Night Knight.

The temperature had dropped slightly, and the sun was no longer so scorching. Breezes swept through the forest, bringing a bit of comfort to the soldiers in their uniforms. If not for regulations requiring proper dress, they wouldn't have minded wearing just undershirts—or nothing on their upper bodies at all. As it was, the most they could do was roll their sleeves tightly up while working.

This was the second day the Fourth Platoon had been stationed at this defensive line. Their orders were to assist in holding the sector at the edge of the forest, a line of trenches, direct-fire gun positions, and makeshift bunkers. Company commander Dyke, responsible for the sector, knew well that such fortifications were barely adequate against those "Red Robes." But with nearly twice the usual number of troops assigned here, there was little else they could do. The one consolation was that a detachment of Night Knights had been sent to reinforce them—something that immediately boosted the soldiers' morale.

"How much longer are those scouts going to sit there?"

Otto stood beside Dyke outside the trench, both of them staring at a group of riders on a distant hilltop.

There were five in all, each carrying a lance with a small pennant fluttering at its tip, their white cloaks swaying with the wind. Their mounts were clad in white barding, their heads completely covered by metal faceplates, with only two holes revealing restless, uneasy eyes.

"No idea. They were already at it before you arrived. Every two or three days, they show up again."

Dyke lowered his binoculars and handed them to Otto, though Otto only accepted them without using them.

"And those five riders are damned uncanny. Watch closely."

Behind them, the defensive line stirred into action. Officers barked commands, soldiers rushed into their positions. Moments later, a thunderous crack shattered the forest's quiet—the firing of a seventy-millimeter cannon.

Events unfolded exactly as Dyke had warned. The shell burst in midair, as though striking an invisible wall, exploding harmlessly before reaching the riders. The blast lit up a faint arc-shaped outline in the dust and flame, revealing a transparent barrier that had blocked the shot.

"They've got something, all right…"

Otto had seen similar sorcery when fighting the judgment cells of the Church. Their Lexomancers used defensive spells that absorbed an object's kinetic energy. But this was different—this was a literal wall, intercepting moving projectiles outright.

"Their grand armies use the same kind of spell. Our artillery can't punch through that invisible shield at all."

"I've heard as much."

Otto nodded, still trying to study the five riders for clues. But soon after the shell exploded, the riders wheeled their horses around and vanished over the ridge.

"Let's go. These types come and go like ghosts. You'll never catch them."

Dyke sighed, clearly used to the routine, but Otto's gaze lingered on the hill, unease tightening in his chest at the battles yet to come.

With that incident behind them, the two continued inspecting different sectors of the line. The purpose was mainly to familiarize Otto with the defensive layout and the true terrain of the area. Along the way, Otto spoke with several officers and soldiers, hearing accounts of battles with the Holy State's forces. They described in exaggerated detail how the "Red Robes" conjured fine red threads that could obliterate bunkers and artillery, and how they charged trenches under a storm of bullets, cutting down all before them. Their tales painted a far harsher picture than the one Frupve had given them.

At last, the two men returned to headquarters—a half-buried bunker dug into the mountainside.

Just past the entrance, three observers silently watched the front from different vantage points, binoculars fixed in their slits, ready to report any sign of the enemy.

Deeper inside, a left turn led to the operations room, where Dyke's adjutant and several signalmen remained on duty to receive and relay orders from higher command or neighboring units at once. To the right was a crude rest chamber, its doorway covered only with a sheet of waterproof cloth. From outside, Dyke and Otto could already hear the voices inside.

"Come on, come sit down and have a drink…"

On a rickety wooden table—one leg braced by a stone—stood bottles, glasses, an ashtray, and a scattered deck of cards. Four men sat around it, three of them already showing signs of drunkenness.

Dyke was relieved to see that his company commander, Seslin, was not drinking with the Night Knights. Given the tension of the front, there was no room for negligence, and he would not tolerate subordinates incapacitated by drink. As for the Night Knights… he admitted he hadn't expected the so-called legendary symbols of the Empire to look like this. He had imagined them as cold and merciless, as the rumors claimed. Instead, these officers seemed all too normal, fitting in quickly and easily. The rank-and-file Night Knights, however, matched the rumors much more closely.

"No thanks, I really couldn't drink another drop."

Dyke forced a smile as he declined Edwin's offer, while signaling Seslin to sit down.

"Pardon the scene."

Otto and Dyke exchanged a grin and pulled up chairs to join the table.

"But seriously," Dyke asked, "are you sure drinking like this won't be a problem?"

He wasn't questioning their reputation, but looking at those three drunks… could they really leap into action if the enemy struck now?

"Ha! Don't underestimate me. 'Unfaltering after a thousand cups'—that's me!"

Rogm, more boisterous in his drunkenness than Edwin, slurred loudly. Edwin himself was already asleep face-down in the cards, while Nordhausen sat apart, drinking silently, ignoring everything else.

"The truth is," Otto interjected, "before combat we inject ourselves with a special serum. It drastically reduces the effects of alcohol."

Seeing the others too inebriated to form coherent sentences, Otto felt obliged to explain. He even pulled a No. 3 vial from his kit to show Dyke—after all, letting allies think they were unreliable could be dangerous.

"Hah, so that's it. Any chance you could spare us some of that miracle antidote?"

Dyke half-joked, but Otto refused sternly, explaining the risks of civilians injecting the serum, as well as the secrecy regulations around it.

"But tell me," Dyke asked again, "are all Night Knights really like you lot?"

Otto knew what he meant.

"The rumors are closer to the truth. Most Night Knight officers undergo harsh training from childhood, much like the rank-and-file—stern and joyless. Our company is… an exception."

"I figured as much."

"As for the veterans who've lived over a century… truth be told, we've hardly ever seen them ourselves."

"A century…"

Dyke repeated the words, eyes widening. He knew of the ancient Knights, but thinking on it still left him stunned.

"So… that girl, the one with cat ears and a tail… she's a Night Knight too? If it's classified, you don't have to answer."

"She…"

Otto hesitated, considering how to phrase Inaya's story.

"She isn't a Night Knight. And it isn't classified. She came from the north."

"The north?"

Dyke blinked in confusion.

"North of the desert."

"Oh…!"

With that hint, he understood instantly. His surprise deepened into curiosity.

"So she really came from there… which means she can use magic?"

"She can. To what extent, I don't know."

"And… is she human?"

"She should be, more or less. According to her, someone transformed her into what she is. The details… you'd best ask her yourself."

Otto shrugged. Nearly everything about that girl was as eccentric as her personality. He had no clear answers to give.

And while the officers traded gossip, what was Inaya herself doing? Unexpectedly, she wasn't wandering about or lingering with Hielaina and Shatiel. Instead, she perched high in the treetops, carefully observing every move within the Holy State's camp.

"Plenty of them…"

One hand rested on the trunk, the other idly twirling her exotic dagger, tossing it up and catching it again and again. Her tail dangled below the branch, swaying slightly to the right as if for balance. In truth, given her weight, the gesture served no purpose—merely the instinct of a cat.

Clop-clop—clop-clop—clop-clop—

Hoofbeats approached from afar. Before long, a messenger in a white robe appeared at the end of the road, riding hard.

Hearing him, Inaya glanced back, a plan forming in her mind. She leapt from her perch, darting swiftly from branch to branch, until she landed in a tree close to the road, waiting silently.

A sudden gust swept through, branches swaying, leaves scattering. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, illuminating specks of dust before falling onto the ground.

The messenger squinted, unaware of the hidden danger in the woods. He adjusted his face covering—but before his hand fell away, something struck him hard. He toppled from his saddle, rolling across the ground.

Blood seeped into his eyes. In the instant before unconsciousness took him, he caught only a blurred glimpse of a face—then a sharp pain to his head plunged him into darkness.