"Full retreat! Fall back, everyone!!"
The officer waved his arms frantically, barking orders at the top of his lungs. By the Saints, what kind of bad luck had befallen him? Why did he have to run into this mess? He had been assigned to lead these cursed nobles on patrol precisely because the fortress command was worried about them getting into trouble elsewhere. That was why he had deliberately chosen the safest possible route. So why on earth had they stumbled right into a pack of these damned savage beasts? What in the blazes were the outer perimeter patrols doing? How could they have made such a colossal mistake?
But now was not the time for recriminations. The officer spun around, his gaze locking onto Black, who stood nearby.
"Sir, take your people and retreat at once! We'll hold these beasts off for as long as we can. Make for the fortress immediately! Once you're inside the walls, you'll be—"
The officer's words died in his throat. At that very moment, the cyclops' deafening roars and the thunderous crash of boulders came to an abrupt halt. He frowned in confusion. From what he knew, these damned beasts should have been charging at them, roaring all the way. What was going on?
Curious, the officer lifted his head and peered down at the valley below. His eyes widened in stunned disbelief.
Not far away, the cyclops—once so fearsome and triumphant—now lay motionless on the ground, their bodies already cold and stiff.
Or rather, they were drawing their last breaths.
Their once-mighty frames now crumpled like heaps of rotting mud. Their gaping maws contorted into grotesque, frozen snarls. Their deep brown skin was now streaked with sickly patches of greenish-black. As the officer watched, the one-eyed monsters writhed violently on the ground, their limbs flailing in desperate, futile struggle. Their mouths stretched wide in silent agony—then, one by one, they fell still, their last breaths escaping them in ragged gasps.
What in the world had happened?
The patrol soldiers exchanged bewildered glances. They had been so busy diving for cover, so focused on evading the cyclops' boulder barrage, that they had barely had time to catch their breath. Yet in the span of a few short minutes, the battle was over? How had it ended so quickly? What had they missed?
It was not just the patrol soldiers who were stunned. The young nobles mixed in with Black's group were equally shocked—though for an entirely different reason.
When the cyclops first attacked, the young nobles had felt no fear or panic. On the contrary, they had been positively thrilled. Unlike the soldiers, they knew exactly how formidable Black and his followers were. True, the cyclops were bizarre-looking and toweringly huge—but Black's group was more than capable of handling them. The young nobles had leaned forward in eager anticipation, their eyes wide with excitement, ready to watch a spectacular display of combat.
How would the esteemed Lord Black deal with these monsters? Would he order Lady Judy to lead her female swordsmen in a charge? Would he send the orc mercenaries to clash with the cyclops in a test of brute strength? Or would he let those two little twin sisters take the field and wipe the monsters out in one fell swoop?
But as the young nobles waited with bated breath, they saw Black merely glance at the monsters below, hold up a finger to test the direction of the wind—and then snap his fingers casually.
"Charlotte."
That was all he said.
The young nobles stared, dumbfounded, as the quiet maid who had been standing faithfully behind Black this entire time reached into her pocket and pulled out several small glass vials. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled them toward the cluster of cyclops.
The vials were tiny, so small that the cyclops never even noticed them falling. But when they hit the ground and shattered, they released a cloud of thin, pale green mist. To the human eye, the mist looked no more than a strange, eerie fog. But the moment the cyclops inhaled it, they began to convulse violently.
Their charge ground to a sudden halt. Their powerful arms went limp, hanging uselessly at their sides. The greenish-black discoloration spread across their skin like a plague. The cyclops opened their mouths wide, gasping for air as if they had been pulled from the depths of the ocean and tossed onto dry land. Then, one by one, the seemingly invincible monsters collapsed to the ground. They clawed desperately at their own throats, their fingers tearing chunks of flesh from their necks. Their single eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets. And then, after a few final, agonizing twitches, they breathed their last.
The sight sent a chill down the young nobles' spines. They had sparred with Charlotte before, of course. But to these young men, the maid's fighting style had always seemed… *underhanded*. She never engaged in direct combat, never relied on brute strength to win. To their way of thinking, such tactics were dishonorable, unworthy of a true warrior. After all, war was supposed to be a noble, straightforward clash of arms—poison, assassination, and sneak attacks were the tactics of cowards, fit only for contempt. What was more, the injuries Charlotte had inflicted on them in the past had been painful, but never life-threatening. Compared to the raw, overwhelming power of Judy, the twin sisters, and the orc mercenaries, Charlotte had always seemed the least intimidating of Black's followers.
But now, as they watched the cyclops die in agony—these towering monsters that even the fortress's elite soldiers feared—they finally realized just how terrifying Charlotte truly was. To see creatures so strong and ferocious reduced to whimpering, convulsing messes by a few tiny glass vials… to watch them tear at their own throats, their bodies twisting in unimaginable pain until they breathed their last… it made the young nobles' blood run cold. They could not help but imagine what would happen if those vials had been thrown at *humans* instead.
The answer was all too clear.
After that, the young nobles unconsciously took a step back from Charlotte, putting as much distance between themselves and her as possible—as if she were a walking poison, deadly to the touch.
As for the patrol soldiers, though they had not witnessed the cyclops' demise firsthand, they knew something was wrong. In all their years of fighting these monsters, they had never seen anything like this. Whatever had happened, it was almost certainly the work of these nobles. But staring at the cyclops' corpses, the soldiers were at a loss to explain exactly what had transpired.
Nevertheless, duty called.
"Enemy attack?"
Celt tore his gaze away from the report on his desk and looked up at the adjutant standing at the door.
"Is it the Sith Empire's forces?"
"No, milord. From what we can tell, it's those monsters again. Reinforcements have already been dispatched. Let's hope this time we can teach those damned beasts a lesson they won't forget."
"I see."
Celt nodded slowly. The cyclops tribe's recent raids had been a nuisance, to be sure—but his greatest fear was the Sith Empire's military movements. Though the Sith had been quiet lately, intelligence reports indicated that they were massing troops in secret. Celt did not know their exact plans—but that was precisely why he dared not leave the fortress, why he had to keep his most elite troops in reserve. It was a necessary precaution, but it meant that the burden of dealing with the cyclops had fallen squarely on the shoulders of the overstretched patrol soldiers.
Celt sighed deeply, then suddenly spoke up.
"Which patrol unit sent the distress signal?"
"Patrol Unit Twenty-Five, milord."
The adjutant looked slightly surprised by the question, but answered promptly. Celt frowned when he heard the number.
Unit Twenty-Five was an *inner perimeter* patrol. Had those damned beasts already broken through the outer defenses? That was not good news at all. Wait a minute—why was it an inner perimeter unit that sent the signal? What had the outer patrols been doing? Why had they not raised the alarm? Or was it possible that…
"Who is in command of Patrol Unit Twenty-Five?"
"Captain Kelly, milord. His patrol route and schedule are… wait a minute. Today, he was assigned to lead a group of nobles on patrol as well?"
Nobles?
Celt raised an eyebrow.
"What nobles? Why wasn't I informed?"
"A group of minor nobles from a remote region, milord. According to the report, they're from the Twilight Forest." The adjutant paused, as if suddenly remembering something, then added, "Oh, right! They also claimed that they were personally invited to the fortress by you, milord."
As the adjutant spoke, he could not help but feel a twinge of schadenfreude. Even soldiers understood the rigid hierarchy of the nobility. A minor lord from a backwater like the Twilight Forest—one without even a proper title—was little more than a glorified commoner in their eyes, not worth the time of day compared to the highborn nobles of the capital, let alone the great lords of the realm. And this was the Crimson Fortress, for the Saints' sake! The home of one of the kingdom's three elite legions! Here, the legion commander's word was law—even marquises and counts dared not contradict him. For this lowly provincial lord to claim that he had been personally invited by the great General Celt? He was nothing but a country bumpkin, spouting empty boasts. The adjutant was certain that once Celt heard about this, he would have the impudent nobles thrown out of the fortress on their ears.
But no sooner had the words left his mouth than the adjutant saw his commander's face darken.
"From the Twilight Forest? Why wasn't I notified immediately?!"
"I-I apologize, milord! They only arrived yesterday afternoon…"
"And why wasn't I informed *then*?!"
"Well… you were in the middle of an important meeting, milord, and they were just a bunch of minor nobles…"
"Enough."
Celt waved a hand, cutting the adjutant off mid-excuse. He knew he was overreacting—and strictly speaking, it was not his subordinate's fault. He had been the one who had let this slip through the cracks. If he had been warned earlier, this mess might have been avoided. But there was no point in blaming his men now. Celt stood up quickly, his expression grave.
"Where are they now? Take me to them at once."
Seeing the legion commander's serious expression, the adjutant knew something was wrong. He wasted no time leading Celt out of the fortress keep and toward the district where Black's group was staying. When Celt saw the courtyard where they had been quartered, his frown deepened.
Whether out of a desire to humiliate the nobles or simply because they did not believe their outlandish claims, the soldiers had assigned them the most remote, cramped quarters in the entire fortress city. The place had once been a stable; now, it had been converted into a makeshift barracks. It was technically habitable—but only just. The conditions were abysmal.
"Really…"
Celt stared at the courtyard, his brow furrowed. He doubted the young lord from the Twilight Forest would be offended by such a trivial slight—but Celt had personally invited him to the fortress. To have him lodged in a former stable was a slap in the face, a stain on Celt's honor. He shook his head, dismissing the thought, then pushed open the courtyard gate and stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a clear, melodious voice reached his ears. It was a voice that struck him like a bolt of lightning, freezing him rigid where he stood. For a split second, the old general wondered if he had gone deaf—or if he was hallucinating, seeing things that could not possibly exist.
But no matter how hard he tried to deny it, what his eyes saw and his ears heard was real. There was no mistaking it.
"Regarding today's training schedule—I will relay your concerns to Lord Black when he returns. I expect it will remain unchanged, as it has been for the past few days. As for the specifics of the training, Lady Judy will continue to be in charge. I don't imagine the fortress command will allow us to train alongside their troops… so for now, everyone is to continue with their usual routines. There will be no changes for the time being."
Standing in the center of the courtyard was a slender, beautiful young woman, addressing the assembled group with poise and confidence. Her delicate, elegant features radiated a captivating charm. Her smooth, porcelain-like skin complemented her violet hair perfectly, leaving onlookers spellbound. Her bright blue eyes—clear as crystal—sparkled with the same quiet resolve and self-assurance Celt remembered so well. The sight was hauntingly familiar. Once upon a time, he had stood in a crowd just like this, listening to her speak, gazing up at her in admiration. She had been the crown jewel of the royal family, the beacon of hope for the entire kingdom.
"Princess Ophelia!!"
When Celt finally found his voice, he was already on one knee before the young woman, his head bowed in reverence as he stared up at her in disbelief.
In truth, Ophelia had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Black had not taken everyone on the patrol; he had split the group into two, leaving some behind to guard the quarters. He had taken Judy, Charlotte, and the twin sisters with him—more for a leisurely stroll than anything else. Ophelia, lacking experience in wilderness combat, had been left behind to familiarize herself with the fortress's internal affairs and oversee the garrisoned troops. That was why she had been in the courtyard, explaining the upcoming schedule to the others.
When she saw Celt charge into the courtyard and drop to one knee before her, Ophelia's eyes widened in alarm. For a split second, her face turned deathly pale—but she quickly composed herself. She stepped back gracefully, avoiding the old general's bow.
"You are mistaken, General. I am not who you think I am."
"Princess?"
Celt looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment, as he heard Ophelia's cool, detached reply. Mistaken? How could he be mistaken? Was this not the royal jewel of the kingdom, the one and only Princess Ophelia? Could it be that she was merely a lookalike? No! That was impossible! Appearances could be deceiving—but the way she spoke, her mannerisms, her bearing… they were identical to the princess he had once served. That quiet confidence, that gentle yet firm tone—it was not something that could be imitated. And what about the clothes she wore? Celt recognized that outfit perfectly. It was the attire of a wandering scholar—a disguise he had personally suggested to her years ago, when she had wanted to travel the kingdom incognito to learn about the lives of her people. A scholar's status afforded her respect and protection; no commoner would dare to harass her, and in times of trouble, she could seek aid from the military. The princess had worn that disguise ever since!
In that moment, it felt as if time had turned back thirty years. But reality came crashing down around him soon enough. Everything had changed. Nothing was the same as it once was.
"Please rise, General."
Ophelia cleared her throat softly, breaking Celt out of his daze. The old general scrambled to his feet, staring at her, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words.
But unlike Celt, Ophelia remained calm and collected. She lifted the hem of her dress in a graceful curtsy, then straightened up and spoke with perfect poise.
"It is a pleasure to meet you at last, honored General. I am Ophelia Felix—adjutant to the Lord of the Twilight Forest, Black Felix… and his fiancée."
At the word "fiancée," Ophelia paused for a moment, a faint blush tinting her cheeks. She quickly regained her composure and continued.
"I did not expect to receive a visit from you in the midst of your busy schedule. Please forgive me for any lack of proper etiquette."
Celt's face went rigid. He understood perfectly well the unspoken message in her words.