden conical hat.
Over it all, she wore a plain — even somewhat loose — Olan-style outer robe.
This overgarment was ingeniously designed. A single light tug at the hidden clasp at the collar, and the entire robe would slide off like a snakeskin, revealing the practical, close-combat-ready outfit beneath — built for rolling, grappling, and swift action.
Irene, riding close behind Sophia, was also dressed in a matching grey-black athletic outfit.
Slung diagonally across her chest was a custom leather weapons belt, bristling with glass tubes and powder canisters of various colors — she looked like a walking arsenal.
Though the nighttime gallop had set a faint ache burning in Irene's lungs, her sapphire eyes shimmered with a barely-contained, electric excitement.
The moment I put it on, I understood — this isn't clothing. This is a miracle of ergonomic engineering!
This athletic wear was still slightly different in material from the sports clothes of the world she'd come from before transmigrating.
It reduced resistance to an absolute minimum, and combined with the bulletproof soft armor lining, it was practically born for infiltration and combat.
Her Majesty must have run through countless simulations of this kind of small-scale special operations scenario — that's the only explanation for why she was so exacting about the placement of every single stitch.
Right now we're only two people — but with this kind of tactical thinking behind us, we're two invisible blades that can go straight for Olan's jugular!
Long live Her Majesty! Long live science!
They moved at tremendous speed.
Compared to a main column burdened with catapults, supply trains, and four thousand infantry, these two light riders on carefully selected warhorses were practically skimming along the horizon.
Two or three small border towns belonging to Yurilland lords flickered past — nothing more than a few blurry smears of light in the darkness, gone in an instant.
At this pace, they would arrive at Cors before dawn — a full day and night ahead of the main army's march to the frontier.
Cors.
It was the only anomaly in the entire wetland.
As the hub Olan had leased to Yurilland, this place had no carefully tended farmland — instead, it was thick with taverns, black markets, and trading posts belonging to merchants from every corner of the world.
The Yurilland people came here to seek profit. The Olan people came here to nail down their informants. And the opportunists from surrounding principalities came here to grab a slice of the pie.
In this place, gold coins were more useful than identity, and chaos was more common than order.
"Your Majesty, once we crest that ridge ahead, we'll be able to see Cors."
Irene shouted over the wind, her pink hair streaming wildly beneath her conical hat.
"That place has all kinds of people — in these getups, we'll blend in like two drops of water falling into the sea. Nobody's going to recognize us!"
Sophia didn't respond. She simply angled her hat a fraction lower.
She knew that entering Cors was only the first step.
If the King of Olan had been searching there for so long without finding the key, it meant that whatever it was had been hidden extremely deep — possibly involving some form of physical spatial concealment.
As long as the coordinates are correct, even if the Olan people have torn that place apart brick by brick, I can still use logic to deduce the only possible exit point for that object from the rubble.
Sophia's fingertips lightly traced the edge of the map fragment tucked inside her sleeve.
In the distance, the dull amber glow of Cors — which never went dark through the night — was already flickering in and out of sight.
For the merchants there, this was just another ordinary night of making money.
But for the people of Olan, Mason's sun had already settled, without a sound, above the back of their necks.
The sound of hoofbeats softened considerably once they reached the gravel road within Cors's jurisdiction.
Sophia and Irene could now make out the city gate ahead — a rough construction of raw timber and grey stone blocks.
This was the boundary between order and chaos — and the first settlement point of Jasu's blood debt.
The first sliver of morning light struggled through the heavy cloud layer hanging over the Yurilland wetlands, and fell stingily on Cors's dull, rough-hewn city walls.
Outside the city gate, a crooked line of several dozen people had already formed.
The morning dew had soaked the vendors' stalls, and the early risers trying to get into the city hunched their necks against the chill, suppressing a chorus of muffled coughs.
Sophia and Irene led their horses, quietly blending into the crowd.
Their hats were pulled low. Sophia's signature silver hair was stuffed firmly and completely inside the broad Olan-style outer robe.
From all outward appearances, they were nothing more than a pair of youngsters who had tagged along with some elder to broaden their horizons — and since they were a good head shorter than the adults around them, they looked positively frail.
So this is the caliber of security checks in a place like this.
Sophia looked ahead without expression, her eyes utterly unruffled — yet inwardly, she had already given this city's entire defensive system a failing grade.
Nominally a leased territory, but guards who couldn't even be bothered with basic questioning had practically tattooed the word "chaos" across the front gate.
Then again — that worked in their favor. It saved them a great deal of trouble.
Irene, close behind Sophia, was gripping her horse's reins with white-knuckled tension.
The powder canisters packed under her outer robe — capable of sending half a street skyward at a moment's notice — produced a faint clinking sound beneath the fabric, and her heart climbed all the way into her throat.
Yet the moment she caught sight of Sophia's straight, perfectly still back, all that anxious tension transformed instantly into something approaching fervent reverence.
Is this what Her Majesty's composure looks like? That poise that sets her apart from everyone else?
Her Majesty specifically chose to arrive at dawn — the hour when human physiology is at its most exhausted, and alertness is at its lowest — deliberately exploiting these guards' fatigue window.
And look at how she's standing. Not a trace of killing intent. She's blended in perfectly with this crowd of unwashed merchants.
The ability to switch in an instant from a queen who commands the world's attention to an anonymous youth by the roadside — what kind of terrifying degree of self-control must that require?
If I were one of those guards, I'd never think in a thousand lifetimes that the short figure standing there in a conical hat, patiently waiting in line, was holding a Mason seal in their hand — one capable of keeping the entire nation of Olan awake at night.
And this is even Her Majesty's first time doing something like this — yet she's already operating with complete ease.
Irene watched Sophia's profile and felt a swell of quiet awe.
Her Majesty truly is... unfathomable.
"Name. Where you from. What's your business in the city?"
When their turn came, the gate soldier didn't even bother to lift his eyelids.
He was half-leaning against his spear, clutching a chunk of hardtack so stale it could have been a stone, sending a shower of crumbs with every word.
Sophia raised one hand and lightly pressed down the brim of her hat. A voice — flat, devoid of any inflection, almost abrasive in its plainness — drifted out from beneath the brim:
"Passing through. Picking up a few things."
The soldier slanted a look at her.
The hat covered most of Sophia's face, leaving only a small, fair chin visible. Combined with the loose, baggy outer robe, she looked exactly like some noble family's young errand boy who'd come to the black market to fetch something.
"Buying things?"
People coming here to buy things was all he ever saw — he couldn't even be bothered to ask more.
The soldier let out a dismissive snort and waved his hand impatiently.
"Get in, get in, stop blocking the supply carts behind you. If those Olan merchant wagons run you over, don't come crying to me for compensation."
In his estimation, these two hat-wearing little runts barely came up to his shoulder, and they had none of that edged, dangerous air that armed fighters carried. However he looked at them, they seemed like a couple of rich family's servant boys who'd sneaked out without permission.
Experience told him that even if a short little nobody like that tried to start trouble, they'd have no real threat to speak of — all the merchant caravans in town had their own guards.
"Thanks."
Sophia dropped two flat syllables and, leading her horse, stepped steadily through the deep, shadowed arch of Cors's city gate.
Irene quickly ducked her head and followed. Once they had passed completely through that tunnel reeking of horse urine and damp rot, the world opened up before them.
Cors's streets were not wide — cramped, even.
The signs along the street were a chaotic jumble: Olan script, Yurilland characters, and even the cipher marks of certain underground guilds were visible everywhere.
Though it was still morning, the raucous din from the taverns was already seeping out through the thick wooden doors.
"Your Majesty, do we go looking for that thing now?"
Irene pressed close behind Sophia, asking in a hushed voice, her eyes glinting with a barely suppressed eagerness.
Sophia stopped walking, her gaze sweeping slowly across the clamorous street.
"There's no rush."
Sophia's fingers lightly traced the map fragment tucked inside her cuff, her cool voice dispersing quietly beneath the brim of her hat.
"We still don't know what that thing is."
She looked toward that Cors lord's manor in the distance — grim and foreboding in the morning light.
What they had to go on right now was only the name of this city, and the fragmentary words the little girl had managed to say.
The little girl had clearly been frightened out of her wits — so even now that she'd started speaking, her words were still muddled and unclear.
She had only said her name was Tulan, that her father had carved the name of this city somewhere on her, and that her father had once mentioned a name — Rita.
Beyond that, there were no other clues whatsoever.
The narrow cobblestone road was carpeted in puddles and horse dung. The air was a mixture of cheap barley ale, rotting leather, and low-grade spices.
The stalls on either side were a disorderly mess. Some of the bolder merchant caravans had simply parked their wagons sideways in the middle of the road, threw back the canvas, and started hawking their goods on the spot.
More commonly though, ordinary peddlers had simply laid down a scrap of cloth on the ground, tossed on a few rusted broken swords or several bags of mystery grain of dubious origin, and called it a stall.
Sophia and Irene led their horses, picking their way steadily through the flow of people.
In this place where even the air reeked of greed, two small figures in wide outer robes and conical hats blended in with utterly unremarkable ease.
Sophia's gaze drifted occasionally over the wares laid out on the ground — whether a blood-stained lump of iron or a chipped short blade, the moment her pale-gold eyes swept across them, the stallholders who had been bellowing prices at the top of their lungs would inexplicably feel a chill run down their backs, and instinctively fall silent.
Apart from the grotesque prosperity born of unchecked free trade, this place had virtually zero defense or order — though everyone here knew whose turf this was, and no one dared cause trouble.
Irene, following close behind Sophia, was in a state of rigid, high-alert tension.
Her sapphire eyes peered through the slits of her conical hat, watchfully tracking every person who drew near.
Each time someone stumbled into their path, Irene's hand would reflexively press down over the row of ice-cold powder canisters hidden beneath her robe.
Yet whenever she looked up and saw Sophia — maintaining that same poised, unhurried gait even in a place where filthy water ran freely in the gutters, as though she were simply strolling through a palace corridor — a fresh surge of awe would rise inside her like a tide.
Is this what Her Majesty's bearing looks like?
She appears to be strolling casually — but watch her feet. Every step lands with pinpoint precision, avoiding the filthiest puddles. Every place her gaze pauses is a supply node or traffic junction of this city.
Her Majesty must be deducing the actual logistical capacity of this city through the quality of the goods at those stalls, and simultaneously building a tactical sweep pattern in her mind for what comes later.
In a place where even breathing feels chaotic, Her Majesty can still maintain this absolute clarity of mind...
When will I ever reach Her Majesty's level — that realm where all things in the world are just inert posts to be assessed!
Irene drew a deep breath, doing her best to calm the heart that was hammering erratically from lack of sleep.
She reminded herself inwardly: Irene — if you're weak, you train more.
She quickened her pace a step, pressing close to Sophia's side and rear, and in a voice thin as a mosquito's whine, murmured:
"Your Majesty, that name the little girl Tulan mentioned — Rita.
Do you think it might be a person's name? Perhaps... the very key figure who knows where that thing the Olan people are so afraid of is hidden?"
Sophia's pace didn't falter — but beneath the brim of her hat, one eyebrow rose, barely perceptibly.
"Rita."
Sophia repeated the name softly between her lips, her cool voice swallowed perfectly by the surrounding noise of shouting vendors.
"If it is a person — someone who has kept a secret and stayed alive right under Olan's nose until now — then either she possesses enough combat capability to protect herself, or... she is herself part of this city's chaos."
Sophia tilted her head slightly, and a flash of efficient cold light crossed her pale-gold eyes.
"A person named Rita — if she truly exists somewhere in this city, the place she occupies will be inseparable from these three elements: gold coins, intelligence, or lives.
Tracking someone is troublesome, yes — but as long as the scope is narrowed down to individuals who could have had contact with royal attendants, the logic chain is actually quite clear."
Sophia lifted her gaze toward the taverns of Cors.
"Irene."
"Present! Your Majesty, your orders!"
"Keep all those bottles and canisters of yours secured. I'd rather we not cause an explosion before we even enter talking range."
Sophia issued the instruction in a tone as flat and unhurried as if she were discussing what to have for breakfast.
"Since we're looking for someone named Rita, we'll need to go to the kinds of places where she might be found and start asking."
Pushing open the tavern's heavy oak door, the outside stench of horse dung and wet earth was cut off in an instant.
In its place came a thick wave of cheap malt ale, tobacco smoke, and some unidentifiable grease-laden aroma.
The interior of the tavern was considerably more spacious than it appeared from outside. Several dozen alchemy oil lamps were fixed to the smoke-blackened rafters overhead, casting a steady, amber glow across the room.
Dozens of long tables were arranged in irregular clusters throughout the hall. Though it was only morning, nearly half the seats were already occupied.
Chain-mailed mercenaries, down-on-their-luck merchants swathed in silk robes, and a handful of foreigners with cold, calculating eyes were gathered around the wooden tables in low conversation, punctuated now and then by bursts of crude laughter and profane jibing.
"What can I get for the two of you?"
A waiter wearing a filthy apron wove nimbly through the crowd and appeared before them.
His sharp, clever eyes made a quick circuit of Sophia and Irene's nondescript outer robes, finally coming to rest on their boots — old-looking, yes, but laundered to spotless cleanliness — and his tone acquired a faint, ingratiating warmth.
Sophia raised one hand slightly, and tapped her fingertips twice against the tabletop with a quiet, precise rhythm. Her voice came out flat, without the faintest lilt:
"Two house stews and a jug of plain barley ale — no spices."
"Right away! One moment please!"
The waiter gave the table a quick wipe and slipped back into the shadow behind the counter.
Sophia and Irene chose a corner seat — tucked beside a window, with sightlines to both the front door and the kitchen exit.
Irene left her hat on, only lifting the brim a fraction to sip her tea.
She looked around curiously, taking in the tables carved all over with scratched lines, the boar's-head trophy mounted on the wall, and the rows of glass bottles lined up neatly behind the bar — and couldn't resist leaning close to Sophia, lowering her voice to murmur:
"Your Majesty, have you noticed? Outside, Cors looks like a mud pit — not much better than our slums back home. But the tavern in here is actually quite well put together.
Even the best tavern in Mason Royal City doesn't measure up to half of this."
In Irene's eyes, Mason Kingdom's entertainment venues were mostly still stuck at the "drink in a dirt hole, dance on a wooden plank" stage. This kind of social space — with its faint air of semi-industrial civilization — genuinely struck her, as someone who had come from another world, as something novel.
Sophia sat in the shadow, her pale-gold eyes operating like a precision scanner, sweeping the entire tavern — every weapon, every expression, every conversational rhythm — into a single, comprehensive picture.
"Not particularly surprising."
Sophia lowered her voice in kind, her tone cool and measured:
"The establishment of this kind of entertainment venue is, at its core, a release valve for surplus wealth once it has accumulated past a certain threshold.
The Kingdom of Olan's territory is more than ten times the size of Mason's. They have been absorbing surrounding mining regions and farmland for a century. For a nation of that scale, solving basic survival needs is merely the most elementary layer of logic — they have more than enough surplus productivity and wealth to construct these hollow entertainments."
At that, Sophia's gaze settled on the thick layer of grease coating the tabletop.
"Other small nations are still fighting desperately to ensure they don't freeze or starve to death come winter — while Olan's people have already started hunting for excitement in cheap wine and gambling.
Cors, as a leased territory, is a tumor on the outermost nerve ending of Olan's civilization — drawing in nutrients from the surrounding area, twisting into something warped and prosperous all at once."
Irene stared at Sophia in a daze. In that moment, even though Her Majesty was wearing a plain linen robe, the depth of insight she projected into the operating logic of the world felt more solemn than any idol standing in a temple.
Is this what Her Majesty's big-picture thinking looks like?
I only saw the tavern's décor — Her Majesty saw straight through to the surplus productivity and civilizational distortion behind it.
Her Majesty must be hinting that once we retrieve that thing Olan is so afraid of, Mason will possess this kind of prosperity — and surpass it, even.
But what Her Majesty wants is absolutely not this sort of filthy tavern. It's something more ordered — a more efficient civilization entirely.
She told me to keep the powder canisters secured — that can't have been only to avoid tipping anyone off. She must also be gauging whether this place has the potential and value to be converted into a Mason transit hub.
Your Majesty... just what kind of colossal clockwork machine is Mason, inside your mind?
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