Chapter 89 Family Visit Turmoil

Tranquil, serene, and steeped in unhurried simplicity—such was Richie's initial impression of Cygnus City. Though designated as a city, it felt far more like an expansive pastoral township, albeit on a gargantuan scale. During their initial journey, the female knight driving the carriage had mentioned that several satellite cities encircling the capital rivaled Penece in geographic expanse; Cygnus City was evidently one of these vast enclaves.

Taking in the surrounding scenery, Richie was certain his earlier journey had never passed through this quarter; Cygnus City clearly lay well off the main imperial thoroughfares.

Compared to the satellite cities he had glimpsed along the Way of Heaven, this town bore a far deeper patina of historical antiquity. Many of its streets were paved with traditional cobblestones or weathered blue slate, and the houses appeared venerable with age, their stone facades draped in thick tapestries of ivy and morning glory vines. At frequent intervals, ancient trees whose trunks would require several men to encircle stretched broad canopies across the quiet avenues.

Victoria had dropped him off at the crossroads before returning, agreeing to meet him at the same spot three days hence.

Gliding smoothly along the roadway on his roller-blades, Richie passed numerous pedestrians.

The townsfolk noticed him in turn, their eyes following his progress with an ambiguous mixture of guarded vigilance and curious intrigue.

Following the written directions brought by the courier, Richie located No. 225 Rudolf Avenue.

It was an aged stone villa enclosed by a shoulder-high stone wall, which served far more as an aesthetic border than any practical barrier against intruders; over a wall so low, anyone could vault with ease.

The villa itself was constructed of rustic masonry in the style of a traditional two-story country lodge, surrounded by a manicured lawn trimmed with low ornamental shrubs along the foundations.

Richie had been provided a brass key alongside the address, so he unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

The ground floor resembled the taproom of a countryside tavern. Lacking modern architectural lighting, the interior was somewhat dim, anchored on one flank by a broad stone fireplace; despite being mid-spring, the hearth was clearly in active daily use.

Richie chuckled softly to himself. His mother had never shed the habits forged during their days of poverty; back in their old home, having had no separate kitchen, she had prepared every family meal directly over the hearth.

The parlor was empty, yet faint noises echoed from the floor above, confirming his mother's presence.

The sounds were intermittent, resembling muffled, weeping whimpers; yet Richie knew with absolute certainty that these were no cries of grief. He was far too intimately acquainted with the acoustics of feminine rapture.

By sheer involuntary reflex, his manhood swelled instantly beneath his belt. Had he not changed into a reinforced pair of undergarments before departing, the stubborn fixture would have pitched a conspicuous tent against his trousers.

Richie found himself caught in an awkward dilemma. After a lengthy pause, he rationalized his curiosity: he had a filial obligation to defend his father's domestic honor against stray impropriety.

With that virtuous pretext in mind, he crept silently toward the staircase.

The timber stairs were dark and groaned underfoot with every step—the inescapable flaw of antique architecture.

Reaching the upper landing, he traced the sounds to a bedchamber down the hall. Creeping to the doorframe, he peered through the ornate keyhole.

It was a master bedroom, shrouded in dim half-light with the velvet curtains drawn tight.

Three unclothed women were entangled together across the broad mattress, each resting with her head nestled against another's hips in a reciprocal triangle of intimacy.

Richie found himself staring directly at an alabaster, curvaceous derriere, noting that both of its intimate thresholds were occupied by apparatuses: a lifelike prosthetic shaft embedded within the front passage, and an iridescent chain of beaded spheres extending from the rear.

Richie dared not look further. He had fondled his cousin and Aunt Ling's forms countless times and knew their contours by heart; this unfamiliar, lush derriere could belong to none other than his mother.

To his immense distress, that single glance had ignited an unmistakable physical response; watching another heartbeat risked triggering an irreversible domestic scandal.

If he had felt conflicted moments ago, he was now roasting upon coals of torment, yet leaving was out of the question. Even if he retreated to the ground floor, the rhythmic gasps would penetrate the floorboards, vividly conjuring the sight before his imagination.

Selecting a quiet step on the staircase landing, Richie simply sat down to wait.

The muffled cries continued to filter through the door. For months he had suspected that his mother, Aunt Ling, and his cousin shared clandestine escapades; today had confirmed the suspicion, though he had no inkling when their sisterly pact had begun.

Alternating between breathless moans and sharp, high-pitched shrieks, the session carried on for an indeterminate time until his cousin's weary voice broke the cadence: "I'm starving. What about you two?"

The frantic rhythm ceased at once.

"I'm famished as well," his mother’s voice scolded with breathless petulance. "It's all because of you two lustful hussies—I completely forgot to prepare breakfast! And we haven't even visited the market yet. What time is it? The morning stalls must have closed by now."

"Look who's calling others lustful," Aunt Ling countered with unrepentant laughter. "What does it matter? Skip the market entirely; we'll dine out for lunch and dinner. We've traveled all the way to the City of Heaven—we ought to enjoy the high life. Everyone knows the capital offers the finest luxuries in the realm."

"Too true," his cousin chimed in with a weary sigh. "Ever since Uncle took up a government post, we haven't dared spend a copper of our fortune. When we spot gorgeous gowns, we don't dare buy them; we have to hide in obscure cottages like this; we must decline every grand banquet invitation. We're rolling in coin yet forbidden from enjoying it, so dining at fine restaurants is our only consolation."

It was an idle grumble; of the three women, his cousin was by far the most circumspect, terrified of committing a social misstep. Her own husband was climbing the political ladder; enduring modest frugality now would yield decades of aristocratic glory, a calculation she understood with absolute clarity.

Playful laughter and squabbling echoed from within as the trio dragged themselves from the bed. Roughly a quarter of an hour later, the bedroom door swung open.

His cousin was the first to step out, letting out an ear-piercing shriek: "Who—who’s lurking by the stairs?!"

His mother and Aunt Ling screamed in unison behind her, and the heavy door slammed shut with a thunderous bang.

"Mom, it's me," Richie called out.

A stunned silence fell over the chamber. Moments later, the door creaked open a sliver, and three curious eyes stacked vertically peered through the gap. Recognizing Richie sitting calmly on the steps, the three women let out a collective sigh of relief.

With a metallic rattle, the interior security chain was unhooked, and the door opened fully.

All three women were flushed crimson to the roots of their hair. After an agonizing silence, his mother asked weakly: "How... how long have you been sitting there?"

"Not long at all; I just arrived," Richie lied smoothly, having no desire to confess that he had been listening to their ecstatic cries for over an hour.

The women certainly deduced the truth, yet none possessed the shamelessness to shatter the polite facade.

"What a wonderful coincidence! We were just getting ready to head out for a meal—let us go together," his mother declared, striving valiantly to reassemble her dignified maternal poise.

Remembering the gifts he had brought, Richie lifted the three silk-wrapped boxes from beside his feet. "I brought presents for you all."

The courier had made no mention of his cousin's presence; under his original plan, two gifts were designated for his mother and one for Aunt Ling, reflecting his mother's preeminent standing. With three recipients present, he naturally reserved the most valuable item for his mother.

The ribboned boxes were opened. His mother received a delicate lace shawl; its understated simplicity left her slightly bemused, whereas his cousin and Aunt Ling beamed with unrestrained delight. His cousin had received a bracelet strung with South Sea pearls, each orb as large as a longan fruit and perfectly spherical—an absolute treasure among gems. Aunt Ling cradled a pair of elbow-length gloves crafted of fine silk and intricate lace, effusively praising their exquisite craftsmanship. The gifts were indeed princely treasures; the embroidered 'WM' cipher confirmed they were bespoke creations from the imperial workshops of the Parkington court.

Noticing his mother’s furrowed brow, Richie hastily explained: "Your shawl is genuine imperial regalia, woven from the purest celestial silkworm thread. Though it appears to be a modest accessory, its tensile strength eclipses standard iron armor; even a pistol shot cannot pierce it."

"So it's an authentic royal relic!" His mother tilted her chin with triumphant pride, casting a gloating smirk toward her sister and niece.

"Alright, don't let it go to your head. Everyone knows your son is a miracle worker," Aunt Ling muttered with affectionate jealousy.

"Enough squabbling, let's go eat," his cousin urged, eager to break the tension.

Aunt Ling clamped her mouth shut, knowing her daughter was offering a subtle reminder: while the sisters might engage in petty rivalries in private, they could never display petulance before Richie, upon whose transcendent favor their entire clan's fortunes rested.

"I must change my gown," his mother announced.

"I need to change as well," Aunt Ling and his cousin echoed in unison.

"Aren't your dresses perfectly fine?" Richie asked in bewilderment.

"This bodice clashes terribly with the pearl bracelet," his cousin replied instantly.

Richie felt an impending headache, well-versed in the agonizing hours women squandered on wardrobe selection. Allowing his cousin to hunt down a gown matching her new bracelet would guarantee they missed lunch entirely, waiting until dusk for dinner.

"These gifts were intended for formal court galas, not casual street strolls. You must consider Father's position," Richie said. His cousin had seemed so pragmatic moments ago, yet the sparkle of luxury had instantly turned her head.

Unwilling to waste hours, he seized his cousin by the wrist and marched her down the stairs.

Back in Glaslova, such casual familiarity between them had been second nature, and Richie felt not the slightest strangeness today.

Though his cousin glared daggers at his back, he paid her scowl no heed.

"You marry Binder and suddenly I'm a stranger?" Richie whispered with a roguish grin as they reached the front porch.

Her response was a vicious heel stomp upon his instep, followed by seizing his wrist and jamming his palm firmly against her lower abdomen.

Through her skirts, Richie's fingers brushed against an unmistakable rigid cylinder: the prosthetic shaft was still firmly embedded within her feminine passage, and behind it, a chain of spheres trailed down her inner thighs.

"What? Binder can't satisfy you?" Richie snickered under his breath.

The boot pinned upon his foot ground down with sharp, rotational venom, expressing her indignation; yet beneath her glare, her hazel eyes shimmered with intoxicating sweetness.

Richie tugged experimentally at the apparatus, yet against his considerable strength the device remained immovable.

"It's locked with a key mechanism," she whispered through scarlet cheeks.

Footsteps clattered upon the timber stairs as his mother and Aunt Ling descended.

With his mother present, Richie feigned utter innocence, though he nurtured a mischievous impulse to see how long they could endure the discomfort.

Private carriages were virtually nonexistent across Parkington. The crown strongly discouraged unrestricted civilian travel, regulating private vehicular transit with an iron hand; conversely, the network of public omnibus carriages was exceptionally developed, with transit stops adorning every street corner.

Having resided in the kingdom for several weeks, his mother was the most familiar with the district and took charge of their route.

In any metropolis, the commercial center stood as the pinnacle of prosperity, and Cygnus City was no exception.

Stepping into the central avenues, Richie finally felt a glimmer of familiar urban life.

The atmosphere shared similarities with the commercial thoroughfares of Monstoke—vibrant, crowded, and pulsing with commerce. The key distinction lay in zoning: in Monstoke, residential flats topped street-level storefronts, whereas here, entire blocks were dedicated purely to commercial plazas packed with dining halls, boutiques, and playhouses, entirely devoid of domestic residences.

Shopping was the universal passion of womankind, and upon beholding the glittering shop fronts, the eyes of all three women sparkled with covetous excitement. Alas, after traversing barely three blocks, their strides faltered into an agonizing shuffle.

With intimate apparatuses lodged within their bodies, remaining motionless was manageable; the kinetic friction of walking, however, caused the devices to jostle continuously, generating waves of exquisite, unbearable torment.

Richie strolled alongside them, feigning blissful ignorance—the very reason he had refrained from unlocking the devices earlier. Having endured harrowing shopping expeditions with women in the past, he had zero desire to serve as a pack mule or an ambulatory coin purse today.

Cygnus City was a second-tier satellite metropolis. Under the rigid hierarchy of the Parkington Holy Kingdom, its residents were the cultural and intellectual elite, with first-tier satellite cities reserved exclusively for hereditary aristocracy—which, in Parkington, meant combat knights and Mind Masters.

Consequently, goods purveyed in this district represented the absolute zenith of luxury attainable by the common populace.

When Richie's family had resided on Penece’s most fashionable avenue, they had browsed fine emporiums, yet comparing those provincial boutiques to these imperial establishments revealed a vast chasm in elegance and grandeur.

The women yearned to inspect every boutique, yet crippled by internal torment and paralyzed by the sheer culinary splendor of the district, they settled upon a bustling, glass-fronted restaurant commanding the finest scenic terrace on the plaza.

Upon Richie's entrance, the dining room stewards halted in visible astonishment; in the Holy Kingdom, combat knights and common civilians inhabited entirely separate societal spheres.

Glancing at the leather-bound menu resting upon the table, Richie did not even bother opening it; composed entirely in ornate Parkington script, it was utterly incomprehensible to his eyes.

To his immense surprise, his mother, Aunt Ling, and his cousin huddle closely over the pages, chattering in fluent Parkington dialect as they debated their selections.

All three women spoke the imperial tongue with effortless ease.

Surprise yielded instantly to a twinge of sheepish humility. In his memory, his mother had been an ordinary housewife; though she held quiet sway over the household, he and his father had rarely heeded her counsel, often holding pompous political debates while she performed chores, assuming she understood nothing of statecraft. Yet observing her now, Richie realized that in scholarly education, his father was likely far outmatched by his mother.

He knew his father's pedigree intimately: an ordinary clerk who had completed middle school before serving two years as an apprentice.

His mother had attended a "girls' school," which he now deduced was an elite, comprehensive academy spanning primary through collegiate finishing years.

Most humiliating of all, Richie possessed the lowest academic credentials of his entire clan: war had erupted before he could even finish his junior middle school curriculum.

Nursing his bruised intellectual pride, Richie tuned out their linguistic deliberations, resigning himself to the rumbling hunger gnawing at his stomach.

Women rarely conducted business swiftly, and three women gathered together possessed zero perception of time; by the time their luncheon was finalized, Richie’s stomach was growling loudly.

"Have your affairs proceeded smoothly?" Richie inquired while awaiting their dishes.

"Naturally. With your star on the rise, we bask in your reflected glory," his mother chuckled, her eyes crinkling into joyful slits.

"Living abroad is far more comfortable than staying cooped up in the Republic," Aunt Ling noted merrily, harboring not a shred of sentimental patriotism.

"Watch your tongue in public," his cousin cautioned, nudging her mother under the table. She shared her mother's pragmatism, yet she had to safeguard her husband's military career; such careless words overheard by political rivals could be forged into lethal weapons against Binder.

"Everything has been smooth, if somewhat tedious," Aunt Ling sighed. "Doing business with the military requires zero marketing effort; after the initial setup, our days have been consumed entirely by social banquets."

Richie understood her sentiment completely. The two military combat-suit factories had been established with complete imperial logistics: factory sites, raw materials, and distribution were handled directly by military quartermasters, with finished suits delivered directly into army storehouses under prompt, lavish payments. The two women had never even been afforded an opportunity to negotiate a single price.

It was not that officials denied them the right to bargain; rather, the military was so desperate to shower them with revenue that negotiations were entirely superfluous.

Yet profitable though it was, business conducted with such effortless certainty stripped away all thrill of commerce.

"Didn't you always dream of establishing a grand fur trading house specializing in premium pelts?" Richie asked, recalling her lifelong ambition.

"Circumstances change," his mother interjected with a dismissive wave before Aunt Ling could reply. "Since arriving in Rosotto, this woman has been pampered like nobility; do you honestly expect her to lower herself to a petty shopkeeper? Furthermore, with war looming on every frontier, luxury commerce has collapsed; highborn ladies aren't buying opulent furs. With coin overflowing our coffers, why court needless headaches?"

His mother darted a pointed sidelong glance toward Richie's cousin.

A deeper reason remained unvoiced: Binder's political reputation.

Though Monstoke championed mercantilism, its ruling elite was entirely devoid of commercial merchants. Founded upon trade, the Republic’s patrician houses looked down with profound disdain upon base commerce.

Their current manufacturing enterprises carried no such stigma: designated as official military materiel suppliers, their standing was that of state defense contractors, occupying an entirely different moral stratum.

"You are still a newlywed; why aren't you by Binder's side?" Richie turned to ask his cousin.

Her reply was a sharp, unamused roll of her eyes.

His mother clarified: "The Knight Headquarters placed a colossal procurement order—nearly one hundred thousand sets of standard combat suits."

Richie felt no surprise. Though military reforms remained ongoing, the signs were unmistakable: the Junior Army would soon assume sovereign command of the reorganized Knight Headquarters. Given his intimate alliance with the Junior Army leadership, his mother and aunt were guaranteed favored treatment.

"One hundred thousand suits," Richie mused, turning toward Aunt Ling. "You can't possibly possess enough raw hide for that volume. A single combat suit requires several whole sealskins."

"Do you think I sit around twiddling my thumbs?" Aunt Ling boasted proudly. "I engineered a synthetic substitute long ago."

She had ample cause for pride; even she had not anticipated success, crediting half the breakthrough to the research journals left by her late husband, and the rest to sheer commercial luck.

"I traveled here for another purpose as well," his cousin added, letting go of her annoyance. "The officers' fraternal association Uncle established in Penece did little to assist during his trial, but that doesn't render it worthless. Many members were foreign liaison officers across the Allied nations; following their repatriation, almost all received promotions. My assignment is to re-establish contact with them."

"Are you capable of handling diplomatic liaison?" Richie asked skeptically.

His cousin’s eyes widened with indignation. "You dare belittle me? Before those courtesans stepped in to assist the association, I managed its entire operational apparatus single-handedly!"

Aunt Ling nudged her daughter beneath the tablecloth, offering Richie an apologetic smile: "Her tongue is sharp, but during those dark days she truly bore a heavy burden."

Observing his cousin’s indignant glare, Richie conceded that her claims were likely true.

"Do you feel confident in securing their loyalty?" Richie asked, seeking to restore harmony.

"The prospects are excellent. Those officers harbor residual guilt over Uncle's ordeal; after his exoneration, several dispatched letters of condolence," his cousin explained. "Most crucially: your personal stature grows more formidable by the day."

Opportunism was a universal law of human nature. The officers recruited into his father’s association had originally belonged to the lowest echelons; even with promotions, they remained mid-level functionaries, desperate to anchor themselves to a rising titan of the Grand Alliance.

Though the cynical calculus brought little joy, Richie raised no objection; political networks were inevitably forged upon such mutual interest.

Just as Richie opened his mouth to offer resources, an acute prickle of hostility washed over his senses.

Being observed was hardly anomalous; a combat knight appearing in a civilian municipality naturally commanded public attention, and countless gazes had trailed him throughout his journey. Yet the gaze locked onto him now was saturated with naked, venomous malice.

Richie snapped his head toward the source of the sensation.

Across the dining hall, a figure was hastily shrinking behind a broad decorative column.

Curiously, standing adjacent to the column was a municipal patrolman.

"What are you looking at?" his cousin asked, following his gaze.

"A skulking rat," Richie remarked casually.

His cousin glanced over, dismissing the sight with a bored shrug: "Probably one of Yarno’s surviving sycophants."

His mother and Aunt Ling looked over in turn; his mother let out a tired sigh: "I run into those wretches constantly—hovering about like vengeful specters."

"They're desperate to manufacture political dirt against us," Aunt Ling noted with piercing clarity.

"Knowing they shadow you, you still venture out to dine?" Richie asked in surprise.

"Why should we cower?" His mother patted Richie’s cheek with an affectionate smile. "My darling son visits from the front, and we celebrate with a fine meal; is that not the most natural human sentiment in the world?"

"He's approaching—the patrolman is walking over," his cousin noted, watching the officer’s approach with lively curiosity rather than fear.

Richie’s gaze, however, tracked in an entirely different direction.

In a shadowed corner beside the main entrance sat two men—one in his mid-thirties, the other barely out of his twenties.

Richie had marked them long ago: when his family had exited the stone villa, the pair had emerged from an adjacent cottage, shadowing them at a discreet distance throughout their journey.

They were clearly plainclothes operatives from an intelligence service, and Richie was certain they were assigned to monitor his mother and aunt, as operatives tasked with watching his own movements maintained a strict five-hundred-meter perimeter.

Richie’s brow twitched as he watched the younger operative begin to rise to intercept the patrolman, only to have his arm seized firmly by the senior operative.

"Relax. Nothing will happen," the elder agent murmured. Though his voice was hushed, every syllable carried clearly into Richie's acute hearing.

For reasons unknown, Richie detected an undercurrent of cynical derision in the man's tone.

The patrolman marched up to their table.

"Present your identification documents immediately," the officer barked, propping his hands upon his hips, his left hand resting against the grip of a service pistol.

Richie ignored him entirely, his gaze remaining locked upon the two plainclothes agents in the corner.

"Did you fail to hear me? Display your credentials at once!" the patrolman shouted, tapping his palm impatiently against the weapon.

"You are not an Enforcement Knight; under what imperial statute do you possess authority to demand my credentials?" Richie retorted with chilling calm.

"I have reason to suspect you are an espionage operative of the Alliance," the patrolman declared, drawing the pistol from its holster.

Richie darted another glance toward the corner operatives.

The younger agent could restrain himself no longer, attempting to lunge forward, yet the senior operative gripped his shoulder with iron resolve.

"Chief, stop playing games—disaster will strike!" the youth pleaded in a frantic whisper.

"Calm yourself. No harm will come of it," the senior operative repeated with smug indifference.

The hushed exchange entered Richie's ears, chilling his heart to absolute zero.

The man’s deduction was technically correct: a crude civilian firearm posed zero physical threat to an advanced combat knight. Yet what if Richie had not been present? Had his mother, aunt, and cousin faced this armed intimidation alone, would this operative have sat back with the same callous amusement, relishing the spectacle?

Rage flared within Richie's breast, and he resolved to teach these haughty bureaucrats an unforgettable lesson.

The most direct response was a crushing fist, yet experience had taught him that intellect shattered conspiracies far more thoroughly than brute violence.

Furthermore, the puppet master behind this farce was the remnant faction of Yarno's disgraced retinue; the patrolman before him was merely a venal pawn bought with gold. Crushing the pawn would leave the shadowy instigators entirely untouched.

To ensnare those elusive ghosts, the stakes had to be escalated to catastrophic proportions.

Richie was equally aware that the existence of these lingering ghosts was tacitly tolerated by certain highborn factions, who viewed them as convenient tools to manufacture discord or frame political adversaries without incurring direct liability.

He could foresee the script unfolding: whether he displayed his credentials or physically rebuffed the patrolman, the confrontation would devolve into an endless bureaucratic squabble, dragging his family through humiliating public theater.

If he danced to their choreography, he would become the unwitting protagonist in a vulgar farce—another clown sharing the stage with this venal officer.

To break the farce, the script had to be obliterated.

With a microscopic flick of his index finger, a needle-thin dart of battle qi discharged from his flesh, striking the patrolman’s trigger finger with pinpoint kinetic force.

The patrolman felt an invisible jolt displace his finger; realizing the lethal implication, his complexion turned corpse-white in an instant. Yet remorse came too late: his spasming finger depressed the trigger to its limit.

With a deafening roar, a foot-long tongue of crimson muzzle flare erupted from the iron barrel, followed by an enormous cloud of acrid black powder smoke that swallowed the entire dining table and its occupants.

No one in the establishment had anticipated gunfire.

The patrolman’s arrogant smirk froze into paralyzed horror, and the two corner operatives sprang to their feet with dropped jaws.

Moments later, high-pitched shrieks reverberated through the dining hall. The citizens of Parkington had known centuries of insulated peace; their civilian nerves were fragile, responding to gunfire with blind panic.

The quickest to react was the shadow hiding behind the decorative pillar.

The moment the shot cracked, he recognized that the plot had derailed into catastrophe; no gunfire had ever been authorized. Well aware of Richie's transcendent status within the Allied command, he knew with terror what this assassination attempt portended. Wheeling around, he sprinted desperately toward the street exit.

Swift though he was, the two operatives reacted with equal velocity. The senior agent dared not hesitate a fraction longer; lunging across the tiles, he tackled the fleeing conspirator hard against the marble floor.

The sharp report carried far beyond the glass facade, and the military intelligence operatives assigned to Richie’s outer cordon charged into the restaurant like berserk hounds.

One operative seized a terrified waiter, flashing an ironclad military commission before the man’s eyes and bellowing: "What happened here?!"

Simultaneously, a second military agent sprinted behind the trembling patrolman, drawing his service weapon and pressing the cold muzzle directly against the officer’s temple.

The firearm packed considerable punch, yet it was a single-shot muzzleloader; holding an empty iron pipe, the patrolman posed zero threat, yet the charging operative treated the situation as a battlefield breach, slamming the officer’s face brutally against the tabletop.

As the acrid smoke dispersed, Richie stood untouched beside his chair. A soot-black powder burn stained the center of his tunic, punctured by a neat, round hole.

The impact had stung sharply, yet his soul surged with boundless exhilaration.

Suffering the shot had served a dual purpose: providing an unassailable political pretext to purge his adversaries, while simultaneously benchmarking the defensive limits of his Vajra conditioning.

The test was an unqualified triumph. The Vajra art was truly a divine inheritance: the lead slug had merely abraded his outer epidermis, stopped dead within the dense lattice of his cellular wall without grazing muscle tissue. The sharp pain he felt stemmed not from mechanical penetration, but from the searing thermal heat of the burning lead branding his skin.

This was merely the preliminary threshold of the discipline! Legend recorded that upon achieving supreme mastery, a warrior clad in a simple mail shirt of spun steel and cotton thread could stride through artillery bombardments without armor, brushing aside shells as mere negligible gusts of wind.

"Are you unharmed, sir?!" The military operative pinning the patrolman asked Richie in breathless panic. The agent cursed his misfortune inwardly; though the breach was none of their making, punitive sanctions would inevitably descend upon their detachment, with severity dictated entirely by the victim’s wrath.

"Do those two belong to your agency?" Richie pointed toward the operatives wrestling near the doorway.

"No, sir!" The military agent replied instantly, possessing sharp intellect and seizing the opportunity to deflect culpability onto institutional rivals: "We belong to the Military Intelligence Bureau under the Supreme Command. Those operatives appear to be attached to the General Intelligence Bureau under the civil government."

Richie was reasonably acquainted with the labyrinthine state security apparatus of Parkington.

Unlike the Monstoke Republic, which concentrated security authority under the sole purview of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Parkington maintained a fragmented constellation of rival agencies: the Military Intelligence Bureau and General Intelligence Bureau were the titan rivals, flanked by the Foreign Ministry’s International Affairs Directorate for external espionage, and the Judiciary’s Inspectorate for internal civil audits.

These bureaus maintained an uneasy, prickly truce—sharing select intelligence while relentlessly sabotaging, undermining, and framing one another behind the curtains of power.

"The younger fellow displayed commendable instincts," Richie observed with cold malice, "yet the senior agent is deeply compromised. Moments ago, I observed him exchanging knowing glances with the conspirator he now holds pinned. You had best secure the prisoner immediately, lest he be silenced to bury the conspiracy."

Richie was a man who repaid grievances with compounding interest; the word 'forgiveness' was entirely missing from his lexicon.

The military agent welcomed the accusation with open arms: the heavier the guilt heaped upon rival agencies, the lighter his own detachment’s disciplinary burden would become. Furthermore, he recognized that Richie intended to ignite a political tempest. Having scrutinized Richie’s dossier, the intelligence corps knew his ruthless history: a prodigy who had orchestrated the assassination of his own former head of state was capable of unleashing absolute havoc.

The operative barked a rapid series of commands across the hall to his perimeter sentries.

Richie could not comprehend the dialect, yet he deduced the directive: instructing his comrades to secure the senior General Intelligence operative.

Sure enough, the military operative stationed at the doorway produced two implements: a cocked pistol in his right hand and steel manacles in his left, confronting the civilian agents with icy menace.

The senior operative’s face turned ash-pale as he looked between the military barrels and Richie’s mocking gaze, a feral glint of desperation flashing in his eyes.

"Consider your next action carefully!" The military agent snarled. "Do you have a wife and children? Do you wish them to accompany you to the gallows?"

The military operative dared not display the slightest leniency. The initial shooting had already found a convenient scapegoat, but if another fatality occurred under his watch, his own career was finished.

Being fellow tradecraft professionals, he knew that intelligence veterans held mortal life cheap; when cornered, they would stop at nothing, leaving the threat of familial extermination as the sole effective restraint. In tradecraft doctrine, treason was invariably repaid with total domestic obliteration.

Upon hearing those words, the senior operative’s expression dissolved into hollow despair. Never in his wildest calculations had he imagined that a fleeting moment of cynical arrogance would extract such an apocalyptic toll.

The planned family luncheon had concluded before the first course was served.

Two hours later, comprehensive intelligence reports detailing the restaurant shooting landed simultaneously upon the desk of Empress Annielia via three independent courier channels.

"What is your assessment?" Empress Annielia inquired, summoning her daughter Princess Mithra to the private solar.

Having received early dispatches, Mithra had activated trusted assets across the security services to verify the underlying facts; facing her sovereign mother, her poise was unshakeable.

"I concur with the operational recommendations submitted in the executive summary," Mithra answered smoothly. "We should frame the incident as an Alliance sabotage operation. Certain disgraced remnants of Yarno’s faction, harboring treasonous grievances against the Grand Alliance, were subverted by enemy intelligence networks; our municipal services were simply blind to the infiltration and manipulated into serving as unwitting cat's-paws."

She delivered the polished diplomatic propaganda without needing a moment of reflection.

"I asked for your genuine counsel," Annielia countered with mild irritation. She had reviewed countless such diplomatic platitudes across her reign; to hear her own daughter parroting administrative evasions left her distinctly displeased.

Mithra blushed faintly, recognizing her error: in private chambers, her mother demanded sharp political acumen, not bureaucratic deferrals.

"The primary culpability rests upon the General Intelligence Bureau," Mithra declared, her tone calm yet cutting straight to the structural core. "An intelligence bureau should serve purely as sovereign sensory organs, entirely devoid of political ideology. In this instance, rogue elements within the bureau succumbed to external political patronage."

A flicker of imperial approval graced the empress’s lips; this was the analysis she required.

"This provocation grants us an unassailable pretext," Mithra continued, gauging her mother’s subtle reactions. "It is time to realign the administrative portfolios of certain factions."

Intense political rivalry persisted beneath the throne. Though sovereign power was centralized within the imperial house, absolute autocracy over a continental empire was impossible, necessitating continuous delegation. While combat knights formed the unshakeable foundation of the realm, common civilians comprised ninety-nine percent of the populace.

The General Intelligence Bureau operated under the civil government, which was subordinate to the Three Estates Parliament. While the Upper House governed foreign grand strategy and sovereign warfare, administrative governance was divided between the Middle and Lower Estates. The Middle House, or House of Nobles, was composed exclusively of knights and Mind Masters who rarely deigned to hold mundane administrative posts. Routine ministries were administered almost entirely by the Lower House—the professional politicians.

Like Mithra, high nobility harbored deep distaste for these civilian functionaries; delegating intelligence apparatuses to them had been a concession to structural equilibrium. Mithra’s proposal sought nothing less than the clawing back of sovereign executive power, utilizing the intelligence crisis as the opening wedge to systematically dismantle civilian authority.

"The hour is not yet ripe," Her Majesty replied with a serene smile.

Mithra nodded in silent comprehension. Her mother had not rejected the strategy, merely deeming the timing premature. This confirmed that Her Majesty had long observed the destabilizing ambitions of the Lower House politicians.

Imperial politicians occupied an ironic station: simultaneously the least empowered and most dangerously ambitious actors in the realm.

Parkington’s rigid feudal stratification barred civilian politicians from ascending past the Lower House; yet as the premier empire of the continent, Parkington commanded vast tributary domains and client states. For ambitious politicians, securing appointment as a colonial governor or plenipotentiary to a client state transformed them into sovereign satraps.

Without extensive investigation, Mithra could deduce the conspiracy: the political factions meddling in this incident were maneuvering to subjugate the Monstoke Republic into Parkington’s newest colonial dependency.

Leaving aside the strategic folly of the scheme, that these politicians dared target Richie’s personal retinue demanded ruthless retaliation.

All three imperial powers were furiously courting Richie’s allegiance, and Parkington held no insurmountable advantage. In emotional intimacy, Omore possessed Trisli; in industrial supply, Rosotto provided the vital hides for his enterprises. Mithra’s guided tour of the subterranean shrine had been orchestrated specifically to bind him to the crown, and this crude civilian provocation threatened to incinerate all her diplomatic gains.

"A total administrative overhaul is premature, yet the General Intelligence Bureau must undergo immediate surgical restructuring," the empress instructed, offering an imperial masterclass in statecraft. "The bureau has grown bloated and unruly; its personnel must be slashed by at least half. Since we know numerous retainers of Yarno were compromised by enemy intelligence, let the General Intelligence Bureau conduct the internal purge: whichever operatives uncover verified conspirators shall retain their commissions, while those who yield zero results shall be cashiered without appeal."

Mithra looked upon her mother with boundless awe. The seasoned monarch’s maneuver was sheer genius.

Since this provocation had been quietly instigated by Lower House patrons, bureau operatives knew precisely which politicians were pulling the strings.

Subjecting the operatives to direct imperial interrogation would produce stubborn silence: confessing yielded no mercy, whereas silence incentivized their parliamentary patrons to arrange discreet rescues.

Yet framing the purge as a competitive survival trial fundamentally transformed the equation: unmasking their parliamentary handlers became the operatives' sole salvation, while the threat of fifty-percent workforce extermination shattered any prospect of collective solidarity.

In foreign realms, intelligence officers might hesitate to betray political benefactors; in Parkington, however, parliamentary politicians possessed zero sovereign authority. Stripped of royal favor, they were reduced instantly to toothless commoners. Bureau operatives, fighting for professional survival, would rip them apart without a shred of remorse. In the eyes of the public, the compromised bureau would be branded as vicious mad dogs, destroying its institutional prestige forever.

Mithra could already envision the pathetic spectacle: a vicious hound shackled by heavy iron chains, locked within an imperial cage.

Empress Annielia had wielded the intelligence bureau to purge parliamentary subversives, while simultaneously delegitimizing the intelligence apparatus itself—reclaiming sovereign control without ever betraying an appetite for power.

"What duties do you assign to me, Mother?" Mithra asked, a flicker of ambitious expectation kindling within her breast.

Though Her Majesty had guided her through statecraft, she had never entrusted her with direct departmental command. With the civilian intelligence bureau facing annihilation, leadership vacancies would open across the capital; her opportunity had arrived.

"I require you to explain this incident to Richie," the empress commanded, shattering her daughter's ambition with calm finality. Rather than awarding her the prize she coveted, she had handed her an abrasive diplomatic chore.

Mithra’s lips pouted in visible disappointment.

Annielia tapped her daughter’s forehead with an affectionate knuckle, sighing with regal exasperation: "Can you truly not perceive my grand design? The heavens above shall be the supreme arena of future dominion! You currently stand closest to that boundless stage; if you cannot command the entire theater, you must at least secure the preeminent protagonist's mantle! Compared to such monumental destiny, what is a sordid civilian intelligence bureau? Nothing more than a disposable plaything in our hands."

Hearing her mother’s vision, Mithra’s eyes reignited with brilliant radiance; she had truly failed to comprehend the sovereign scope of Her Majesty’s horizon.

She had assumed hosting Richie was merely an exercise in personal diplomacy, blind to the epochal strategy unfolding behind the curtain.

Having risen to continental supremacy through battle armor engineering, the Parkington Holy Kingdom grasped the geopolitical shockwaves of military revolutions far deeper than any mortal realm.

Reflecting upon recent developments, Mithra unraveled further layers of imperial strategy.

She realized now why the thirty female Honor Knights assigned to Richie had been sequestered into a distinct, sovereign cadre under direct command of the three imperial crowns, granting military marshals operational command while strictly withholding deployment rights.

She had previously assumed this was mere security protocol; now the truth stood illuminated.

This revolutionary aerial technology would remain monopolized exclusively within the grasp of the Three Imperial Houses.

Just as when the First Saint Emperor had unveiled operational battle armor a thousand years ago, he had eschewed immediate mass mobilization, maintaining a mere five knight legions across a half-century—every single one tethered directly to the imperial house.

Evidently, in the near future, an unprecedented sixth imperial guard legion would stand alongside the historic five.

Yet a minor grievance troubled Mithra’s thoughts: for an aerial strike legion, the most majestic titles ought to be 'Phoenix' or 'Wyvern'—alas, both glorious names had already been claimed by ancient guard regiments of the realm.