With Old Pierre's departure, the warm, briny atmosphere that had filled the Council Hall quietly settled into stillness.
Sophia turned her head toward Willow, who had been standing faithfully at her side throughout.
"Willow, take two Close Guard squads and have those goods moved into the cold storage in the rear hills," Sophia said, her voice cool and steady, carrying with it a sense of absolute command.
"Tell the head chef — sort everything by category and log it precisely, as I previously instructed."
Willow inclined her head in a graceful bow, her deep violet skirt tracing an elegant arc.
When the heavy iron door in the rear hills — inlaid with Irene's specially crafted ice-array formation — swung slowly open, a bone-piercing white mist poured forth like a roaring beast.
Under Willow's direction, crate after crate of dehydrated deep-sea treasures was carried in an orderly procession into the enormous facility, large enough to hold Mason's entire yearly supply.
Amber-colored shellfish were stacked neatly on beeswax-coated wooden racks. Dried silver-bellied fish hung from the ventilation openings in rows, like arrows standing at attention. Each basket of crab pieces, each sack of shrimp, was personally inspected by Willow, who ensured the spacing between items did not deviate by even an inch.
In Her Majesty's domain, these were not food. They were chips in the game of survival.
Watching these gifts from Avalon stored away so perfectly was like watching Her Majesty's will take root deep in the earth.
Liliana was still dreaming of trading Leighton's resources for the title of Queen — never realizing that in Her Majesty's eyes, material goods were nothing more than the most basic piece of her Order's puzzle. Only by perfecting logistics to the extreme would wherever Her Majesty's sword pointed face true annihilation.
Meanwhile, only Sophia, Delilah, Daphne, and Irene remained in the Council Hall.
"Delilah."
Sophia rose and walked to the window, gazing at the border line that was slowly disappearing into the darkness beyond.
"The key figures mentioned in that coded letter, and the suspicious movements in Olan — I need the most accurate answer possible. In all of Mason, there is no one more suited than you to tear through that veil of fog."
Delilah dropped to one knee in an instant, the sound of her silver light armor striking the floor sharp and resonant.
Her hand pressed hard against the hilt of her broadsword, knuckles trembling faintly from the force of her grip.
Olan... that living hell that turned me into a killing machine in my past life.
I want nothing more than to storm back to that blood-soaked fortress and grind every last one of those filthy politicians to dust.
But... I can't bear it. I truly cannot bear to leave Her Majesty.
Even knowing that Her Majesty is now nearly unmatched in a one-on-one fight. Even knowing the Royal City is riddled with Willow's shadow sentinels — as long as I'm not within two steps of her side, my soul feels like it's been strung up in the open air.
Just thinking about that place sends a tremor of fear through my very soul.
But I understand, too — the task Her Majesty has given me is the pivotal move on this continental game board. She is throwing her sharpest blade into the darkest heart.
"Worried about me?"
Sophia did not turn around, yet her cool voice seemed to resonate directly within Delilah's mind.
Sophia turned. Moonlight wrapped around her slender but upright silhouette. In those golden pupils, there was not a single trace of fear toward the unknown — only a composure that bordered on ruthlessness.
"Delilah, I am no longer the princess who would gasp for breath after hurrying through the palace corridors."
Sophia extended her slender hand, closing it around empty air, as though commanding some invisible current.
"Go. Go and find out for me what those stirrings in Olan are truly about. As for this place... I will guard this Order with my own hands."
Delilah drew a deep breath and pressed her head lower still.
"This minister... accepts the command. I will cut through those shadows as swiftly as possible — and then return to Your Majesty's side."
As though sensing the turmoil and longing buried deep within this imperial general's heart, Sophia descended slowly from the throne, each footfall of her boots against the marble floor ringing with unusual clarity in the silent hall.
Sophia stopped before Delilah and leaned down slightly.
Beneath Delilah's astonished gaze, those slender hands — bearing faint calluses from practicing with a wooden sword — reached out and gently patted Delilah's thick pauldron.
In that instant, the icy cold of metal and the faint warmth of a palm overlapped, and the sensation struck Delilah like a bolt of lightning, every muscle in her body going rigid.
"I will be waiting for your return."
Sophia's voice remained cool, yet those five words carried the weight of something far deeper — an unshakeable trust pressed into each syllable.
She patted my shoulder...
Her Majesty — she has always reached out to me without hesitation. The way she treats me has always been different from everyone else.
She knows. She has always known.
Whether it was the unguarded reliance she showed in the carriage, or that first kiss by the sea under the moonlight — all of it told Delilah that she was the person Her Majesty trusted most.
If the situation weren't truly this dire, Her Majesty wouldn't want me to leave her side, would she?
Is she healing the wounds my past life left on me with her own hands?
That single pat — it was as if it shattered the shackles Olan had forged around my soul.
She said she'd wait for my return... not a command. An expectation.
She knows that place is hell. So she is telling me — she is my home to return to.
For those words alone, forget a mere Olan — even if it were the abyss itself, I, as Her Majesty's foremost general, will carve a bloody path through it for her!
And then — she will come back quickly. She will return to Her Majesty's side as quickly as she can.
Sophia straightened, then turned her gaze toward Daphne, who had been standing quietly to one side.
"Daphne, head to the alchemy laboratory shortly."
The tip of Sophia's finger gave a light tap, and her tone resumed that crisp, strategically assured cadence.
"I need you to prepare a batch of the highest-grade Potions. Not just ones for rapid hemostasis — also treatments for fever and chills, remedies for warding off plague, and restorative supplies capable of forcibly jolting the mind back to alertness under extreme exhaustion."
She paused, a flicker of deep thought passing through her golden pupils.
"Have them ready for Delilah to carry with her. In the shadows of a foreign land, medicine can save her life at critical moments better than any blade."
Daphne gave a slight bow, a profound awe flickering across her otherwise serene face.
So this is Her Majesty's art of command?
What General Delilah carries away is the will to destroy — and what Her Majesty is having me bestow upon her is the hope to live.
An ordinary nation would only prepare rations and weapons for a general sent on a distant campaign. Yet Her Majesty is already thinking about foreign diseases, already accounting for the small but real possibility of losing one of her sharpest blades.
This kind of care — precise down to the pore — is the true foundation of Mason.
Her Majesty is not only protecting Delilah. She is using this to tell all of us that every single person is an irreplaceable vein within the Black Rose.
"This minister... will go and prepare immediately."
Delilah shot to her feet. The hesitation and reluctance that had clouded her eyes moments before were gone, replaced by a near-fanatical, uncompromising resolve.
She gave Sophia one final, flawless military salute, then turned and strode from the Council Hall, her silver cloak cutting a sharp arc through the air behind her, each step swift as a gale.
In that moment, the soldiers outside the Council Hall seemed to watch a shooting star streak past — blazing with the ferocity to burn through the night — and vanish into the distant darkness.
As the trailing silver of Delilah's cloak disappeared into the deep of the night, the last trace of martial tension in the Council Hall gradually faded into stillness.
Sophia withdrew her gaze from the window and turned around. Those pale-gold pupils settled on the two figures still standing in the hall.
Irene was absently twisting her pink braid, her sapphire eyes burning with a fervor ignited by purpose — worry, yes, but far more than that, an excitement kindled by a sense of mission.
Daphne, for her part, maintained her ever-tranquil composure — though her slightly lowered lashes betrayed the turbulence she was keeping contained within.
"Your Majesty."
Irene broke the silence first, stepping forward. Her voice still carried that bright, girlish clarity, yet it rang with uncommon resolve.
"I understand what you mean. The alchemy workshop in the West Tower — from this moment forward, it enters maximum capacity. I guarantee the flames in those alchemical furnaces will not go out before the war is over."
Sophia gave a slight nod and walked toward Irene.
Compared to Delilah's fierce intensity, Irene was more like the beating heart of Mason's Royal City — providing an endless supply of power to drive this immense machine of Order.
"Irene, the toothbrushes, tooth powder, and other items that improve the people's daily lives — our current stockpiles are sufficient for a good while. In the face of the storm that is coming, they are nothing more than embellishments."
"What I need now are strategic resources."
"Refined iron components for reinforcing saddles. Full-coverage composite armor. And that anti-projectile inner lining you developed previously, the one strengthened with an alchemy coating. I want Mason's soldiers to be invincible from the moment they set foot on the battlefield."
"Understood, Your Majesty."
Irene thrust out her chest, a spark of wild inspiration blazing in her eyes.
"I'll draft a wartime mass-production equipment list overnight and have it ready for your review first thing tomorrow morning. Those who dare covet Mason will find they are not facing humans — but iron beasts armed to the teeth."
Her Majesty truly foresaw everything.
When she had us mass-produce toothbrushes before — that was to screen out the most disciplined and physically healthy subjects through hygiene habits, building them into reserve forces.
And now, this sudden pivot to bulletproof vests and saddles — it's because she has already pushed the logistical foundations to their absolute limit, and now she is beginning to arm the spirit.
She looked as if she was asking me for a list — but in reality, she was testing whether I could keep pace with her epoch-spanning strategic vision.
Irene, you absolutely cannot drop the ball. You are the one who is meant to forge a divine suit of armor for Her Majesty!
If Her Majesty wins, then I, Irene, shall be remembered for eternity as well.
And as for failure?
Irene did not believe those two words had any place in Sophia's dictionary of life.
This woman is a god!
Sophia shifted her gaze to Daphne.
Daphne is Mason's final line of defense.
"Daphne."
"This minister is present."
Daphne gave a small bow, her movement as elegantly flawless as something out of a textbook. So much had happened that a vague melancholy had settled over her without quite knowing why.
"The batch of Potions for Delilah is only the beginning."
Sophia's voice resonated through the vast hall, carrying a cold certainty that brooked no question.
"Starting tomorrow, the alchemy laboratory is to halt all non-essential experiments. I want you to initiate mass-production mode."
"Hemostatic gel — it must meet a standard capable of sealing wounds instantaneously, even in the muck of a battlefield trench. Anti-infection Potions — to counter any endemic diseases or toxins that may exist in foreign lands. Mental restorative liquid — to ensure that my inspectors and soldiers can maintain absolute clarity even under extreme stress."
"What I want to see is not bottle after bottle of exquisitely crafted medicine, but crates and heaps of life-sustaining supplies, ready to be shipped to the front lines at any moment."
Daphne lowered her head, absorbing the near-ruthless rationality emanating from Sophia's words — yet within her chest, a tempest was rising.
She speaks of strategic resources, but in truth, she is doing everything in her power to minimize the casualties of every Mason subject in the war to come.
This desire to fold every individual into the protective net of Order — this is the Black Rose's most profound compassion.
Her Majesty is not preparing for slaughter. She is using absolute material superiority to bring an end to a catastrophe that has not yet begun.
The heavy wooden doors of the Council Hall swung slowly shut behind her. Daphne stood in the silent corridor, the scroll of Potion lists she had just recorded clutched tightly in her hands.
Through the tall, painted glass windows, she gazed out at the vast expanse of Mason's land beneath the night sky — land being gently covered by moonlight and Order — and the tide rising within her refused to settle, churning like boiling solvent in an alchemy flask.
As a Magical Girl, her fingertips were supposed to carry only the gentle glow of healing and the fragrance of forests.
In her understanding, life was as clear as morning dew — and as fragile as a cicada's wing.
She loathed the cold brutality of clashing steel. She loathed the iron stench smothering the clean scent of grass and wood. She loathed that approaching monster called war, which would tear countless families apart.
"If it were possible, I would want every Potion I make in this lifetime to only heal a cold or a graze — not patch together bodies torn open by war."
Daphne lowered her eyes, watching her own slender palms in the moonlight.
Yet then, images of the atrocities committed by the Kingdom of Olan rose in her mind.
Reports brought back by that maidservant and other scouts. Wastelands soaked through with blood. Dignity trampled at will by power-mad politicians. And the look of hatred on Delilah's face whenever Olan was mentioned.
Though she did not know the exact nature of General Delilah's history with Olan, Daphne could piece together the shape of it.
She understood clearly — an Order built on brutality and enslavement was a despair far deeper than death.
"If Olan's throne is built on mountains of white bones, then there will be no place left in that world for any common person."
Just then, the image of Sophia patting Delilah's shoulder moments ago surfaced in her mind.
Cool. Restrained. And yet carrying a gravity that could make a person willingly sacrifice their very soul.
But Her Majesty... she is different.
Her gaze pierces through the blood-red before her and looks toward something no one has ever dared to imagine — an era of enduring peace across all generations.
She builds roads so that mercy can reach people swiftly. She trains soldiers so that violence will find no foothold. She has me mass-produce Potions because she cares more than anyone about the fate of every last grain of dust in Mason.
If this world is destined to be unified by a single sovereign, then apart from that girl — merciful as the sun, composed as the moonlight — who else could possibly deserve such power?
If darkness must descend, then let Her Majesty become the sunrise that burns away every last impurity.
I no longer resist war — because this is Her Majesty's final battle, waged for the sake of ending all war.
I will hide myself in the laboratory and pour every last drop of my magical power into a torrent of steel to support Her Majesty.
As long as it is beneath that Black Rose banner, even if the road ahead is paved with thorns, a dawn where flowers bloom across the city will surely come at last.
Daphne raised her head. The gentle, soft eyes that had always been hers now held something close to a fanatic's resolve.
She was no longer the girl who only knew how to pity the weak. She was a saint who had decided to forge a shield for the sun.
She turned and walked toward the laboratory, each step falling with uncommon certainty.
"Your Majesty... go forth and conquer without restraint. The price paid in blood and fire — I will wash it clean for you with Potions. Because what you bring is not destruction — but the only dawn capable of reforging this world."
As the laboratory doors swung open, a deep-blue alchemical flame ignited once more, casting its light across the side of Daphne's face — now as resolute as carved marble.
With Delilah's departure, the roaring of Irene's furnaces, and the deep-blue flame dancing at Daphne's fingertips, the entire Kingdom of Mason moved like a well-oiled, precision machine — a low, powerful hum rumbling beneath the warmth of the spring sun.
This busyness was not born of panic. It was a full-speed sprint guided by the most exacting Order.
The following afternoon, the square before the Palace's main gate had been scrubbed until the cement surface shone spotlessly clean.
Fifty carefully selected representative subjects stood there with nervous energy. Among them were refugees who had recently relocated from the City of Hill, and honest farming families who had lived in Mason all their lives.
Sophia was dressed as ever in a clean, efficient black hunting outfit, her silver hair bound behind her. She stood on the raised platform, with Willow at her side, holding the register and as poised as always.
"Begin."
At Sophia's cool command, cages after cages of bright-feathered, lively chickens, ducks, and geese were carried out by attendants.
Compared to the tentative distribution last time, this one was clearly far larger in scale — and every single cage bore a numbered tag designed by Irene.
"Fifty families again! Her Majesty is ramping up the military, and she still hasn't forgotten about the cook fires in our homes!"
"Look at that big goose — when it honks, it's louder than the village dog back home. Is Her Majesty gathering all the life in the world and bringing it here to Mason?"
"Something feels off... have you noticed? Her Majesty has been repairing roads, having us train in combat, and now she's distributing livestock. The way things are shaping up, it looks awfully like..."
Before the subjects could fully recover from their surprise, Hailey came bounding through the crowd like a light-footed lark, a delicate small teaching stick in hand, a few soldiers behind her carrying wooden model frames.
"Everyone, pay attention! Her Majesty says — if you adopt these little ones, you are responsible for them!"
Hailey's bright voice rang out across the square.
"When building the animal shed, follow this scale. Make sure the ventilation is good — otherwise the chicks will fall ill. For feeding, the additives sent from Avalon City are the best..."
As she spoke, Hailey drew a small checkmark beside each person's name in the register.
These were her Mason livestock records — the destination of every chicken and duck rendered orderly and clear under her pen.
When word spread that this would not be the last distribution, and that Hailey had publicly taught everyone — not just the fifty recipients — how to raise these animals, the shrewder minds among the subjects began to sense something deeper.
The atmosphere in the square gradually shifted from joyful surprise to a weighty, solemn gravity.
The subjects looked at the lively, bounding poultry, then at the city walls being reinforced not far away, and an unspoken mutual understanding spread through the crowd.
"I understand now... Her Majesty is giving us provisions! If war actually comes, these animals are our own jerky and eggs — we can feed ourselves without drawing from the national stores!"
"Her Majesty is worried we won't have the strength to hold the city. She gave us roads, she gave us our lives, and now she's giving us meat. If those animals from other kingdoms dare come here, I'll wring this big goose's neck to feed the fighting men, and then grab my hoe and fight them myself!"
"When other places go to war, the lords just draft the able-bodied men. But our Her Majesty is racking her brain figuring out how to make our lives better. Run? Where in the whole world is there a place with more Order, a place that feels more like home, than Mason? Anyone who wants to destroy this place will have to step over my old bones first!"
This was the first time Bardess had ever seen a lord distribute livestock to her subjects for free — no payment required, just tax.
Where does this kind of good fortune come from?
Bardess stood there, dazed and struck speechless.
This is not merely charity. This is high-dimensional logistical decentralization.
Her Majesty has distributed protein production directly to every individual family unit — enormously relieving the pressure on centralized wartime storage — while simultaneously, through this very act, binding the interests of every subject irrevocably to the fate of the Black Rose.
Under this governance of mercy and authority combined, Mason has no need for additional indoctrination. Every subject will spontaneously become the most tenacious sentinel.
Her Majesty's benevolence has always come stamped with iron.
Just like these subjects here — some of the sharper ones seemed to realize what was happening, yet not a single one showed any sign of wanting to back away.
---
Deep in the night, the lamps in the Palace study still burned bright.
Sophia reclined against the back of her chair, fingertips brushing over a feedback report on the reinforcement of the City of Hill's defenses.
Willow stood quietly beside her, trimming the wick of the candle, ensuring the light remained softly draped over the silver-haired young queen at all times.
The Royal City outside the window had fallen into stillness — yet beneath that silence, a tide of awakening surged.
Knock, knock.
A rapid yet respectful knock broke the study's quiet.
"Come in."
Sophia replied without looking up.
Valery pushed the door open and entered. This ever-steadfast Chancellor, his armor still damp with night dew at the seams, wore an expression of near-disbelieving shock.
He dropped to one knee in a military salute, his voice dropping low with emotion:
"Your Majesty, something has happened... or rather, to be precise — something has occurred that this minister has never witnessed before."
Sophia set down the report, her pale-gold pupils regarding him with calm detachment.
"Speak."
"Just now, after news of the livestock distribution spread throughout the city, speculation about an imminent war could no longer be suppressed."
Valery drew a deep breath.
"But what this minister could never have expected — since nightfall, no fewer than three separate groups of subjects have gathered before the Palace gates and approached the sentinels with questions..."
"They were not there to seek refuge. They were there to ask when official recruitment for soldiers would begin."
Sophia's brow gave the faintest lift, a trace of mild surprise flickering through her cool gaze.
Valery continued:
"The men leading the crowd among the subjects said — Her Majesty gave them level roads, medicines and martial skills that could keep them alive, and even tucked chickens and ducks into their arms before the storm arrived. They said... since war is coming sooner or later, better to train sooner than later. If they start a few days early, they can take an extra arrow for Her Majesty when they reach the battlefield."
Holy light above... is this the effect Her Majesty was aiming for?
In other kingdoms, war is the privilege of nobles and the catastrophe of commoners.
But in Mason, war has become a spontaneous compact among every subject to protect their home.
Everything Her Majesty did before — distributing livestock, military training for all, repairing roads and reinforcing defenses — none of it was ever about appeasement. It was about awakening.
She used absolute benevolence to brand the mark of the Black Rose into the very bones of these ordinary people, making them realize — if Mason falls, the happiness they have only just come to hold will shatter like a soap bubble.
This terrifying solidarity — this sense of sharing one's fate with the nation — not even the most elite knight order in the Imperial Capital could match it.
Your Majesty... have you calculated even the frequency at which the human heart beats?
Sophia was silent for a moment. She had originally expected that these subjects would, at minimum, experience panic — or even small-scale flight. After all, self-preservation is human nature.
Yet she had underestimated the depth of these people's longing for the sun.
After an existence as wretched as mud, Mason's Order had become the only Divine Miracle in their lives.
"Tell them."
Sophia rose to her feet, moonlight pouring across her shoulders, rendering her sacred and cool.
"Mason's soldiers have no need for brutes who only know how to throw their lives away. What I want are sharp blades capable of executing my will. Send them home. Have them continue training under the instructors I have deployed."
"I will be watching every individual's performance. Those who prove themselves will receive medals and armor."
"Yes! Your Majesty!"
Valery struck his chest armor heavily, his eyes brimming with reverence boiled to overflow.
With Valery's departure, the study returned to that quiet carrying the faint scent of cold pine.
The candlelight flickered, stretching Sophia's shadow long across the wall as she leaned back in her chair.
Looking at the scattered points of light outside the window, Sophia pressed her fingers to her brow and rubbed it slowly. Only now did the nerves she had kept strung taut the entire day dare to loosen — just a little.
This feeling of being trusted without reservation by so many people — this weight of those who were even willing to lay down their lives — was far more draining than processing any number of tedious reports.
A pair of pale, slender hands, carrying the faint fragrance of flowers, settled silently onto Sophia's shoulders.
At some point, Willow had slipped around behind her, her fingertips pressing with precision onto those rigid acupoints, the pressure exactly right, radiating a warmth that soothed the spirit.
"Your Majesty, it is late."
Willow kept her voice low, as though afraid of disturbing this rare and precious quiet.
"The sincerity of the subjects is a precious thing — but Mason's future rests entirely on your health. If you exhaust yourself, it will grieve everyone who serves you."
Sophia let her eyes fall shut, taking in the easing warmth spreading through her shoulders. A long, low sigh rose from her throat:
"I was only thinking — this land is more worth protecting than I had ever imagined."
That sigh... is Her Majesty lamenting the suffering of the people, or feeling compassion for the turbulence that is coming?
Faced with the glory of ten thousand subjects pleading and a constellation of devotion, Her Majesty bore not a shred of pride — only an ever-deeper sense of responsibility.
This near-divine compassion is the true reason the Black Rose has been able to take root and flourish on this barren land.
In a time when everyone is burning with fervor for war, only Her Majesty is truly sighing for every single life.
To serve at the side of a ruler such as this — it is truly the greatest salvation of my life.
"Willow."
Sophia opened her eyes, her pale-gold pupils taking on a depth in the shadows of the lamplight.
"Before Delilah left — did she leave something behind?"
Willow's hands paused for just a beat, then her lips curved in a smile full of unspoken meaning.
"General Delilah did indeed leave something in the Administrative Hall before her departure — a small black wooden box."
As she spoke, Willow turned and retrieved from a nearby hidden compartment a small, polished black box — no bigger than a palm — carved all over with rose motifs.
The lid was shut tight, radiating a cold hardness that belonged to weapons.
"General Delilah gave the most emphatic, repeated instructions that whatever is inside this box, Your Majesty must open it only in the deep of the night — and only when 'completely alone.'"
Willow passed the box over with one hand, adding a half-playful, half-genuine quip, a flicker of exasperated resignation for a colleague's possessiveness passing through her eyes.
Then she voluntarily stepped back a few paces, so as not to inadvertently catch a glimpse of the contents.
Sophia took the wooden box, fingertips meeting the cold grain of the wood.
She gave the clasp a light flick.
Click.
The lid sprang open. Inside was not the intelligence document or seal she might have expected — but a small pouch wrapped in black soft satin.
The pouch was feather-light, carrying a faint trace of the scent Delilah always carried — cold metal and the grassy smell of a warhorse's feed.
Sophia untied the thin cord of the pouch and drew from it a piece of paper folded with meticulous neatness.
In the candlelight, Sophia slowly unfolded that slightly rough yet impossibly precise sheet of paper.
The handwriting on it bore none of the delicate grace of a civil official's brushwork. Every stroke breathed the forcefulness and determination of someone forged in military campaigns — in several places, the pen had pressed so hard it had scored through the back of the paper.
As her gaze moved down the page, even this perpetually ice-calm young queen found her pupils contracting ever so slightly.
"Your Majesty — by the time you read these words, this minister may have already crossed into Olan's territory.
"This minister has concealed something of immense importance from you.
"The truth is... this minister has died once before.
"In that nightmare of a past life, this minister was not born on the wasteland, but in Olan — a blade inside that blood-soaked fortress, one that only knew how to kill and was not permitted the right to know anything.
"This minister begs Your Majesty's forgiveness for a transgression.
"On the day we first met on the wasteland, this minister's collapse was not from exhaustion — it was a contemptible act of deception. In my past life, I had heard legends of the Black Rose. So when I was reborn and came back, I calculated everything, mistakenly believing Your Majesty was truly a tyrant, and wanting to make one last contribution to the people — therefore seeking only to approach Your Majesty in the most harmless guise possible."
Sophia's fingers tightened slightly around the paper.
No wonder. The way she always looked at me carried a fervor and a terror that transcended life and death.
"This minister once believed that a monster like me, with hands soaked in blood, deserved only to rot in the shadows.
"It was Your Majesty who gave this minister dignity — gave Delilah a new life — and even... gave this minister that kiss, offered with a smile.
"Please set your heart at ease, Your Majesty.
"In that past life where this minister died — even without the solid roads and ample provisions that exist today, Mason under your reign was still an impregnable island, one that even the brutal forces of Olan could not easily shake from your throne.
"In this life, this minister will not allow Your Majesty to suffer even half a grievance.
"What Olan owes you, what it owes this minister — this minister will carve it back, cut by cut.
"Please forgive this minister's deception. On the day of this minister's return, I am willing to accept any punishment — only begging Your Majesty... do not despise this blade that was once stained with filthy blood.
"— Your eternal blade, Delilah."
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