Chapter 99 Things Go Awry

Having spent three days in Casmolina, Richie had acquired some measure of understanding regarding the city.

Thus far, he had set foot in three different nations, and each was distinct from the others in its own stark way.

The people of Monstoke were consumed by toil from the hour of their birth; without relentless hustle, survival itself was out of reach, let alone prosperity. While social hierarchy certainly existed in Monstoke, it was by no means cast in stone; through grit and perseverance, one could realistically elevate their station in life.

The people of Parkington stood in polar opposition. Theirs was a nation bound by rigid caste and unbending hierarchy. Ascending even a single rung up the social ladder bordered on the impossible; consequently, the populace simply tended to their allotted duties, harboring few lofty ambitions.

The Varedins, however, were of an entirely different breed. Here, too, the class system was stiflingly strict, and climbing to a higher stratum was virtually as difficult as scaling the heavens. Most ordinary folk harbored no illusions of elevation, rendering them every bit as leisurely as the citizens of Parkington. Yet they diverged from the Parkingtonians in one crucial aspect: unable to pursue status, the people turned their voracious hunger toward wealth. In their sheer, unadulterated greed for gold, the Varedins rivaled even the most avaricious Monstokians.

The convergence of an inflexible social hierarchy and an unquenchable lust for riches gave birth to the unique atmosphere that defined Varedin.

It was an empire prostrate before the altar of privilege. And its imperial capital, Casmolina, was rife with every conceivable form of prerogative and entitlement—privilege so absolute that it carried far more weight than banknotes ever could.

Truth be told, Richie thoroughly relished the experience.

Take this very moment: reclined inside a hand-pulled rickshaw, holding a woman in his arms, leisurely savoring her intimate ministrations while watching the city scenery roll past outside—nothing could possibly be more delightful.

The rickshaw was a novelty he had never encountered in other realms. At first, the notion of driving a fellow human being like a beast of burden had sat uncomfortably with him. Over time, however, he had come to appreciate the conveyance. After all, the runner was a person, and communicating with a human was far simpler than directing a horse. Moreover, the vehicle was remarkably nimble, capable of threading through bustling avenues and labyrinthine alleys alike.

This carriage had not been hailed off the street; it was a private conveyance provided exclusively by the elite club for patrons who enjoyed leisurely sightseeing. Outfitted with a canopy to ward off sun and rain, and enclosed by wraparound modesty skirts to keep out mud and street grime, it allowed passengers to indulge in passionate lovemaking without the slightest fear of exposure.

Yet the true essence lay elsewhere: riding in such a vehicle served as an unmistakable banner, declaring to the outside world that whoever sat within was a figure of exalted privilege.

Over the past two days, he had spent his idle hours roaming the entire city in this rickshaw. On the one hand, it allowed him to familiarize himself with the urban terrain. Every destination he instructed the runner to take him to was among the most bustling, crowded quarters of Casmolina—the ideal venues for clandestine rendezvous, hushed conferences, or evading pursuit. On the other hand, he simply loved the sensation.

Coupling illicitly under the noses of teeming crowds offered an entirely distinct kind of thrill.

It was intensely exhilarating, sending blood pounding furiously through his veins.

Richie could not help but wonder whether his tastes were growing increasingly depraved.

Today, however, he had not ventured out for idle indulgence. He was on his way to rendezvous with his contact.

The rickshaw gradually slowed. A moment later, the runner announced in a raspy, deferential voice, "Young master, we have arrived."

Reluctantly, Richie gathered up the woman nestled in his lap and slid his rigid member from the wet heat of her sheath.

The angry flush and swelling across her buttocks and vulva had yet to subside. The bruises on her derriere were considerably better than two days ago, but her womanly folds had swollen even more tenderly. Consequently, she could only remain half-prostrate on the upholstered seat with her hips raised, looking utterly vulnerable and pitiable.

Adjusting his attire, Richie pushed open the carriage door.

A small front door was fitted to this style of rickshaw, designed specifically to obstruct prying eyes and shield whatever wanton pleasures transpired within. The runner stood waiting beside the vehicle, knees bent and spine bowed almost ninety degrees, his face plastered with an obsequious grin as he bobbed and scraped.

The rickshaw had pulled up along one of Casmolina's renowned culinary avenues—a thoroughfare Richie had already scouted on his very first day in the city.

It truly was an exceptional location for a covert meeting.

Though it was well past the standard dining hour, the air remained thick with an aroma so mouthwatering it set saliva pooling on the tongue—a complex, layered fragrance mingling countless tantalizing scents.

A patchwork of restaurants lined the street, varying wildly in scale and grandeur, yet eateries were hardly the avenue's sole attraction; street-food stalls were far more ubiquitous. The roadway had never been wide to begin with, and now tables and stools completely encroached upon the cobblestones, preventing even a slender rickshaw from passing through. If there was one repulsive aspect to this food haven, it was the filthy state of the ground. Saturated with grease and questionable slops, the pavement clung stickily to the soles of one's boots with every step.

Richie surveyed both sides of the thoroughfare as he walked. His scrutiny was fixed neither on the bustling restaurants nor the roadside stalls, but rather on the shadowy alleys branching off into the dark.

Nearly every secluded lane here harbored dining spots of its own.

Such an arrangement would have been unthinkable back in Monstoke. Any restaurateur there who failed to secure prime street-front real estate would likely shutter their doors within days.

Counting house numbers along the way, Richie finally located the address he sought.

Slipping into the dim lane, he reached a rustic restaurant nestled at the very end. Constructed with bamboo lattice doors, bamboo-framed windows, and eaves thatched with woven bamboo, flanked by an earthenware crock sprouting a cluster of wild silvergrass, the entire facade exuded an aloof, unworldly serenity.

Unlike other dining establishments, no smartly uniformed waiters attended the entrance. Richie pushed open the door to find the ground floor completely deserted. Without hesitation, he ascended straight to the third floor.

The rear of the establishment abutted a small canal. Richie took a seat in a secluded corner right beside the window, overlooking the murmuring water and the steady flow of passing boats.

He had not been sitting long when a bamboo screen parted with a gentle rustle. A woman stepped through and strode directly before him. Richie's eyes went wide. He could scarcely believe that the operative assigned to receive him was none other than Trisli.

Trisli was in disguise as well. Her hair had been dyed an auburn-brown and cropped exceptionally short. She had originally worn her locks long, a style that perfectly complemented her quiet, demure elegance; this radical overhaul transformed her entirely into a spirited tomboy.

To match her new guise, Trisli had donned a snug suit of black leather jacket and trousers.

Women of the Omore Empire were naturally lithe and slender-boned; enveloped in such form-fitting leather, her breathtaking curves were sculpted in stunning, tantalizing relief.

"Stop staring at me with those lecherous eyes, or I'll gouge them out,"

Trisli snapped irritably.

"Would I dare entertain such thoughts?"

Richie raised both hands in theatrical surrender.

Trisli was hardly fooled, but neither did she care to waste time bickering over it.

"What's the situation on the ground over there?"

Richie asked. Though he had already received a basic overview of the Iron Blood Legion's encampment during his briefing in the City of the Sky, he still wanted to hear Trisli's first-hand appraisal.

"Extremely grim. Security is airtight."

Trisli pulled up a chair and sat, crossing one slender leg over the other and resting her chin in her palm as she gazed out the window. "Not even native Varedins are permitted entry into that base. The only outsiders allowed through the gates are a crew of cesspool pumpers who clear the waste."

Repulsive as the thought was, enduring a foul stench amounted to nothing compared to completing their mission. "Can we infiltrate among them?" Richie asked.

"Hardly likely. The cesspool is located in a walled-off corner of the compound; you can't see anything of the interior from there. Armed guards watch over them the entire time they pump, leaving zero room for tricks." Trisli's tone carried an ambiguous note—whether of regret or quiet relief, one could scarcely tell.

"There are two auxiliary zones situated along the perimeter of the camp. One is the depot where daily provisions and rations are stored; the other is a refuse dump cleared by a municipal sanitation crew once a week," Trisli continued, detailing the intelligence at her disposal.

"Can you procure the blueprints for their sewer network?" Richie inquired.

"If I even investigated the cesspool, do you honestly think I overlooked the sewers?" Trisli scoffed softly.

"The drainage system here is nowhere near that sophisticated. They rely entirely on covered surface gutters." Mention of gutters immediately jogged Richie's memory: there was one right at the mouth of the alleyway—a ditch barely a palm's width across, capped with stone pavers.

"In other words, a stealthy infiltration on foot is out of the question?" Richie felt a headache coming on. Slipping in unnoticed would have been the ideal outcome; failing that, they would have to fall back on their alternative contingency plans, each fraught with extreme peril.

"There might be one angle, though I'm not sure whether it's viable," Trisli offered, having clearly done extensive homework for this operation. "A spur railway runs directly into the heart of the base. Trains roll through at regular intervals."

Richie remained silent. Intuition warned him that this was a poor option; a railway train was far too rigid in its movements, strictly constrained to running along fixed tracks.

Seeing him pause without offering a response, Trisli pressed him: "Unless you have a better idea?"

"Do you know how to operate a locomotive?"

Richie asked helplessly.

Trisli spread her hands.

"So even the genius prodigy has things she doesn't know."

Richie quipped.

His quip was met with a scathing glare. Trisli cast a cautious glance around the empty room; the term 'genius prodigy' was far too conspicuous and politically sensitive.

"Even if we managed to hijack a train, driving it into that fortress would be extraordinarily difficult. Rail lines aren't highways; you can't simply steer wherever you please. I've spent time studying it recently, and the entire railway grid is labyrinthine. Every train's point of origin, destination, and timetable is rigidly orchestrated down to the minute."

Trisli had indeed poured considerable effort into her reconnaissance.

Richie listened in bewilderment. He couldn't quite fathom what she was driving at: wasn't this her proposed angle? Why was she spending so much breath enumerating all its insurmountable obstacles?

In truth, Richie knew next to nothing about trains, which had formed part of his instinctive aversion to the scheme.

The contraptions were an invention of the Norman Alliance. The Alliance nations lay in the southern reaches of the continent, where the climate was humid and rainy, making roads difficult to pave and even harder to maintain—hence their reliance on iron railways.

The Dante Alliance, by contrast, occupied the northern expanse. With the three great empires boasting well-maintained paved road networks, they had never thought much of locomotives. Prior to the outbreak of war, Monstoke had begun laying track, but that had merely been experimental.

"Regardless, it remains an opportunity,"

Trisli pivoted.

Richie could only roll his eyes. With such an insurmountable wall of difficulties staring them in the face, he couldn't comprehend why she clung to it so obstinately.

A year ago, he would have unhesitatingly deferred to whatever she said. But circumstances had completely transformed since then.

Richie attempted to calculate the odds of success, but his mind remained a total blank. When it came to drafting tactical battle plans, he possessed not an ounce of talent.

Still, keeping up appearances was necessary. He worried that agreeing too readily would place him at a disadvantage; being led around by the nose was never pleasant.

The encampment of the Iron Blood Legion was situated atop an elevated plateau known as the Mendel Heights. No surrounding terrain rose higher than its perimeter.

This meant that unless Richie infiltrated the garrison on foot or conducted aerial reconnaissance, there was no way to glean what lay within. A major reason High Command had tapped him for this mission in the first place was that he was the only knight capable of ascending to such dizzying altitudes to survey the camp from the sky. Yet that remained a measure of absolute last resort, never to be risked unless all else failed. The Norman Alliance had devised several countermeasures against airborne targets; while unable to deploy them universally in the short term, they would certainly garrison them at critical strongholds—and the Iron Blood Legion's base was unquestionably one of them.

The Mendel Heights covered vast terrain: a spindle-shaped plateau measuring six kilometers long by three kilometers wide, rising several hundred meters above the surrounding land. It had once been blanketed in lush vegetation, but ever since the Iron Blood Legion took up residence, every scrap of plant life had been systematically eradicated. Not a single tree remained; not even a lone blade of grass could be seen.

The plateau was linked to the outside world by only two arteries: a single paved road and a single railway spur.

Fixing his gaze on the iron rails stretching into the distance, Richie shook his head at Trisli.

The prodigy bit her lower lip, vexation etched across her features.

Retracting the periscopic mirror and detaching the monocular lens, Richie picked up a fallen twig and scratched a line in the soil, followed by several deep pokes alongside it.

These represented hidden sentry posts.

Concealed lookouts were entrenched across every vantage point flanking the railway. Anyone approaching within two kilometers of the tracks would be spotted without fail. Compared to the clumsy Varedin practice of posting sentry huts every few hundred feet along main thoroughfares, this arrangement was infinitely more sophisticated—and far deadlier.

Richie flashed a rapid sequence of tactical hand signals: "Lucky you were cautious enough not to approach, or we'd already be dead."

"I had already factored in that possibility; I don't need your reminders,"

Trisli signaled back in annoyance.

It was not merely personal prudence; she maintained daily communications with rear headquarters, submitting every plan for evaluation by their battery of staff officers, who naturally anticipated every operational contingency.

The two withdrew silently into the undergrowth. The terrain of Varedin was an undisputed paradise for scout knights, its dense foliage offering endless concealment.

Having retreated well clear of the garrison's detection perimeter, Richie sighed, "What else do you have in mind?"

"I believe the railway can still serve a purpose, even if only as a diversion. If we stage a feint along this axis, your primary infiltration will face far less pressure."

Trisli had no intention of abandoning the scheme entirely. "Just the two of us?" Richie challenged. "Do you honestly think you can divert the Iron Blood Legion all on your own?"

Richie was aware that Trisli had a small circle of operatives at her disposal—a deep-cover network planted in Varedin by the Omore Empire. Dormant for over a decade without ever being activated, it had been preserved precisely for a contingency of this magnitude.

Yet those agents were merely standard field spies; marginally more capable than common folk, they were utterly useless in high-stakes military strikes. "I can muster a combat force in short order..."

Trisli decided to lay her cards on the table. This was ostensibly a joint allied operation, but Parkington and Rossotto had never paid much heed to a secondary realm like Varedin; only the Omore Empire possessed actionable assets here, and the authority to commit those forces rested squarely in her hands.

Back when Varedin accepted Monstoke's surrender, the Omore Empire had infiltrated an elite detachment of sleeper operatives. Trisli, serving ostensibly as Omore's diplomatic observer at the ceremony, was tasked with establishing liaison with this covert unit. Following the surrender, while her delegation officially departed, she had remained behind under deep cover.

This sleeper strike unit possessed formidable martial strength, originally intended to storm the Varedin imperial palace if extreme necessity arose. For a mission of this gravity, however, mobilizing them was entirely warranted.

Having scouted beyond the city limits only to return empty-handed, neither Richie nor Trisli was in high spirits.

To maintain operational security, they were forced to skirt wide arcs around the outskirts before re-entering Casmolina from an entirely different gate.

Once inside the walls, Richie hailed a rickshaw. He had no intention of taking liberties with Trisli; rather, failing to do so in this city would arouse immediate suspicion.

Whenever accompanying Richie in public, Trisli assumed a tailored disguise, sporting a wig and donning the short-waisted jacket and tube skirt typical of Varedin women. Throughout the ride, she chattered fluently in colloquial Varedin, while Richie stammered out a few awkward replies in broken phrases.

The runner found nothing unusual about the pair; such sights were commonplace across Casmolina.

Varedin was merely a second-tier power within the Norman Alliance. Foreigners who visited fell into two distinct categories: high-born grandees who enjoyed sweeping extraterritorial privileges, or destitute migrant laborers who were denied even standard civic protections.

Richie bore not the slightest resemblance to the latter.

The moment she boarded, Trisli gave the runner a destination situated in the vicinity of her lodgings.

Such basic tradecraft was second nature; she never took a carriage straight to her safehouse, always dismounting some distance away and completing the approach on foot.

Richie did not reside in the area; his base remained the exclusive private gentlemen's club.

The drop-off point she had given was a commercial district whose approach route ran past the inn where she lodged. The avenue was lively, flanked shoulder-to-shoulder with storefronts plastered in a chaotic mosaic of garish hanging signboards.

Suddenly, Richie felt an unseen gaze sweep across his frame.

It was not as though passersby had ignored him on their journey, but this sensation was fundamentally different. The gaze was piercingly sharp, laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of murderous intent. Before Richie could pinpoint its source, a second gaze raked over him from an opposing quarter. Within moments, he registered more than a dozen distinct lines of sight trained on the street from high-angle perches—an interlocking surveillance web that enveloped Trisli's inn in a deadly perimeter.

The rickshaw rolled forward. Even after turning the corner at an intersection, Richie could still feel those hostile eyes; several gazes remained locked firmly onto his back.

Fortunately, the drop-off location Trisli had specified lay some distance from her inn. Only after navigating two consecutive intersections did the intense scrutiny finally fade.

The carriage slowed to a halt. Trisli gathered her skirts to dismount, but Richie clamped a hand over her wrist and called to the runner, "I... changed my mind. Take us... to the Seafood Docks."

The Seafood Docks lay on the opposite side of Casmolina, requiring a trek across virtually the entire metropolis.

Trisli threw him a bewildered glance. "Your lodgings are surrounded. I don't know whether the net is meant for you,"

Richie whispered through focused acoustic transmission.

Trisli's expression instantly turned grim. Well aware of Richie's superhuman sensory acuity, she trusted his instincts implicitly.

The journey to the docks took a full half hour. Throughout the ride, Trisli sat in distracted silence, her mind racing through dark possibilities. Richie was in no light mood either, yet compared to Trisli, he remained far more composed. He held zero ties to her local network; from start to finish, he maintained strictly single-strand liaison with Trisli alone.

The Seafood Docks was arguably the most congested, bustling quarter in all of Casmolina—the exact reason Richie had chosen it.

The thoroughfares leading to the wharves were packed with an unbroken sea of humanity, through which no rickshaw could possibly force passage. The runner was forced to stop at the edge of the outer plaza. "I still require your services. Are you willing to wait here?" Richie tossed the man a medium-denomination bill, more than enough to charter the carriage for the entire day.

The runner bowed repeatedly, showering him with thanks. He pushed the carriage to the edge of the plaza, produced a rag from under the footrest, and eagerly began buffing the lacquer.

Seeing this display, Richie knew the fellow would not wander off.

It was not that Richie harbored any interest in the man; rather, he feared that if the runner retraced his steps through the surveilled avenue, the ambushers might intercept and question him, potentially unravelling everything.

He and Trisli had left virtually no obvious flaws in their cover, but abruptly changing destinations was suspicious in itself.

In the realm of espionage, one could never be too cautious.

This was not Richie's first visit to the Seafood Docks either.

It was not a commercial shipping wharf for vessels of burden, but rather a harbor filled with small skiffs shaped like pike or willow leaves, with very shallow drafts. The larger skiffs could seat eight, though most accommodated only four passengers. Their distinctive feature was a small brazier stove mounted at the bow of every vessel.

The canal itself was modest—merely a broader artery among Casmolina's maze of waterways—yet the area buzzed with frantic vitality, functioning as a floating bazaar.

Boats peddling river catch, sea delicacies, fresh greens, and various meats were moored in midstream. Patrons purchased whatever ingredients caught their fancy and handed them to the boatwoman at the helm to cook on the bow stove.

Richie hired a skiff at random and boarded alone. Trisli did not follow; she was desperate to ascertain what had gone wrong.

Parting ways, Trisli looped around to exit from the far side of the wharves, ensuring she would not cross paths with their previous rickshaw runner.

Back on the main avenue, she hailed another rickshaw.

She had arrived in Casmolina a full week before Richie. Aside from conducting terrain reconnaissance, she had engaged in no operational activities during that time, meaning any breach had not originated from her.

Barring pure coincidence, a traitor had compromised the deep-cover network under her command.

Suspecting a catastrophe, she naturally dared not approach any safehouse directly. Instructing the runner to convey her to the nearest market street, she made a series of purchases across several retail shops.

In Varedin, human labor was dirt cheap. Market avenues were invariably frequented by loitering porters carrying shoulder poles, eager to haul cargo for paying customers.

With the substantial pile of parcels Trisli had acquired, a cluster of porters quickly gathered round.

This was precisely what she intended.

Dividing the parcels into separate loads, she requested a few sheets of paper from a shop assistant, penned the addresses and recipient names of her contact points, and dispatched several porters to deliver each parcel.

Having sent the porters on their way, Trisli had her runner convey her to an apothecary-tailor shop. She disappeared inside, emerging roughly a quarter of an hour later transformed into an entirely different persona.

She was now clad in gentlemen's attire, her short hair parted sharply to one side, sporting a pair of dapper pencil mustaches above her lip. Tinted tea-colored spectacles shielded her alluring eyes, while prosthetic wax pads tucked into her cheekbones and jawline gave her facial structure a distinctly masculine angularity.

Hailing yet another rickshaw, she gave no fixed destination, merely directing the runner to proceed forward, issuing instructions to turn or continue straight at each intersection.

After traversing seven or eight blocks, the roadway ahead suddenly choked with congestion, with police officers pacing back and forth in tense vigilance.

Trisli's heart sank like a stone. She knew exactly what lay down that street. The operatives of her covert network operated under the cover of small retail merchants; a shop just ahead was one of their primary safehouses.

Her ploy had been the classic technique of tossing a stone to test the waters: dispatching porters with innocuous packages to observe the fallout.

The pebble had struck its mark, flushing out the hounds lurking in the shadows. Tapping the footboard twice with her boot, Trisli called to the runner, "Back up and take the right fork."

Two hours later, Trisli returned to the Seafood Docks with a grim, shadowed countenance, having restored her feminine guise.

Scanning the waterways, she spotted Richie immediately.

A slender bamboo pole stood lashed to the gunwale of Richie's skiff, flying a small, exquisite red lantern from its tip. He had chartered this vessel specifically because it was so easily distinguishable.

The skiff was tethered beside a large multi-deck barge. Though lacking extravagant carved eaves, the pleasure craft was tastefully appointed across its three tiers; its lower two decks were packed with patrons, the clatter of clinking glasses and toasts drifting over the water.

Such floating restaurant barges were commonplace along this canal. They enjoyed brisk trade; after all, the cooking of simple boatwomen was generally mediocre compared to seasoned chefs, and many well-to-do visitors cared little for the expense. Naturally, there were also plenty like Richie who brought their own market delicacies and paid the barge's galley to prepare them.

Trisli hired a skiff of her own. As her boat drew alongside Richie's, she stepped across into his vessel with effortless grace.

Once aboard, she gestured toward the empty skiff she had just vacated.

The boatwoman took the hint instantly. Recognizing that the gentlefolk had private matters to discuss, she tactfully transferred over to the other boat. "You certainly know how to indulge yourself,"

Trisli muttered, glaring irritably at the heap of empty clam shells piled upon the table. "If you're in a foul mood, don't take it out on me,"

Richie replied, his spine considerably stiffer these days. With his elevated status and martial prowess, his outlook was no longer as timid as in his youth. "Did a disaster truly strike on your end?"

He paid no mind to whether the inquiry sounded redundant; Trisli's expression told most of the tale.

Trisli deigned not to answer such an obvious question. Her face icy, she stared at Richie's grease-stained fingers as he casually continued shelling seafood. "Is that sleeper strike unit compromised?"

Richie pressed. "You can rest easy on that score. The two networks are compartmentalized with zero cross-links. As long as I remain uncompromised, they are completely safe,"

Trisli sighed. She had always carried herself with aloof pride; it was only because of the monumental weight of this mission that her composure had cracked. Strangely, the catastrophe seemed to have stripped away much of her haughty pretense.

In the blink of an eye, she reverted to her customary detachment, regarding the world with cool equanimity. "Do you intend to proceed with the mission?"

Trisli looked directly at him.

In truth, Richie was nowhere near as calm as his demeanor suggested. He had been turning that very question over in his mind.

Deep down, his instinct was to abort immediately; the undertaking was suicidal from the start, and the total collapse of the Omore Empire's underground network in Casmolina escalated the peril by orders of magnitude.

Yet after wrestling with the dilemma, the age-old proverb rang in his ears: when the nest is overturned, no egg can stay unbroken. "How much did those captured agents know about our operation?"

Richie needed absolute clarity on this point first.

Trisli hesitated to answer rashly. Though she had never spoken of their operational objectives before those operatives, she could not be certain whether she had inadvertently let slip some minor clue. After five or six minutes of meticulously auditing every interaction from the past weeks, she finally spoke: "Nothing, in all probability. When those cells were established, they were never intended for intelligence gathering, merely to provide logistical support for covert actions. I gave them no operational tasks for this mission, nor did I ever disclose my destinations when I went out to scout the terrain."

"What about the intelligence files in your possession?"

Richie could not help asking. "The Dante Alliance operates more than a single espionage pipeline in Casmolina. Even on the two occasions I had them relay messages, everything was encrypted in cipher,"

Trisli explained.

Richie was not overly concerned about intelligence leaks during cipher transmissions. When departing the City of the Sky, he had likewise received an exclusive codebook. Loralis had assured him that the cipher was forged solely for his mission—never employed before and destined to be discarded immediately afterward. Breaking such an encryption was virtually impossible. He trusted that Trisli possessed a similarly impenetrable cipher.

Just then, a sudden commotion erupted in the distance.

Both entrances to the Seafood Docks had been cordoned off by police. The contingent was not large—barely a dozen officers in total.

Richie initially feared that Trisli had inadvertently led pursuers to their doorstep, but the modest number of police brought a slight measure of relief.

Sure enough, the dozen-odd constables fanned out. Leaving four men to guard the ends of the wharves, the remaining officers began conducting systematic identity checks.

Not a single person on the quayside was spared; furthermore, six officers commandeered skiffs and began rowing across the water toward the moored vessels.

Richie glanced at Trisli. Her expression had hardened to stone. She possessed identification papers—multiple sets, in fact—yet at this moment, every single one of them was a death warrant.

The authorities were undoubtedly circulating carbon copies of those forged documents across the city in an all-out dragnet.

Boat by boat, the police methodically made their rounds. Watching those approaching figures draw nearer, Richie's pulse quickened.

Just as he racked his brain for a solution, Trisli leaned close. Carefully shucking an oyster, she tenderly held the succulent morsel to his lips.

Startled, Richie looked up into her eyes.

In Trisli's gaze, he caught a glint of resolute finality—and instantly understood.

A patrol skiff bumped against theirs. The officer aboard kept his eyes fixed hungrily on Trisli, whether captivated by her breathtaking beauty or sensing something amiss.

After a prolonged pause, the constable turned his gaze toward Richie. The unmistakable flicker of lust in the officer's eyes allowed both Richie and Trisli to exhale in quiet relief. "Your papers, please."

The policeman dared not show the slightest disrespect to Richie. The uniform Richie wore was no mere decoration; the officer uniform of the Principality of Bolencia bore a striking resemblance to that of the Franca Empire. And Franca subjects in Casmolina possessed near-untouchable clout—crossing one was an invitation to ruin.

Richie made no move to produce his papers. Instead, he merely held up both hands. His fingers were slick with grease from the seafood, though the gesture was largely an affectation of haughty disdain.

Trisli leaned against him in seamless coordination, reaching into the breast pocket of his tunic to extract the documentation booklet.

The officer received the papers and scrutinized them closely, though it was mostly pretense. A lowly constable of his station knew only the common passes of laborers and locals; of high-tier foreign papers, he was completely ignorant.

Still, he dared not declare them fraudulent. Judging by the exquisite rag-bond parchment and the crisp relief of the official seals, he was far more inclined to believe they were authentic.

The only thing that eased his anxiety was that the pass did not bear the crest of the Franca Empire, but rather that of the Principality of Bolencia. Bolencia ranked higher than Varedin within the Norman Alliance, yet paled in comparison to the monolithic Franca Empire. "This document lies beyond my jurisdiction to verify. I must ask Your Excellency to remain here for a brief while."

Daring not disrespect Richie, he gingerly returned the booklet with both hands, before turning to Trisli and extending a palm: "Miss, please present your papers for inspection."

"She has... no papers,"

Richie arched his neck, using his clean left pinky to hook out a pendant necklace suspended beneath his collar.

As the medallion dangled and swung, the policeman's heart leapt into his throat. In that instant, he felt boundless relief that he had not uttered a single insolent word.

As a member of the constabulary, he knew all too well what that crest signified. It was a heaven of ultimate luxury and a hell of ruthless power—yet to commoners of his stratum, it was a legendary enclave whispered of only in awe.

Even amid his astonishment, a pang of pity twinged in his chest. He felt an ache of sorrow for Trisli's lot in life: that a woman of such staggering beauty was merely a plaything of that establishment. "What happened... outside?"

Richie asked casually, drawling in deliberately stilted accents.

Under standard protocol, a constable had no obligation to divulge police business to civilians, but right now he was falling over himself to curry favor. Regrettably, his knowledge was meager: "We don't know the full details either, sir. Command ordered us to search for a person—a woman, supposedly a spy dispatched by the Dante Alliance."

"All this... to catch a single spy? Such an uproar?"

Richie feigned incredulity. "It is the absolute truth, sir! All of Casmolina is locked down tight. Not just our district—several other sectors are under even fiercer martial cordon,"

the constable hurried to explain.

"The entire city... is sealed?"

Richie finally allowed genuine surprise to register on his face. In truth, he had not anticipated such a colossal mobilization. "Even the streets... are blockaded?"

"Yes, sir! Every one of them,"

the officer nodded vigorously.

"Then how... am I supposed to return?"

Richie knitted his brows in apparent vexation. His frustration, at least, was completely genuine.

He knew exactly what a citywide lockdown entailed: returning to his quarters would mean being halted and interrogated at every single intersection.

The officer pointed cautiously toward the pendant: "You wish to return to this establishment, sir?"

"Mm-hmm,"

Richie nodded.

"Then that poses no difficulty at all!"

The constable felt his golden opportunity had arrived. He had long fantasized about catching a glimpse inside that legendary club, though someone of his station could scarcely dream of approaching its gates. "I shall run the errand for you personally, sir! I will have them dispatch a carriage here. The checkpoints may be blockaded, but absolutely no one dares intercept a carriage from that house—provided, of course, you aren't attempting to leave the city."

Presented with such a windfall, Richie naturally would not refuse.

The sweet taste of privilege was intoxicating indeed.

The constable departed in haste, telling none of his comrades his errand, merely commanding them to watch over Richie's skiff with the utmost deference. Roughly three-quarters of an hour later, he returned aboard a rickshaw, trailing a second vehicle behind him—the exclusive, canopied private rickshaw from the club.

Stepping ashore and boarding the private rickshaw, Richie casually tossed several banknotes to the constable.

"No, no, sir! This was merely my duty—an honor to serve!"

The constable bowed profusely, declining the bills with fawning politeness and leaving them untouched. In truth, he coveted something far more valuable than coin: for this noble patron to remember his face. Such a favor carried infinitely more weight than paper currency.

Once inside the carriage, Trisli maintained a heavy, unbroken silence. Only when the rickshaw cleared the Seafood Docks and rolled onto the cobbled avenue did she release a long, shuddering sigh—a sound drenched in profound bitterness and reluctant surrender.

Richie understood the depths of her despair. That matters had spiraled to such an impasse was something he himself had never foreseen.

With that sigh, Trisli seemed to cast aside all hesitation and conflicting doubts. Gathering the hems of her tube skirt, she hitched the fabric high above her thighs and swung her lithe legs across, straddling Richie's lap.

Her fingers worked methodically, popping the buttons of Richie's trousers open one by one. Reaching inside his breeches, she drew forth his formidable length into the cool air of the cabin.

Though it was her very first time engaging in such intimacy with a man, Trisli's touch was strikingly deft. Her delicate, calloused fingers stroked the shaft with tender precision, thumb and forefinger rolling back the foreskin to expose the glistening, crimson crown.

With just a few expert caresses, Richie's manhood surged into rock-hard, throbbing tumescence.

Trisli did not remove her panties; she merely tugged the silken gusset aside, exposing the delicate, petal-soft entrance of her feminine cleft.

As if to deny herself any chance of wavering, or terrified that hesitation might invite second thoughts, she aligned her weeping slit with his thick, towering shaft and sank down in a single, decisive plunge—sheathing him to the hilt.

The sharp, tearing pain of her torn maidenhead paled beside the anguish lacerating her heart. Trisli yearned desperately to weep aloud, yet circumstances forbade even a single sob. She could only console herself in the silence of her mind: a woman of her noble heritage would inevitably belong to a man sooner or later, inevitably yield her body to coupling, for her family line would never permit their ancient bloodline inheritance to wither away. Surrendering herself now, to this young warrior, was perhaps not the worst fate.

Yet despite all her self-rationalizations, silent tears spilled unbidden from her eyes.

Richie had remained entirely motionless. Though he had anticipated that her cover story might require physical consummation, the moment Trisli hitched her skirt and mounted him, his mind had gone completely blank.

Unlike all the other women in his life, Trisli had always stood as the living embodiment of perfection.

But now, lucidity crashed through his senses: this peerless paragon of beauty and martial genius had truly, irreversibly become his woman.

Richie reached down, gently touching the glistening junction where their flesh was joined. When he drew his fingers back, he saw a smear of crimson blood on his fingertips.

He was the very first man to possess the genius prodigy. "May I?"

Richie whispered softly, wrapping one arm around Trisli's slender waist while cupping the firm swell of her buttocks with his other palm.

At such a juncture, what remained to refuse? Trisli gave a faint, resigned nod.

Bracing her hips, Richie lifted her body upward and then eased her slowly downward. His massive shaft glided out until only the tip remained caught within her tight, velvet passage, only to plunge back in, burying its full length deep against her cervix.

For a maiden newly initiated into physical union, such deep, unyielding penetration was an overwhelming sensory assault. Yet to Richie's immense surprise, Trisli showed little distress; she appeared astonishingly accustomed to the intense friction and fullness.

He was intimately aware of the sapphic bond shared between Trisli and Robin. It seemed that erotic coupling between women could be every bit as fierce and demanding—how else could this proud beauty possess such formidable stamina and tolerance?

The mere thought of being outdone by Robin prickled at Richie's masculine pride.

He redoubled the force of his upward thrusts, simultaneously channeling a wisp of his Combat Aura into his throbbing shaft.

Trisli let out a sharp, breathless moan, but in an instant, her body launched a counter-offensive.

Richie felt an indescribable surge of pure, electrifying ecstasy bore straight into the slit of his crown, rushing up along the pathways of his spinal marrow until it detonated in sublime bliss at the crown of his skull.

The technique was terrifyingly potent.

Yet even as he bathed in peak euphoria, a wave of profound bewilderment washed over him—for that energetic pulse was unmistakably his own signature technique!

The Divine Art Trisli cultivated excelled above all else in borrowing and redirecting external forces. Could it be that even in the midst of carnal intercourse, she was capable of siphoning and wielding another's power?

It was nothing short of miraculous.