Chapter 86 City of Heaven

A monumental thoroughfare, a full hundred meters wide, sliced straight through the heart of the imperial metropolis. Yet upon this vast expanse of pavement, not a single carriage was in sight, let alone any pedestrians.

Richie genuinely could not comprehend the rationale behind this.

If no one was permitted to tread upon it, didn't this extraordinarily colossal central boulevard amount to mere decorative vanity?

Nor were there any intersections along its length; though major roads did cross its path, they all passed beneath through subterranean tunnels.

"That is the Way of Heaven."

The female knight at the steering console gazed at the elevated, majestic boulevard, lost in a reverie of awe. She let out a long, wistful sigh. "That road is opened exclusively during grand military departures, triumphant victory parades, and imperial ancestral sacrifices. Over the past millennium, every soul who has been granted the right to walk upon it has earned an immortal place in the annals of history."

Saying this, the female knight wore an expression of rapt yearning, evidently swept away by heroic fantasies. Yet within seconds, her expression turned melancholy: "I certainly have zero hope in this lifetime, though you might actually possess the chance to walk upon it one day."

Richie paid little heed to her sentiment. In the eyes of others, that might represent a supreme honor worth dying for; to him, being granted a stroll along a road was far inferior to tangible, practical benefits.

The only thing he conceded was that the boulevard was undeniably magnificent. The convoy was currently bearing down toward this Way of Heaven, and as the distance shrank, that imperial grandeur grew increasingly overpowering.

The highway rose roughly ten meters above ground level, constructed from an unknown composite material that appeared seamlessly cast as a single monolithic block. On either flank stood two impeccably spaced rows of red pines. These majestic evergreens were centuries old, soaring skyward with immense trunks that required two or three men to encircle with outstretched arms.

Before Richie could absorb the full majesty of the Way of Heaven, the convoy plunged into a subterranean tunnel beneath its foundation.

The tunnel was immense, bifurcated into twin dual-lane corridors, separating incoming and outgoing traffic to ensure zero mutual interference.

The interior was adequately illuminated. Sunlight filtered down through engineered apertures along the ceiling; though not brilliantly radiant, it provided ample clarity to guide vehicles through the passage.

The hundred-meter-long tunnel was traversed in the span of breaths. Richie instinctively looked back over his shoulder.

The Way of Heaven was already receding steadily into the distance.

"Stop staring. You'll have plenty of opportunities to visit in the future," the female knight remarked with a subtle tinge of jealousy.

Beholding an empty grand avenue devoid of traffic, Richie had begun forming an impression of this imperial realm. The people here seemed largely indifferent to mundane utility; what they prioritized above all else was "grandeur" and "image."

Constructing so many extravagant palaces was evidently born of the exact same ethos.

Dwelling inside monumental palaces was not necessarily comfortable, and the construction costs were astronomical. Yet in terms of sheer awe and imperial majesty, no other architectural form could rival them. The closer one approached the city center, the more the palace complexes multiplied, radiating ever greater opulence.

The entire city radiated an aloof, solitary arrogance—the posture of a supreme sovereign standing atop the world.

This was hardly incomprehensible. A millennium ago, the Parkington Holy Kingdom had held supreme dominion over the continent for centuries. Though powerful rival empires had multiplied over the past thousand years, and upstart conquerors had periodically carved out temporary hegemonies, Parkington had never truly lost its luster; in terms of aggregate strength, no single state had ever surpassed it.

More importantly, while most of those meteorically risen hegemonies had collapsed just as swiftly, the Parkington Holy Kingdom had stood unbroken through the ages, perpetually luminous and unyielding.

The heart of the City of Heaven, Nakar-Amosdock, was formed by a cascading series of monumental plazas. This was an empire that held land in utter contempt, so the sheer number of imperial plazas far exceeded that of any other sovereign capital. Let alone a young, commercialized republic founded on utilitarian efficiency like Monstoke, even the other two ancient empires within the Coalition dared not compete with Parkington in this regard.

Consequently, the native population of Nakar-Amosdock appeared remarkably sparse; most avenues and plazas seemed tranquil and desolate. Thus, when an assembly of over ten thousand people gathered on a single plaza, it stood out with striking prominence.

Ten thousand citizens might sound impressive, yet within such a colossal plaza, it was merely a modest gathering. However, the citizens of Parkington were masters of staging grand spectacles: the crowds were arranged in meticulous, symmetrical arrays, framed by colossal floral baskets, creating the visual illusion that the entire vast plaza was teeming with throngs of onlookers.

Down the exact center of the plaza ran a brilliant crimson carpet, flanked on either side by dual ranks of stationary battle armor. These ceremonial machines stood holding parade halberds, their gilded lance tips fluttering with multi-colored silk pennants in the gentle breeze.

It was currently May, the climate neither cold nor hot, yet standing perpetually in the open sun inevitably bred fatigue. Thus, the true dignitaries were currently resting within adjacent state pavilions. The grand palace situated on the right flank of the plaza was encircled by a formidable detachment of armored knights.

On the second floor of that palace, within a private reception salon overlooking the plaza, several young ladies lounged comfortably upon plush divans. Presiding at the center was none other than the young princess whom Richie had met years earlier.

"Is it truly necessary to stage such grand pageantry? This nearly rivals the diplomatic protocol the Monstokians extended when receiving our state visit back then."

Seated beside the princess, a young noblewoman draped in an elegant violet gown wore an unmistakable expression of displeasure.

"What? Do you feel aggrieved?"

The princess did not even lift her eyes, casually arranging the bouquet of fresh blossoms in her hands. The playful, mischievous young girl of two years ago had blossomed into an exquisite, statuesque maiden; between her delicate brows lingered a calm poise, subtly mingled with regal authority. "Hosting the Monstoke delegation is not a decision left to you or me. Since Mother has deemed it necessary, we are duty-bound to execute it flawlessly."

"Naturally, future Her Majesty the Empress," the violet-gowned noblewoman replied with teasing sarcasm. "I feel you are becoming just as stuffy and tedious as those old councilors."

The princess let out a quiet sigh. She recognized the truth in the remark, yet none of this was within her control.

Two years ago, she had been merely fifteen, entirely free of state burdens, her identity simply that of a beloved royal princess. Today, she was gradually shouldering statecraft; as the sole daughter, she was the first heir in line to the throne, destined to govern this supreme empire just as her mother did.

"I hear that fellow is exceptionally formidable," another young noblewoman chimed in from the opposite divan, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

"That depends entirely on which aspect you are referring to," the violet-gowned girl giggled wickedly. All of them were thoroughly briefed on Richie's intimate records. Richie's scandalous hedonism was simultaneously a state secret and an open secret; plenty of insiders knew the truth, yet everyone remained silent for their own calculated ends.

The other girl glared fiercely at the violet-gowned noblewoman, playfully shaking a clenched fist.

"Sophia, geniuses are not an exclusive product of Parkington," the princess cautioned gently, though her words delivered an unmistakable prick. "That man's martial strength is by no means an illusion. He dismantled an entire Honor squad single-handedly—something you certainly could never achieve."

"He relied on the mechanical superiority of his battle armor!" the girl protested, unwilling to concede inferiority.

"That battle armor was conceived and engineered entirely by himself. That in itself is his supreme talent," the princess pointed out, piercing straight to the heart of the matter.

Sophia bit her lip, unable to muster a rebuttal.

Parkington knights had perpetually looked down their noses at prodigies from foreign lands, for their empire never lacked geniuses. Furthermore, their royal academy possessed a rigorous, systematic methodology; so long as a candidate was a genuine prodigy, reaching the Celestial Realm was virtually guaranteed over time.

Yet the Parkington Empire had never once produced an anomaly like Richie—a knight who concurrently forged revolutionary breakthroughs in an entirely separate domain of science was something their traditional academies could never cultivate.

"How does Her Majesty plan to bind that fellow to our interests? It couldn't possibly be through carnal seduction, could it?" the violet-gowned noblewoman inquired, her gaze scanning the other maidens in the chamber with mischievous intent. "If that is truly the strategy, who among us is slated to make the sacrifice?"

"The most likely candidate is you, of course!"

Though she had matured into regal solemnity, two years could not entirely extinguish a maiden's youthful nature, and the princess couldn't resist joining the banter.

"None of us should mock the other; all three of us are viable options," Sophia sighed softly, pointing a slender finger toward the princess. "The most probable candidate is you, Mithra. If that man truly possesses such astronomical strategic value, your personal hand carries the highest probability of tethering him securely. The political weight of the two of us simply isn't sufficient."

The violet-gowned girl shook her head. "Mithra cannot marry a commoner, let alone a foreigner. Furthermore, that fellow might not even care about a fleeting romance; judging from his recent ruthless assassinations, he harbors immense political ambition. Therefore..."

She turned her gaze directly upon Sophia.

"You are far more suitable," Sophia interjected hastily. "You hail from a collateral branch of the imperial clan; your royal pedigree matches him well. What's more, your station grants you unfettered passage through the palace gates. With you operating in the open and Mithra pulling strings from the shadows, the two of you allied together could certainly keep him leashed."

"You are equally qualified! In terms of lineage, are you inferior to me in any way? The prestige of being a direct descendant of the Thunder Emperor is by no means beneath a collateral princess. What's more, you are an active knight, just as he is—a match made in heaven!" the violet-gowned girl countered unyieldingly.

"Pah! What kind of absurd reasoning is that?"

Sophia scoffed dismissively. While the Parkington imperial house ostensibly inherited the esoteric powers of psychics—with successive Saint Emperors hailed as the mightiest psions of their eras—the direct bloodline of the Saint Emperor in truth encompassed both psions and knights, excelling as the apex of both disciplines.

Naturally, the specific inheritance varied: the direct imperial line emphasized psionic mastery. Though a collateral daughter, the violet-gowned maiden was closely related to the throne, sharing a maternal great-grandfather with Princess Mithra, which made her a psychic as well. A distant collateral scion like Lina, by contrast, retained only physical martial aptitude.

The two maidens deflected the prospect back and forth like tossing a scalding potato, while Princess Mithra observed their squabbling in contemplative silence.

There were certain profound secrets she would never disclose to a living soul, not even to her closest confidantes.

Foreign powers valued that youth solely for his genius in battle armor engineering. Only she and her mother grasped the terrifying truth: barring catastrophic unforeseen calamity, that youth was destined to become a Sword Saint.

Only the direct lineage of the Saint Emperor preserved this ancestral secret: once genius in battle armor design and the martial attainment of the Celestial Realm converged, a miraculous, unprecedented paradigm shift would inevitably occur.

Once entering the Celestial Realm, the disparity between a knight fighting unarmored versus piloting standard battle armor became negligible—conventional suits of armor actually constrained a Celestial Knight's divine combat power.

The only instruments capable of unleashing a Celestial Knight's full destructive potential were Spirit Armors, or an even higher stratum: the archaic God Armors inherited from the primordial epoch.

Yet of the ancient God Armors preserved from antiquity, not a single one remained completely intact. And the rare Spirit Armors replicated based on those relics were exceptionally scarce in number and severely limited in variation. After all, only the three best-preserved God Armors had ever served as templates for replication.

Every supreme knight possessed unique combat traits and idiosyncratic physiological requirements; thus, a battle armor had to undergo meticulous, bespoke calibration before it could be utilized effectively.

The dilemma was that Spirit Armors defied conventional calibration. Even when legendary grandmasters intervened, the probability of success was painfully low—and a single failure rendered the priceless Spirit Armor permanently crippled.

Furthermore, at the Celestial tier, martial realization transcended articulate speech; even if Celestial Knights felt dissatisfied with their Spirit Armors, they could rarely articulate the underlying kinetic flaw. And to calibrate an armor, an artificer had to comprehend the pilot's innermost neuromuscular demands; no external artisan, no matter how gifted, could magically tune a Spirit Armor to perfection out of thin air.

There existed only one singular archetype of human capable of calibrating a Spirit Armor to absolute perfection: an individual who concurrently commanded the craftsmanship of a Grandmaster Artificer and the transcendent martial might of a Celestial Knight.

Throughout the vast, millennium-spanning history of the Parkington Holy Kingdom, such a figure had emerged only once.

That legendary figure had been Sophia's ancestor—Thunder Emperor Kelson!

The only Spirit Armor in recorded history capable of rivaling authentic God Armors was the legendary masterpiece forged by Kelson's own hands: *Thor*.

Though *Thor* lacked the bizarre, reality-bending enchantments of primordial God Armors, in terms of sheer kinetic destructive power, it decisively outstripped every ancient relic in existence.

The reason was devastatingly simple.

*Thor* was whole and unbroken, whereas every ancient God Armor was damaged. Even the most pristine surviving specimen was compromised by roughly twenty-five percent. Though repaired across centuries by generations of artificers using contemporary techniques, the restored sections could never achieve seamless harmonic resonance with the primordial chassis.

It was precisely because of this legendary armor that the descendants of the Thunder Emperor enjoyed supreme prestige within Parkington, second only to the imperial house itself. When a scion of the Thunder Emperor advanced to the Celestial Realm and piloted *Thor*, unlocking one hundred percent of its divine capability, they became an absolute harbinger of terror on the battlefield.

This was a classified secret preserved exclusively within the imperial crown. Even Sophia, as a direct descendant of the Thunder Emperor, remained completely oblivious—she merely knew her ancestor had been the supreme knight of his era, the only figure in recorded history to transcend the realm of "Sword Saint."

Now, a second such figure was on the verge of emerging—yet he was not a subject of the Parkington Holy Kingdom. Princess Mithra's heart was a turbulent swirl of conflicting emotions; she felt intense anticipation, yet harbored deep-seated dread.

A roll of ceremonial drums echoing from outside the high windows shattered the young princess's reverie.

"They have finally arrived."

The violet-gowned noblewoman rose and stretched languidly.

"Dammit, I need to use the powder room! Having waited so long, I drank far too much tea," Sophia muttered, lifting her hem and bolting for the door without the slightest concern for aristocratic decorum.

"I need to visit the powder room as well!" The violet-gowned maiden followed closely behind Sophia's retreating footsteps.

Watching the two scurry away, the princess knew full well they were manufacturing excuses to dodge the reception. While aristocratic maidens bore inescapable duties to their houses, deploying subtle feminine ploys was always within reach. After all, this was no longer the archaic fourteenth century, when women were traded away like livestock; in the modern era, even political unions prioritized mutual consent.

Had it been two years earlier, Mithra would certainly have found an excuse to slip away as well. Today, she no longer possessed that luxury.

Across the vast plaza, the martial notes of the *Knight's March* began echoing through the air. Had this occurred months earlier, the band would have played the national anthem of the Monstoke Republic; now that the Republic had formally capitulated, the universal march was substituted in its stead.

Within the marching contingent, Richie stood nowhere near the vanguard. Prior to departure, Squad 105 and Velia's legion had finalized their formal merger, and his official assignment within the unified formation was commander of the 1st Company.

This rank placed him near the bottom of the original Squad 105 hierarchy, surpassed by virtually everyone except Margaret, Robin, and the newly recruited Tidi.

The supreme ranking officer leading the contingent was Victoria, who held the post of deputy commander of the 1st Battalion.

The atmosphere enveloping both sides was subtly bizarre.

The reception protocol extended by Parkington was extraordinarily elevated—grand enough to greet a visiting head of state—yet the official reception committee consisted merely of three aristocratic maidens holding zero public office, without a single cabinet minister present.

Conversely, the Monstoke delegation was formally led by Victoria, while the true target of Parkington's interest lingered unobtrusively in the secondary ranks.

Richie himself found the spectacle thoroughly surreal.

Though standing near the rear, he was blindingly conspicuous: within this newly consolidated legion, he was the solitary male officer. Furthermore, formal military dress was strictly mandated for the occasion; while all the female officers were draped in pristine white, he alone was clad in scarlet.

During daily operations, uniform color drew little attention, as Monstoke field combat uniforms were universally crimson—a vivid, blood-red hue. But gala dress adhered to different rules: scarlet was the designated ceremonial color of an Apprentice Knight.

This uncomfortably recalled his very first encounter with the young princess. Back then, he had likewise been looked down upon by aristocrats because of his scarlet gala uniform. Yet back then, his martial strength had merely edged out his peers, completely incomparable to his present stature.

For the first time, Richie felt his official rank of Apprentice Knight was profoundly awkward. Yet his two-year disciplinary probationary period had not expired; moreover, undergoing formal reassessment required the re-establishment of the Knight Headquarters—a prospect lost in the murky fog of the future.

"You should have pinned on your insignia," a female knight beside him muttered under her breath.

"Insignia? You mean those medals I was awarded in the past?" Richie asked softly.

"Naturally those count," the knight murmured, rolling her eyes with a touch of condescension. "Though skipping those wouldn't be catastrophic; what truly matters is the Grandmaster Insignia issued by the Craftsmen's Guild, alongside the silver badges you earned for slaying those two Honor Knights."

She suddenly remembered that when assassinating Yarno, Richie had dismantled an elite Honor squad. Though he hadn't executed the lead Honor Knight, protocol still entitled him to a silver badge.

"Parkington is a rigid caste society; they place supreme stock in such distinctions. Here, you cannot even dress as you please; the fabric and color of your garments define your societal rank," the female knight warned. She had been assigned specifically to act as Richie's protocol tutor. Ordinary knights required no such briefing, having absorbed these aristocratic norms since childhood; only late-awakened knights like Richie were utterly oblivious to such codes.

Richie clicked his tongue inwardly, feeling intensely stifled. Having bureaucrats police the very colors of a person's clothes was suffocating beyond description.

He silently thanked the heavens that he was not a subject of Parkington.

Standing near the rear of the ranks, Richie waited patiently for the ceremonial greetings to conclude. He had finally gained a visceral appreciation for the elaborate, exhausting protocol of the continent's mightiest empire.

The pageantry was undeniably awe-inspiring, radiating monumental grandeur, yet to Richie—a youth hailing from a humble background—the entire spectacle felt thoroughly hollow and pretentious.

Watching the pomp, he discreetly stifled a yawn. To prevent himself from dozing off on his feet, he diverted his attention to the dual lines of ceremonial battle armor flanking the red carpet.

These suits of armor were stunningly beautiful. Unlike the intricate, layered complexity of the "Dragon," their silhouette was remarkably streamlined; their beauty resided within flowing lines and the subtle, irregular curvature forming their contours.

Most armor artificers vehemently avoided irregular curved surfaces, as machining non-standard curves was extraordinarily difficult, time-consuming, and exorbitant.

Richie felt a strong urge to step forward and touch the metal; he wanted to discern whether the plates were cast or hand-forged. If the former, these machines were mere ceremonial window-dressing—gleaming upon the parade ground, yet structurally useless in real combat. If the latter, it proved that the Parkington Holy Kingdom possessed unfathomable industrial wealth.

With an engineering puzzle occupying his mind, time flew swiftly. Before he realized it, he felt someone nudging him.

In fact, several people were nudging him simultaneously; evidently, the surrounding female knights had noticed his distracted daydreaming.

"What? Is it over? Can we return to the barracks to rest now?" Richie asked in a hushed whisper.

"Are you interested in a feast?" a female knight beside him teased. Anyone who had spent time around Richie knew he held fine dining in supreme reverence.

Only now did Richie notice the formation moving forward, marching toward a grand pavilion situated directly ahead.

It was an exquisitely sculpted palace. While lacking the sheer physical scale of the Knight Headquarters or the Red Palace back in Penece, the architectural craftsmanship invested into its details was vastly superior.

Every stone column featured intricate, bespoke carvings at its capital—each uniquely distinct: clusters of grapes with winding vines, blooming briar roses, intertwining branches, and delicate foliage...

The eaves of the palace were crowded with classical statues depicting mythical archetypes: elves, dwarves, butterfly-winged flower spirits, and fauns with the horns and hooves of goats.

Richie felt thoroughly dazzled. Sculptures adorned every surface, evidently the handiwork of celebrated masters. Passing through the monumental double doors, the interior could only be described as breathtaking.

Beyond the threshold lay a colossal grand hall.

Except for the polished stone flooring, not a single square foot of the hall was left bare; the towering walls and soaring vaulted ceiling coalesced into a colossal, continuous fresco. The monumental pillars were equally adorned; the two columns flanking the entrance appeared so organic that at first glance, Richie had mistook them for ancient living trees.

In the center of the hall stood seven long banquet tables. The central table projected slightly forward, anchored by a resplendent golden throne at the head.

Richie had never witnessed such imperial pageantry; he didn't even know where he was supposed to sit.

Fortunately, a liveried steward approached him with a deferential bow.

"Please follow me, sir."

He was not the only one receiving personalized guidance; every officer in the contingent was attended by a dedicated attendant.

Richie's assigned seat was positioned immediately adjacent to the golden throne, directly opposite Victoria.

"Is the pocket watch I gifted you functioning well?"

Princess Mithra inquired casually as she took her seat upon the throne. Before the entire assembly was seated, there was ample time for private conversation.

"It works wonderfully. It has provided me immense assistance," Richie replied courteously. That was the honest truth, though the individual who truly leveraged its power was his father.

"I was watching you earlier. You appeared quite intrigued by our ceremonial battle armors."

Mithra steered the conversation directly toward battle armor, refraining from reminiscing about their initial acquaintance. Back then, her role had been a royal princess while Richie had been an apprentice guard; though she had behaved with utmost affability, who could guarantee how Richie viewed that history in hindsight?

"I'm afraid I won't have much spare time in the immediate future," Richie replied hastily, deflecting the princess's subtle overture. He had no desire to incur an unearned favor by accepting a gifted battle armor the moment he arrived; owing such debts was always fraught with peril. Furthermore, his earlier scrutiny had merely been to kill time; he held zero interest in expensive, showy parade pieces.

"That is true. I hear you have conceived yet another revolutionary battle armor model. If an opportunity arises, would you allow me to view it?"

Mithra abandoned diplomatic detours, though she kept the reference ambiguous—the existence of the "Wisdom King" was known only to a tight inner circle within the Coalition High Command.

"Is it that armor capable of flying through the skies?"

The violet-gowned noblewoman interjected with an eager smile, having taken the seat beside Richie.

Sitting across from her was Sophia, whose eyes were equally locked onto Richie.

Richie glanced at Victoria, unsure how to navigate the query.

Victoria was similarly observing the three young noblewomen. She carried a dual identity: commander of this escort force and official diplomatic envoy of Monstoke, tasked with negotiating strategic terms with Coalition leadership.

"I wonder what the current situation in Stein is? Are there still Alliance spies lingering in the region? Has the previous cell of infiltrators been apprehended?" Victoria inquired with apparent nonchalance.

Following the assault, the Unicorn Guard Legion had assumed full martial jurisdiction over Stein, cordoning off the settlement and a hundred-kilometer radius. Within that security zone, even Monstoke and Balmer units were barred from unauthorized movement.

Monstoke officers resented this arrogant heavy-handedness deeply, yet were powerless to resist. Raising the matter at the banquet was a deliberate move to gauge Princess Mithra's response.

"Our fortune was commendable. When our knights subdued that cell, they were on the verge of transmitting their intelligence cache," Princess Mithra replied with an easy smile. "Hostile espionage is truly pervasive. Within Stein alone, our sweeps unearthed over three hundred embedded agents; even Balmer's garrison harbored Alliance informants."

The princess tactfully avoided mentioning Monstoke personnel, though everyone knew hostile agents among their ranks were undoubtedly more numerous, seamlessly concealed among the refugee populace. The sprawling refugee camps were the ideal camouflage; no one could verify where refugees hailed from when personal identities were self-reported.

"The preliminary interrogation transcripts arrived the day before yesterday. It is rather ironic: the Alliance had zero inkling of what was actually being developed there. They merely presumed Stein was being fortified as your new High Command headquarters, while the testing ground was mistaken for subterranean bunker construction."

"How did that bizarre battle armor manage to infiltrate the testing grounds?" Richie couldn't resist asking.

Security around the testing ground hadn't been impenetrable, yet recon sentries had maintained vigilant patrols; for a machine to slip past their perimeter was baffling.

"That is precisely why we insisted on your immediate evacuation. Stein was far too volatile, and our stationed garrison lacked sufficient manpower to inspect every inbound shipment while securing the perimeter. That battle armor and its pilot were smuggled inside a shipping crate, transported straight through the gates. The operation implicated a high-ranking official in the Balmer administration, alongside one of Old Master Manu'em's own technical assistants."

Mithra concealed nothing. Because the failure reflected zero negligence on Parkington's part, she spoke candidly; nor were Monstoke officers at fault, eliminating any risk of diplomatic offense.

As the three conversed, the two noblewomen beside them listened with sharpening focus.

Both were intensely astute. Initially, they had assumed Mithra was referring to the legendary flight armor, but the dialogue revealed something far more clandestine, causing their eyes to light up in unison.

"I harbor immense passion for battle armor design as well. Would it be possible for me to visit the workshops as well?" the violet-gowned maiden asked sweetly.

"Likewise!" Sophia chimed in, raising a slender hand.

Richie feigned deafness, as did Victoria and Mithra.

Witnessing this reaction, the two maidens knew beyond doubt that a monumental secret was being guarded. Knowing Mithra's temperament, for her to bypass the celebrated flight technology and prioritize an unknown new armor proved that this machine's strategic value rivaled flight technology itself!

Their curiosity was intensely piqued, yet they dared not press further. If even they were excluded from the loop, the project had to be classified at the absolute apex of state secrets. They also realized Mithra was deliberately dangling the reference to retaliate for their earlier evasive maneuvers.

Having subtly referenced the "Wisdom King," the princess dropped the subject. Once the formal banquet commenced, she engaged Richie in lively conversation, though it was genuine casual banter—focusing on humorous anecdotes from Richie's pre-awakening youth and inquiring after his parents' well-being.

Richie's attention was nowhere near the conversation; if there was one aspect of the Parkington Holy Kingdom that earned his unconditional admiration, it was the culinary masterpieces gracing the table.

He was no stranger to gourmet delicacies; during his time collaborating with the two grandmasters, he had practically treated the restaurant of the Ricard Hotel as his private mess hall. That establishment retained the finest culinary masters of the Republic.

Yet when placed in direct comparison, the qualitative disparity between their cuisines was immediately apparent.

The dishes presented during the imperial banquet were delicious enough to make Richie nearly bite his own tongue. Consequently, while he had initially answered the princess's inquiries diligently, his responses grew progressively terse. Eventually, he reduced his replies to grunts, nods, and shakes of his head, devoting himself entirely to devouring the feast.

He felt zero embarrassment. From his time spent alongside the two grandmasters, he had absorbed a vital truth: in the eyes of society, battle armor artificers were universal eccentrics—the greater their prowess and prestige, the more bizarre their habits. Consequently, society naturally viewed eccentric behavior as the hallmark of genius.

Today, he fully possessed the credentials to indulge in that eccentricity.

When the feast finally concluded, the grand welcoming ceremony came to a close.

Only then did Richie learn a startling fact: this magnificent palace was slated to serve as the permanent garrison headquarters for their newly formed legion!

He had never imagined he would one day take up residence within an imperial palace.

Like all imperial structures, the compound was immense; the central grand hall alone could comfortably accommodate two thousand knights.

To adapt the palace for military garrisoning, Parkington engineers had pre-emptively partitioned the vast ceremonial halls using plasterboard walls into individual quarters.

While such accommodations could hardly compare to Squad 105 occupying an entire commercial plaza back in Glaslova, it was vastly superior to the cramped billets in the suburbs of Penece; at the very least, every officer enjoyed a private room.

Behind the palace lay a private garden. It was an unadorned landscape: broad manicured lawns bordered by meticulously sculpted hedges forming a miniature maze, interspersed with stone benches.

Before Richie could tour the entire grounds, he was summoned into the rear garden.

At the center of the hedge maze stood an exquisite conservatory.

It was an architectural pavilion constructed of glass, housing a lush collection of exotic flora. Plants were not confined to the soil; overhead ran an arched framework choked with wisteria and climbing grapevines, from which dangling ferns and hanging ivies cascaded down. Elegant tier stands displayed an array of porcelain vases arranged in harmonious beauty.

Inside the pavilion stood a semi-circular row of chairs. Princess Mithra and Victoria sat opposite one another, leaving a vacant seat between them—evidently reserved for his arrival.

Richie swept his gaze across the perimeter.

Though shielded by dense living hedges, his senses detected numerous armed presences lurking beyond the greenery.

The instant he crossed the threshold of the glass pavilion, a wave of subtle discomfort washed over him. Startled, he instinctively retreated half a step.

Outside the threshold, the unsettling sensation evaporated instantly.

Richie scanned his surroundings once more.

He perceived nothing amiss with his naked eyes.

Bracing himself, he stepped firmly back inside the pavilion, and that identical oppressive discomfort assaulted his senses once again. Richie felt as though he had plunged into a pool of thick, invisible syrup.

Suddenly, he sensed unseen eyes drilling into his frame. Strangely, while he could distinctly perceive the surveillance, he could not isolate its directional vector—it felt as though inquisitive gazes were converging upon him from every point of the compass simultaneously!

This could not possibly be an illusion. Following the crisis at the proving grounds, his confidence in his sensory faculties had solidified into absolute certainty.

If not an illusion, this had to be the manifestation of something akin to a "field."

"Are the accommodations to your satisfaction?" the princess inquired with polite grace.

"Impeccable," Richie replied with formal courtesy. During the journey, his female tutors had drilled him in diplomatic etiquette and conversational tactics.

Following brief pleasantries, the discussion turned to substantive business.

"As far as I am aware, aside from yourself, two members of the original Squad 105 have mastered basic flight maneuvers. Am I correct?"

The princess had come specifically to address this strategic matter.

"One cannot say they have fully mastered it; Merlin and Rosa still cannot sustain high altitudes," Richie replied cautiously, confident that no matter how omniscient Parkington intelligence was, technical minutiae remained beyond their grasp.

"That is understandable. They spent merely two weeks training before your subsequent tribulations disrupted operations. Without your personal instruction, their progress naturally stalled."

Mithra spoke with a hint of resignation; this was precisely the irreplaceable leverage Richie wielded, and why the Coalition Council had backed him unswervingly. "I wish to know: under optimal conditions, how much time is required for a knight to fully master aerial flight maneuvers?"

She added pointedly, "Our High Command will not scrutinize the specific methodologies you employ to impart this instruction."

Having spoken with such blunt transparency, the underlying implication was clear to all.

Richie's cheeks flushed slightly. He had never imagined that even this royal princess was fully apprised of his scandalous bedroom dual cultivation. After a moment of calculation, he offered a measured estimate: "Approximately four to five months."

The timeline was noticeably swifter than Mithra's conservative forecasts. "Very well. We shall assemble an initial cohort of candidates as swiftly as possible. What is the maximum number of students you can instruct concurrently?"

When Mithra uttered the word "instruct," her inflection rose slightly, her lips curling into a mischievous smirk.

Richie was momentarily struck dumb, thoroughly at a loss for how to answer.

Fortunately, Victoria stepped in to alleviate his predicament: "Flight technology is primarily allocated for strategic reconnaissance; the requisite personnel should not be exceptionally vast. However..."

She smiled meaningfully at the princess. "The candidate pool will certainly not be restricted exclusively to knights of your Holy Kingdom. Am I correct?"

Prior to arriving in Parkington, the Monstoke leadership had deduced that the Coalition would never permit a single empire to monopolize flight technology. While secondary member states might be sidelined temporarily, the three dominant empires would certainly forge a trilateral pact to share the breakthrough.

"The inaugural cohort will encompass only our nation, Omore, and Rosotto, with each empire dispatching ten candidates. That should present no complications, correct?"

Mithra looked to Richie, awaiting his confirmation.

This quota was already double the immediate operational requirement. According to General Staff war games, a force of ten to fifteen flight-capable machines was sufficient to maintain comprehensive theater reconnaissance.

Both geopolitical blocs were furiously advancing airship and hot-air balloon technology for regional surveillance. Only strategic tasks beyond the capacity of airships required specialized flight armor; such high-risk sorties would be relatively infrequent. The foremost future role for flight-capable knights would likely be intercepting and destroying hostile airships and balloons.

Naturally, Mithra harbored no objection to expanding numbers. Telemetry records forwarded from the Iro front had showcased the terrifying strategic potential of aerial armor: their unprecedented maneuverability and immunity to terrestrial terrain bottlenecks rendered flight-capable knights the ultimate saboteurs. Back then, the strategic bridges and highways Richie had demolished single-handedly vastly exceeded the aggregate tally of his entire squad combined.

Given the resources, the Coalition High Command yearned for as many flight-capable knights as feasible. The prospect of hundreds of aerial machines marauding across enemy supply lines—demolishing bridges, severing railways, and strafing logistical columns from the sky—represented the ultimate doctrine to starve the Alliance into collapse.

Such ambitions were somewhat extravagant in the immediate term, as high command recognized the logistical constraints. Yet should it succeed, the outcome of the war would be effectively sealed.

"This matter requires internal deliberation on our part," Victoria replied, unwilling to finalize terms prematurely; such strategic decisions exceeded her singular authority.

Mithra was unhurried; Coalition leadership had never planned on deploying flight armor during the opening campaigns.

Initially, both factions would operate with extreme caution; even with localized air superiority, reaping decisive advantages was difficult, and tactical setbacks could be compensated. Only in the mid-to-late stages of total war, when armies were locked in mutual attrition and reserves were expended, would the apocalyptic value of aerial warfare manifest. At that juncture, localized breakdowns would trigger a catastrophic domino effect, culminating in total collapse.

The garden negotiations concluded without binding commitments.

This outcome was entirely within the expectations of the Coalition monarchs.

Returning to the imperial palace, Princess Mithra delivered a full debriefing to the assembled sovereigns.

Within this sealed conference chamber sat the Big Three of the Coalition: Empress Annielia, Emperor Nikola IV of Rosotto, and Emperor Carlos of Omore.

Having heard Princess Mithra's report, the Empress bypassed diplomatic technicalities, inquiring instead: "What is your assessment of that youth's personal martial strength?"

The other two emperors looked mildly surprised, though they too harbored curiosity—albeit far less intense than Annielia's. Their primary interest lay in Richie's genius as an artificer, rather than his personal prowess as a warrior.

"Formidable, exceedingly bizarre, and deeply astonishing," Mithra struggled to find words. Having observed hundreds of thousands of knights across her life, she had never encountered an anomaly like Richie. As she spoke, she cast subtle, meaningful glances toward her mother.

Empress Annielia behaved as though oblivious to her daughter's signals, pressing further: "Elaborate in detail. I wish to know precisely what martial realm he has attained."

Hearing her mother's explicit prompt, Mithra understood that Her Majesty intended for her to reveal everything before the other two sovereigns.

"His cultivation is extraordinarily peculiar. Judging strictly by combat aura density, he stands merely at the early Ace rank. Yet he undeniably commands a sensory 'field'—and that 'field' is actively transmuting into a 'Domain'..."

Before Princess Mithra could conclude her sentence, both foreign emperors sucked in a sharp breath of cold air! Every reigning monarch possessed knightly pedigree, backed by formidable martial cultivation. As accomplished warriors, they grasped the staggering implications of Mithra's revelation instantly.

"How on earth did he cultivate such a foundation?!" Emperor Nikola IV exclaimed in disbelief. A martial fanatic whose combat strength ranked among the top three monarchs continent-wide, his fascination was profound.

Richie's past cultivation history was hardly a secret; both alliances had expended immense intelligence resources investigating his background, and his pre-Dragon records were easily accessible.

"I suspect even he himself does not fully comprehend it," Empress Annielia remarked with an amused chuckle.

There was clear precedent for this: his "Mirror Reflection" technique had been conceived out of bizarre anomalies, completely defying imitation by others.

Hearing Annielia's remark, Nikola IV shook his head in helpless awe.

Indeed, across all the knights he had encountered, not a single one possessed the audacity to distort and improvise ancestral cultivation manuals as recklessly as Richie did.

"In that case, the path leading that boy to the Glorious tier is already completely clear," Nikola IV mused, shaking his head repeatedly. Comparisons truly bred bitter envy: he was a Glorious Knight himself, blessed with supreme imperial techniques, elite guidance, and the formidable bloodline of an ancestral Sword Saint. Despite possessing every conceivable advantage, he had expended blood, sweat, and decades of grueling effort to breach the threshold, attaining the Glorious rank at age forty-seven. Hearing of Richie's effortless trajectory left him deeply unsettled.

The other two monarchs chuckled inwardly. Carlos of Omore was far more relaxed; having never pursued martial obsession, his envy was minimal. He smiled warmly at Annielia: "You certainly wouldn't hinder his advancement, which means the moment his cultivation ripens, you will undoubtedly throw open the gateway to the Celestial Realm for him."

To Carlos's astonishment, Annielia shook her head: "There is no need. He has already acquired something far superior."

Carlos froze, his posture straightening abruptly.

Almost simultaneously, Nikola IV sprang from his seat, demanding loudly: "Are you certain?!"

"Naturally," Annielia replied, shooting Nikola IV a cool, knowing glance.

With that confirmation, the two foreign sovereigns were struck utterly speechless. The existence of the "Sword Saint Inheritance" was a guarded secret to the world, yet these three monarchs were intimately versed in its reality.

They finally understood why Annielia had placed such immense weight upon this inquiry.

If mastering a "Domain" represented a guaranteed ticket to the Glorious rank, possessing the "Sword Saint Inheritance" was tantamount to having a direct express carriage awaiting him to the supreme realm of Sword Saint! A knight destined to achieve the zenith of Sword Saint and a mere prodigy with exceptional talent were two entirely divergent entities. To the three great empires, Celestial Knights were not exceptionally rare, but a Sword Saint was an absolute rarity—martial ascension grew exponentially arduous with each tier, and the gulf in destructive power widened proportionally.

More critically, the title of Sword Saint commanded staggering political and spiritual authority.

Grand Marshal Bosrova's dying arrangements were no secret to Coalition high command; while they conceded Bosrova's plans were optimal under the circumstances, it was by no means their preferred outcome. Many Coalition leaders harbored deep distaste for the radical Junior Army, privately hoping to bolster Erwin's moderate faction instead.

Yet now, an immense dilemma loomed: the moment Richie ascended to Sword Saint, no faction within Monstoke could ever hope to challenge his authority—not even the Junior Army.

Had the Monstokians not been deeply habituated to republican constitutionalism with an ingrained aversion to imperial monarchy, Richie could easily crown himself Emperor.

"It seems we must adjust our strategic direction and augment our material support for that young man!" Nikola IV remarked with a faint, calculating smile, having deciphered Annielia's underlying intent.

Support was genuine, yet how that support was structured involved profound statecraft.

Offering lavish aid while subtly embedding patronage and strategic leashes—such statecraft was something these monarchs had mastered to absolute perfection.