Chapter 100 A Twisted Mind

A slender, sharp needle pierced gently into the pale porcelain of her skin. As the medicinal tincture was gradually infused, the surrounding flesh flushed crimson with burning heat. Her delicate petal-like folds turned deep as fresh blood; moments later, accompanied by an involuntary shudder, glistening dew seeped from the swollen core of her womanhood.

The needle was withdrawn, but the ordeal was far from over; a fresh needle was fitted, and the syringe barrel once again drew in a full dose of the potent solution.

This time, the point of injection was set slightly lower.

Toward the tightly furrowed bud behind.

As the steel tip penetrated the tight sphincter, Trisli violently trembled. The pain was searing, yet she chose to endure the piercing agony—for once the sharp ache subsided, what followed would be an even more unbearable torment.

Seven days. Only seven days had passed, yet to her it felt as agonizingly prolonged as seven entire years.

Over the course of these seven days, she had undergone a total transformation, becoming an entirely different person.

She was no longer the aloof, proud prodigy standing above the mortal crowd; she had been reduced, body and soul, to Richie's plaything.

As the final injection was administered, her swollen, bruised portal was parted once more, welcoming the unyielding intrusion of his thick, rigid length.

It should have been purely agonizing, yet as if she had been yearning for it through an eternity of thirst, she met his thrusts instantly. Her movements were uninhibited; with every deep retreat and forceful plunge, waves of rippling flesh rolled between them in intense friction.

The women of Omore possessed slender, supple waists, capable of swaying their hips with bewildering variations during intimacy. Trisli demonstrated this artistry to the fullest, her demeanor exuding an unbridled, maddening wantonness.

Truth be told, Richie had been genuinely startled; throughout these past seven days, Trisli's every display had defied his expectations.

When this woman had surrendered her body to him, she was unquestionably a virgin—the very undergarment stained with her maiden's blood was still kept in his possession.

Yet despite having been an unblemished maiden, her bedchamber prowess was scarcely inferior to Lina's relentless vigor. Like all Omore women, Trisli possessed an uncanny mastery over her hips; when she set them in frantic motion, the sensation was utterly intoxicating and deadly.

What proved even more formidable was her ability to borrow force and redirect momentum even in the throes of passion. Whenever he deployed those esoteric arts meant to subjugate women, her countermeasures turned every clash into mutual exhaustion.

Consequently, if he wished to make this woman yield, he could rely only on conventional stamina and raw endurance.

Yet none of this was what astonished him the most.

What truly shocked him was that beyond her peculiar inclination toward her own sex, Trisli harbored another shocking predilection—she derived thrilling ecstasy from being watched during intimacy.

Just like at this very moment, the two of them were not secluded within a locked chamber, but out in an open courtyard. It was a simple yet exquisitely landscaped garden where manicured lawns were partitioned by stone planters, dividing the grounds into several semi-private alcoves.

The entire courtyard was vast, accommodating no fewer than forty bamboo loungers, each occupied by reclining patrons. Richie and Trisli lay entwined upon one of them.

Trisli's endlessly swaying hips and the glistening juncture of their union were laid bare beneath the gazes of onlookers. Far from distressing her, the voyeuristic exposure only fueled her escalating frenzy.

Richie found himself distinctly uncomfortable with this arrangement. By nature possessive, he loathed sharing his women with others, finding even the mere sharing of their sight distasteful.

Worse still, he could sense unabashed lust radiating from the many eyes turned in their direction—a craving directed not merely at Trisli, but openly fixed upon him as well.

At first he had assumed his senses were mistaken, until a few days ago when a certain fellow boldly approached to ask if he would care to become a "special friend." Only then did he realize that he, too, was viewed as fair game.

A shudder of sheer revulsion had sent him fleeing on the spot.

Fortunately, this establishment strictly forbade uninvited harassment; that brazen patron received a stern reprimand, and no one dared repeat the offense. Still, the club could hardly prohibit roving glances.

This left Richie thoroughly disgruntled. Unable to vent his irritation elsewhere, he channeled it all into Trisli's receptive body, seeing as coming here had been her explicit demand.

Suddenly, Trisli's pace accelerated to a fever pitch, her eyes fluttering tightly shut as her fair skin flushed a vivid rose. With a stifled, piercing cry, her spine arched tautly, releasing a torrential flood of feminine essence.

Richie felt a surge of Yin energy enter his body, coursing smoothly through his meridians in a process akin to Dual Cultivation, bringing him immense comfort.

This was Trisli's singular trait: upon reaching the pinnacle of release, she would emanate a purest stream of Yin energy that offered immense nourishment to a man, engaging in a natural Dual Cultivation where she instinctively absorbed a measure of Yang energy in return.

Richie feigned reaching his own climax simultaneously, his shaft twitching within her depths as though imparting his essence into this captivating woman.

It was a long while before both of them finally slumped down in limp exhaustion.

A moment later, Richie snapped his fingers. Two maidservants promptly hurried over, deftly and delicately drawing Richie's member out of Trisli's body. One of the maids swiftly inserted a pair of stoppers into Trisli's front and rear orifices, securing them tightly around her waist with leather harnesses.

The other maid cradled Richie's member, cleaning his virile length with her mouth and tongue. In an establishment of this caliber, there was no need to bathe after the act; attendant women routinely used their lips to cleanse the patrons.

"Hey there, gorgeous! That girl of yours is truly something special."

A chubby youth reclining on an adjacent bamboo couch chuckled admiringly, his beady eyes rolling hungrily across Trisli's form.

This fellow could be considered one of the dissolute acquaintances Richie had made here—a direct scion of a prominent noble house in Varedin.

In the world of Knights, martial prowess reigned supreme; nevertheless, profligate youths trading on ancestral prestige were hardly scarce. After all, lineage mattered immensely across the continent, and within the Varedin Empire, this aristocratic vanity was particularly entrenched.

"Anything novel going on around here?"

Richie inquired. His Varedin accent had grown increasingly polished, stripped of its initial clumsiness: "We haven't been able to go anywhere these past few days. It's dreadfully boring."

He feigned a lazy complaint.

"Aye, truly. Even if this place is paradise, doing the same old tricks every day gets stale."

Someone chimed in from the other side.

Most patrons gathered here shared the same decadent tastes, and knowing that everyone present wielded considerable influence, none dared behave with overbearing insolence. Over time, they naturally formed an easy camaraderie.

"The street patrols have eased up, but getting in and out of the city gates remains a royal nuisance."

The chubby scion said.

"What's there to do inside the city anyway? It's just this tiny patch of dirt."

A chorus of groans echoed in agreement. For these pampered young nobles, the city held little genuine allure; what they craved was riding steeds, boat racing, scaling mountains, and hunting beasts. Though dissolute, the majority were trained Knights possessing boundless, unspent vigor.

"Has anyone seen Haug lately? If we want to head outside, wouldn't it just take a single word from him?"

Someone bellowed loudly.

"What in the world happened this time anyway? To have the city... locked down so tightly?"

Richie projected the natural curiosity expected of a visiting foreigner.

"Word has it that a big fish slipped through the net. But Military Intelligence keeps their mouths shut tight; even I couldn't pry loose what big fish it was."

A lean, rather handsome fellow spoke up.

Watching this man pick up his conversation, Richie could not help shuddering internally—for this was the very fellow who had attempted to solicit him a few days prior.

"After all this time, that fish must have long since vanished into thin air."

The chubby youth grumbled.

"It's not just about that fish; something else seems to be brewing. Several special military carriages have rolled out over the past few days. Word is, a certain army unit is being redeployed."

That man who gave Richie the creeps possessed remarkably sharp ears, utterly unaware that an enemy operative sat right beside him.

His careless remark fell upon Richie's keenly attentive ears.

If any force was most likely being relocated, it had to be the Ironblood Corps. From what had just been said, the Norman Alliance had evidently uncovered Trisli's identity and deduced that her infiltration into Casmolina was aimed directly at the Ironblood Corps.

Moving the Ironblood Corps away was a prudent safeguard. Furthermore, with Varedin's main armies already marching toward the eastern front, the original objective of stationing the Ironblood Corps here had been achieved; keeping them stationed here any longer was entirely unnecessary.

Richie's heart stirred. To him, this signaled an unprecedented opportunity.

That military encampment was so heavily fortified that sneaking inside was impossible, yet during a massive troop transit, maintaining such absolute security was out of the question.

A long procession of rickshaws raced through the paved avenues of Casmolina. For these restless scions who had been cooped up for days, even if they could not leave the city, touring the urban sights was a welcome distraction.

None remembered who had first floated the suggestion, but Richie had certainly fanned the flames behind the scenes.

What transpired within the rickshaw needed little elaboration; in any case, Richie had not detached himself from Trisli's body for a single moment.

Their destination was a newly opened museum—or more precisely, a spoils-of-war exhibition hall showcasing treasures looted from Monstoke: antiques, fine art, and above all, heaps of gold, silver, and precious gems. For privileged figures like them, if any exhibit caught their fancy, they could purchase it on the spot.

Only upon disembarking did Richie reluctantly withdraw from Trisli's body. Though he hardly lacked for women now—having even bedded the direct scion of the Shadow King, one of the Four Guardians—Trisli held a singular, irreplaceable place in his heart.

He had many mentors in his life: Miss Dana was his foundational teacher, Lina was the instructor who had aided him most, and Trisli was the guide who had ushered him onto an entirely higher plane.

Another quality that captivated him was that while Trisli had surrendered her flesh to him and allowed him to ravish her at will, her heart remained entirely beyond his grasp.

The more unattainable something was, the more precious it became. Velia shared this same trait with Trisli; his harsh treatment of Velia was rooted in the very same psychological impulse.

Yet the two situations differed slightly. Velia's heart belonged to her husband, who held "first claim" over her body. That arrangement rankled him deeply, stoking within him a desire to break her—not to destroy her physical form, but to crush her sovereign will. Velia had steadily been molded by him into a compliant concubine and a pampered pet, utterly submissive beneath his stride without a shred of pride remaining.

Trisli's heart, however, belonged to another woman.

Richie held a distinct double standard regarding same-sex love: he found male homosexuality utterly revolting, yet had no objection whatsoever to romance between women.

Stepping down from their carriages, the youths led their respective women indoors, arms draped casually over slender shoulders. Ordinary visitors had to purchase tickets to enter the exhibition, but for this elite company, no such rules applied.

Aside from Richie, no one noticed that in the fleeting second they brushed past the entrance, Trisli flicked a tiny pellet of hardened mud. The pellet snapped firmly against the outer edge of an entrance signboard.

The spot was inconspicuous and perched slightly high, well beyond the casual reach of ordinary passersby.

When Richie had first learned that Trisli and her deep-cover infiltrators used this exhibition hall as their covert dead drop, he had been consumed by searing outrage.

For a son of Monstoke, such an arrangement was a bitter insult to his national pride.

Yet he had to concede that the location was remarkably secure. It was a bustling public venue packed with people, and above all, no one would ever suspect Alliance spies to rendezvous here, where everything on display represented a humiliation to their homeland.

Richie and Trisli had harbored slight anxiety that the sleeper unit, having lost contact for so long, might have been recalled by higher command.

To their immense relief, when they emerged, the pellet of mud was gone; in its place, a solitary dried flower petal was tucked near the base of the wall.

"Where to next?"

The chubby scion abruptly asked. Having finally made it outdoors, he naturally wished to revel to the fullest.

The others chimed in with a flurry of suggestions, none of which sounded particularly enticing; after all, Casmolina had little novel entertainment left to offer their jaded palates.

Seeing them at an impasse, Richie pointed toward a tiny black speck hovering high in the distant sky. "Can we head up there?"

"You want to fool around on a reconnaissance balloon? What fun could there possibly be up there?"

The chubby youth frowned dismissively.

"Have you ever been up there?"

Richie asked.

"No,"

The chubby youth admitted reluctantly.

"If you've never been, how can you know it isn't fun?"

Richie pressed smoothly.

The group exchanged glances and nodded in unison. For youths who had exhausted every amusement the city had to offer, the simple fact that they had never tried it was enticement enough.

Casmolina possessed a fair number of these reconnaissance balloons, all stationed along the perimeter of the capital.

A week ago, none of these balloons had existed; their sudden deployment was largely prompted by Trisli's evasion. While some conjectured that her infiltration targeted the Ironblood Corps, rumors ran rampant—ranging from an assassination plot against the Varedin Emperor to imminent terror strikes, and even bizarre whisperings that Varedin was secretly preparing a pact with the Alliance. Faced with such volatile speculation, the imperial court had been compelled to react with heightened vigilance, maintaining a strict lockdown over Casmolina and hoisting these aerial vantage points along its boundaries.

Reconnaissance balloons were by no means a recent invention, but only after Richie developed functional flight armor did military authorities suddenly bestow immense strategic weight upon them.

Viewed from the ground, the balloon appeared as merely a tiny black dot, but in reality it was colossal. Beneath each balloon lay an expansive staging plaza, its primary mooring cable anchored to a base ten meters in radius that served as a gargantuan winch. Throughout these past seven days, the balloon had never once descended.

Beside this massive winch sat a smaller auxiliary windlass—though "smaller" was purely relative, requiring the coordinated muscle of at least four men to operate—which controlled the passenger lift.

In addition to the central tether, three stabilizing cables anchored the balloon against crosswinds, without which it would drift uncontrollably.

One had to admit that this circle of dissolute scions wielded astonishing clout; civilians were strictly barred from such vital military installations, yet the fellow who made Richie uneasy managed, through unknown leverage, to secure permission for them to ascend.

The first to go up was the chubby youth, but he descended before even reaching halfway. The lift crawled at a snail's pace, and the moment his feet touched the ground, he grumbled, "Boring, utterly boring! It felt novel for a few seconds, but after staring for a while, it's nothing special. And it's freezing cold up there."

Hearing his appraisal, the rest lost interest, but Richie insisted on taking a trip to the summit.

The lift carriage climbed at an agonizingly sluggish pace, but Richie was in no hurry. As they ascended, the figures on the ground shrank into minuscule silhouettes.

It was not his first time gazing down from great heights, yet the sensation this time felt fundamentally distinct.

He had not ascended merely to admire the scenery; never for an instant did Richie forget his true objective. He lightly patted Trisli's rounded backside.

Trisli obediently leaned forward against the carriage railing, her hips thrust high. Her trousers had been custom-tailored with dual openings beneath, each rimmed with soft leather rings so that intimate indulgence would not leave their attire soaked and disheveled.

Richie drew out his hardened length and drove it home in a single thrust.

Trisli gently swayed her slender waist, matching his rhythm.

The cage of the lift was cramped; their vigorous exertion immediately shook the compartment, causing the main tether cable to sway with a steady, rhythmic cadence. "Damn! So that's how it's done! Now that's truly brilliant! If I'd known, I would've done that myself!"

The chubby youth on the ground was struck by profound regret, cursing himself for having a pig's brain—the lift was so painfully slow, yet it had never occurred to him to find such pleasurable amusement to pass the time!

What mortified him even more was that seasoned libertines like them had been outclassed by a fledgling youth who had only recently tasted carnal pleasure.

He was not alone in his envy; the entire flock of noble rogues stood torn between chagrin and avid excitement.

"I can't wait! Roni, be a pal and pull a few strings for me—let me go up on that balloon over there!"

Someone below immediately called out, scheming for an opportunity.

Roni, the very fellow who made Richie deeply uneasy, shook his head vigorously. "No chance! High Command is already on edge over this whole security crisis. Fooling around a bit is fine, but if we push it too far, not even my old man can bail us out."

He gestured toward their companions. "There's over a dozen of us here. If I help you, what am I supposed to say when the others beg me?"

Hearing this, several were crestfallen, yet one sharp-witted youth found an alternative: "How many people are stationed up there right now?"

Roni naturally had no idea, so he beckoned the officer in charge over. "How many men are on the platform currently?"

"Five, sir. One Recon Knight stationed at each of the four cardinal directions, plus a Psion. If guests wish to ascend, four more individuals can fit comfortably."

The officer answered with utmost deference. "Four people?"

Roni pointed up toward Richie and Trisli. "Does that count the two of them?"

"No, sir, that excludes them."

The young nobles beamed with delight, and Roni waved his hand dismissively: "Order your men down at once."

How could a mere outpost officer dare offend such highborn scions? Moreover, he knew headquarters had already granted these playboys leeway; with so many observation balloons lining the city, missing one outpost would hardly matter.

Every word of the exchange in the plaza drifted cleanly into Richie's sharp ears, and the corner of his mouth curved into a subtle smirk.

Everything was unfolding precisely according to his design; his true goal all along had been to clear the sentries from that observation platform.

Gazing up at the massive envelope overhead, Richie felt a lingering flutter of apprehension. The thing was filled with volatile, combustible gas—the very reason balloons had existed for decades without ever seeing widespread military deployment.

Apart from that floating hazard, there was only the glass gondola upon which he now stood. Shaped like a massive cauldron, the compartment was framed in steel and paneled with thick glass; he refrained from exerting excessive force, wary of cracking the transparent floor beneath his boots.

Though Varedin lay in the warm south and summer held sway, the altitude brought a biting chill. Yet cold or not, his work could not wait. Richie unbuckled his belt, and Trisli sensibly began shedding her garments.

Within moments, both stood completely unclothed. Trisli dropped onto all fours, her bare chest pressed flush against the transparent glass floor, her thighs parted wide to expose her most intimate charms.

At this moment, she was suspended more than two thousand feet in the sky, with nothing beneath her but a pane of clear glass, and beneath that, a sprawling metropolis of over two million souls.

Anyone on the ground equipped with a high-magnification spyglass could scrutinize every inch of her pale, flawless form in microscopic detail.

The solitary veil on Trisli's body was a sheer violet headscarf that masked her face and hair, shrouding her features in a hazy, mesmerizing allure.

While ordinary citizens on the streets might not notice, the cluster of scions gathered in the plaza below took in the spectacle with crystal clarity. These men were well-versed in watching debauchery and had witnessed far wilder orgies, yet at this sight their blood boiled with manic fervor; several threw back their heads and howled like famished wolves. "This... this is goddamn genius! Why the hell didn't we ever think of this?"

When they returned, they would insist that the club install a high-altitude glass platform of their own!

"All this time we've argued over who was the most degenerate among us. No need to debate anymore! If this guy ranks second, who dares claim first? I remember just a few days ago he was an absolute greenhorn, blushing crimson like a baboon's rear the first time he stripped before us!"

"That's pure, unadulterated talent! No wonder my old man says perseverance and hard work can't hold a candle to raw genius. Talent always reigns supreme, no matter the trade!"

The depraved scoundrels below were in a frenzy of excitement, yet they could do nothing but wait, as the lift was only now crawling downward bearing the five sentries.

Suddenly, one of the fellows bolted away with an excited yelp; while the others stood baffled, he dashed back clutching a brass high-powered field glass.

Realization dawned upon the rest, and they scattered in a mad scramble to forage for spyglasses. Unfortunately, this military outpost had only one officer and a single regulation telescope, forcing the rest of the gang to sprint toward distant quarters to scrounge for more.

Up on the platform, Trisli felt a scorching current coursing through her veins. Over these past several days, intense humiliation combined with the reckless abandon of having lost everything had twisted her temperament. For reasons she could not comprehend, she found herself extracting profound pleasure from degradation—a thrill far sharper and more intoxicating than standard intimacy.

Previously, when men's eyes roved greedily over her exposed body, fixating on her forbidden secrets as Richie's formidable member drove inside her, the sensation had already been overwhelming. But now, at the mere thought of two million people sprawled beneath her exposed vulnerability, she felt as though her entire essence were dissolving into liquid heat.

Right then, Trisli felt her swollen passage parted once more by a scalding rod of iron. The familiar ache mingled with an intoxicating sweetness, sending tremors cascading through her frame.

Pushing gently and rocking with measured restraint, Richie was far gentler than usual. He dared not exert reckless force, fearful of shattering the glass deck beneath them; without a gliding wing, a fall from this height meant certain doom.

Besides, what quickened the pulse was not the physical mechanics of lovemaking, but the dizzying thrill of copulating under the open sky before an audience of two million souls. Above all, beneath this display of reckless decadence lay a hidden, lethal purpose.

Richie's head, too, was wrapped in a concealing cloth.

To an outside observer, this appeared perfectly reasonable—indulging in such madness was meant for thrills, not to spark a scandalous political disaster.

In truth, however, beneath the fabric wrapping Richie's head lay a concealed periscopic viewing apparatus, its opposite end linked directly to one of the long-barrel observation telescopes mounted nearby.

The balloon platform housed four such heavy telescopes, each over a foot in length with an objective lens wide as a soup bowl. Boasting a staggering four-hundred-fold magnification, they could resolve the nose hairs of a man standing on the distant horizon or trace the rugged craters upon the surface of the moon.

Intended for the Recon Knights to monitor movements across the surrounding terrain, this particular telescope was now trained squarely upon the distant Mendel Plateau.

The Mendel Plateau towered above all surrounding topography, rendering it normally immune to ground-based reconnaissance; these elevated balloons, however, were the sole exception.

The Francans would never normally have permitted any structure to overlook the Mendel Plateau, but the recent security crisis had deeply unnerved them. Moreover, since they were already preparing to pull out, they had adopted an attitude of tacit acquiescence toward these tethered balloons.

Through the high-powered lenses, every detail upon the plateau was revealed with razor clarity.

The Francans acted with extreme caution. Not only had they erected their military barracks upon the plateau, but they had also aligned the perimeter quarters along its sheer cliff edges, creating a secondary fortress wall. Had the balloon not hovered far above their elevation, peering inside would have been virtually impossible.

At this moment, the plateau bustled with activity as Francan personnel transported crates and gear; they were indeed executing an evacuation.

At the base of the plateau lay a railway terminal. Once cargo was lowered from the cranes perched on the plateau's rim, it was loaded directly onto waiting freight carriages. Among the unloaded cargo, magitech armor was plainly visible.

The varieties of armor were somewhat disparate: there were older "Dancer" models, but the majority were "Cubes." What genuinely commanded Richie's attention, however, was an armor model he had never laid eyes on before.

Judging from its silhouette, it was a light magitech armor—undoubtedly the enigmatic suit that had caused Empress Annielia such deep concern.

After studying it intently for several moments, he noticed that many aspects bore a striking resemblance to the "Dragon."

This was entirely understandable; the Dragon's structural architecture was near flawless, representing the ideal suit for mass wartime production, and such perfection naturally invited imitation.

This novel suit similarly consisted of a multitude of standardized components stamped from sheet metal, possessing every design virtue that characterized the Dragon.

Yet Richie was absolutely certain that this was not the replica rumored to have been reverse-engineered by Poronov, for he had already inspected that particular knockoff long ago.

Regrettably, these suits stood completely dormant, making it impossible to evaluate their actual combat performance from appearance alone.

Had this perilous venture yielded nothing after all?

Just as disappointment weighed upon Richie, his gaze caught sight of an object that struck an immediate chord of familiarity.

Beside one of the perimeter cranes, two Knights carried a broad, flat wooden crate, preparing to hook it onto the winch line.

The crate was seven to eight feet in length and five to six feet in width, yet its thickness scarcely exceeded the span of a man's palm.

Though the crate remained sealed, Richie instantly deduced its contents. No components packed into such a casing could be anything other than folding wings.

Richie quickly redirected the telescope toward the novel light magitech armor, stealthily turning the adjustment ring to dial the magnification to its absolute ceiling.

Under maximum magnification, even every individual rivet along the armor's seams was brought into stark relief.

Had he not spotted that crate, suspicion might not have crossed his mind; now, however, he strongly suspected that this so-called new armor was nothing more than an empty hollow shell.

Given the dimensions of those wings, they could bear a load of five to six hundred kilograms at most. Even stripped of external plating, a standard light magitech armor weighed well over a metric ton, without factoring in armaments or defensive shields.

To achieve flight in the skies, it could only be an ultra-light armor—and in this world, there existed precisely one mature model of ultra-light armor: the Yaksha. Richie scrutinized the suit inch by painstaking inch.

He had to concede that the design was exceptionally deceptive. It certainly appeared to be a functional battle suit, capable of running, leaping, and perhaps performing basic maneuvers.

But Richie was inspecting it with a specific hypothesis in mind, and details that had previously escaped notice now fell cleanly into his gaze.

A portion of the suit's transmission linkage was mounted externally. Generally speaking, this was the hallmark of an armor built for tremendous output force—the Hercules employed such a configuration, and the Wisdom King exemplified it even more prominently.

Yet now he suspected that this exposed linkage was the suit's only functional drive system, leaving the interior entirely hollow.

With Poronov's brilliant intellect, whipping up an outer shell like this would have taken no more than two or three days, especially since combat performance was irrelevant.

The deeper his skepticism grew, the more corroborating clues presented themselves.

He noticed that the arrangement of the armor plating was peculiar. A subtle seam ran along the flank of the torso; were that seam unlatched, the entire carapace would split cleanly into front and rear halves.

Any armor craftsman worth his salt would avoid such a structural flaw at all costs. A superior suit required interlocking plates that nested together to ensure an impenetrable defense.

Naturally, Poronov would not leave an overt flaw. In fact, he had camouflaged the seam masterfully: it followed a zigzagging, meandering contour, with many segments deliberately obscured.

Had another craftsman observed these features and known they originated from Poronov, their instinct would be to ponder the theoretical advantages rather than question the design's authenticity.

Viewed through that respectful lens, plausible explanations could be found for every quirk, some appearing downright ingenious.

Richie, however, was an anomaly.

His formal background was meager, leaving him unable to appreciate subtle theoretical intricacies; more importantly, he harbored no blind worship for any master, even if the man were hailed as a Great Craftsman.

Shifting the telescope's focus, Richie began gathering auxiliary clues.

For now, he possessed only a working theory.

Finding evidence was straightforward once one adopted the proper train of thought. Where he had previously seen only a mundane military camp, Richie now discerned countless telling anomalies.

The cranes, for instance.

Their number was unusually high. Moreover, along the opposite cliff where no rail terminal existed, there stood an identical row of cranes, matching in exact count.

What had seemed normal moments before now triggered suspicion. In an instant, a plausible mechanism dawned upon him: if a steel cable were strung taut between two opposing cranes, a harness could easily suspend a test pilot to simulate flight.

Refocusing the lens toward the ground, although a fresh layer of topsoil had been spread, faint ruts remained discernible—confirming that personnel had repeatedly dashed along the corridor between those two lines of cranes.

A vivid scene coalesced within Richie's mind: a Yaksha slung beneath a suspended cable, tethered by a tow line hauled by a sprinting battle suit on the ground, sliding forward in a precarious glide... Towing a glider with ground cables was undeniably a crude technique, yet Richie himself had employed similar methods in the past, and reality had proven that it could indeed launch a pilot aloft.

Such a rudimentary approach could never attain great altitude, but it offered substantial range and could bypass the vast majority of terrain obstacles.

Now consider the tactical role of the Ironblood Corps.

Swapping light battle armor for the Yaksha sacrificed considerable combat endurance, but the Ironblood Corps had always specialized in suicidal assault strikes; their flight speed would become exponentially swifter, their agility far more lethal.

Cold sweat broke across Richie's back, and his rigid member came within a breath of going limp. After creating the Wisdom King, he had believed he could rest easy, yet now his adversaries had adapted their own doctrine, resetting the strategic balance back to square one.

Sensing the sudden shift in Richie's state, Trisli propped her upper body up slightly, turned her head, and whispered, "What did you see?"

She utilized directional voice transmission, unconcerned about detection; the Recon Knights were sealed inside the descending lift, and those far below had no hope of overhearing.

"I can't be entirely certain; it's merely a deduction for now."

Richie hesitated for a fraction of a second, but realized this intelligence had to be relayed regardless: "That new battle armor is likely an empty shell housing a Yaksha inside. The Francans intend to bestow flight capabilities upon the Ironblood Corps."

Trisli drew in a sharp breath, thoroughly shaken.

She understood the mechanics of Suicide Combat Aura far more intimately than Richie, and her grasp of grand strategy and tactical doctrine far surpassed his amateur level.

The most terrifying attribute of Suicide Combat Aura was its phantom-like velocity, offset only by its fleeting duration. Consequently, whenever the Francans committed the Ironblood Corps, they utilized them either for lightning ambush raids or as a decisive hammer blow amidst general melee.

But now, should wings be grafted onto this venomous serpent, its lethality would become infinitely more unpredictable and formidable, multiplying available tactical doctrines a hundredfold and rendering future defense against them a near-impossible nightmare.

"Are you certain of this?"

Trisli demanded urgently.

This was no trifling matter; feeling the weight of the assertion, Richie found the definitive words catching in his throat.

"Never mind. I'll have our people verify it."

Trisli conceded, refraining from pressing him further.

Whatever hesitation she had previously harbored regarding activating her sleeper unit vanished without a trace.

The lift lowered sluggishly and ascended with equal slowness, taking well over an hour before four of the scions below arrived on the platform, each dragging their respective women in tow.

The group had already commenced their antics inside the ascending lift; upon reaching the observation platform, each pair staked out a prominent vantage point.

They had made preparations while waiting below, donning peculiar masquerade masks purchased from somewhere, giving the scene the air of a bizarre carnival ball.

"Little Billy, your head is really something else!"

"Can you come up with any more fresh tricks?"

"Aye, aye! Those old routines have grown utterly stale!"

The dissolute scoundrels pounded into their respective partners, their mouths babbling without pause.

Richie's mind was already plotting how to slip out of the city—a task that posed no real difficulty. His protracted observation had hardly been wasted; every blind spot and weakness along Casmolina's perimeter cordon was etched into his memory, giving him full confidence that he could spirit Trisli away undetected. Still, having these influential fools lend a hand would make things simpler.

As for devising a novel game, an idea formed in his mind with the slightest turn of thought.

When it came to indulgence and games, these martial-bred scions were no match for him; during his academy days, he and his peers had invented endless pastimes to kill time.

"How about we play a hunt?"

Richie asked.

The youths had pricked up their ears in anticipation, but hearing such an ordinary suggestion, their enthusiasm plummeted instantly.

"Boring! We've played hunting until our teeth ache!"

The chubby youth was the first to scoff aloud.

The others clamored in disappointment, demanding that Richie devise something truly unprecedented.

"The hunt I speak of is not what you imagine."

Richie wore an air of nonchalant superiority as he smacked Trisli's bare flank with a sharp crack: "This is our quarry. We give the prey a head start, setting out in pursuit after a quarter of an hour. Whoever runs her down gets to claim and ravish her."

"And if no one catches her?"

The chubby youth asked, his interest visibly piqued by the novelty.

"If she escapes, so be it. At most, we pool our coin to reimburse the club, treating it as ransoming her freedom. When she's eventually recaptured, she'll belong to us. Surely you lot don't care about a handful of pocket change?"

Richie knew full well that women meant little to the management of such an establishment, and these scions were not merely valued patrons, but shareholders in the enterprise.

"And what if several of us run down a quarry at the same time?"

Another rogue asked with a leering, dissolute grin. "In that case, one can only say that particular prey is thoroughly out of luck."

Richie tossed out the ribald reply without batting an eye. The entire company roared with raucous, knowing laughter.