Chapter 84 Political Landscape of Monstoke

"Six minutes remaining."

Richie's father snapped the pocket watch shut with a crisp click. This was the very pocket watch gifted to Richie by the Little Princess of the Parkington Holy Kingdom, which Richie had subsequently passed along to him.

To project an image of upright frugality, Richie's father refrained from donning the finer garments he possessed, dressing instead in an ordinary, unadorned suit purchased from the local town market. The only item of luxury on his entire person was this exquisite watch.

He harbored no concern that anyone would criticize him over the timepiece. The crest of the Parkington imperial house engraved upon its cover was something no mortal dared desecrate; anyone foolish enough to do so would be digging their own grave.

Furthermore, when that little princess had bestowed this watch, Richie had still been an obscure nobody. Whenever the incident was brought up, people universally marveled at the profound foresight of the Parkington royal house, recognizing Richie's peerless worth before he had achieved any worldly fame.

With the looming cataclysm of global war casting dread over every sovereign realm, the narratives woven around this timepiece were warmly welcomed by the Parkington Holy Kingdom. The propaganda value in uplifting civilian morale was immense, but far more critically, it served as an irresistible magnet to attract elite talent from all over the continent.

While total war was an unmitigated catastrophe for minor states, for a great hegemon like Parkington, it represented a golden opportunity to augment national power and expand international hegemony. Take this recent evacuation, for example: Parkington alone had absorbed over a hundred thousand senior engineers and technical specialists from the Monstoke Republic, alongside more than seven hundred and fifty thousand skilled artisans. One could say they had scooped up virtually the entire intellectual and industrial marrow of Monstoke in a single sweep.

Among all those fleeing professionals, it was impossible to say just how many had chosen Parkington precisely because of those pervasive rumors.

It was for this very reason that when Yarno's former henchmen bribed high-ranking officials in Balmer, seeking to enlist Balmer's state apparatus to exact vengeance for Yarno, Parkington crushed the scheme before it could even begin. Because of that swift suppression, several senior figures in Balmer were now living in daily terror: for high officials of a vassal state to stand in opposition to their suzerain's grand interests was no trivial matter.

And all of this had been catalyzed by a single modest pocket watch—a domino effect that likely exceeded even Malone's calculations.

Yet Malone was by no means simple. While slightly green in raw political statecraft, his eyes and ears were exceptionally sharp. He quickly uncovered that Parkington was quietly fanning these narratives. Lacking the power to overturn clouds and summon rain single-handedly, Malone was nonetheless a master at sailing with favorable winds, leveraging the momentum to broaden the Restoration Party's political footprint.

Consequently, casually 'showing off' the imperial pocket watch had become an indispensable part of Richie's father's daily public duties.

"I hear your son will soon depart for Parkington?"

Malone strolled over, clutching a speech manuscript prepared for the upcoming assembly. He was the mastermind pulling strings from the shadows, so the speech was not for himself, but crafted for the frontman standing before the crowds.

"It was an arrangement decreed directly by the Coalition High Command; he had no choice in the matter," Richie's father replied, his fingers incessantly fiddling with the pocket watch. In recent days, he had developed a habit of fondling the watch whenever uncertainty crept into his heart; the heavy timepiece lent him a measure of steady courage.

"I anticipated as much. In the eyes of the Coalition leadership, we are a band of disruptive upstarts; they certainly wouldn't wish to see us leaning on your son's martial might," Malone remarked casually.

Richie's father had gradually come to realize that Malone kept numerous calculated schemes concealed from both him and his son. Yet now that he was firmly strapped to this war chariot, stepping down was simply too late. Moreover, deep in his heart, he genuinely had no desire to step down. These past weeks had been exhausting—far more taxing than his quiet tenure in the Ordnance Department—yet he found this life brimming with purpose, vastly more fulfilling than his former mediocrity.

"This is just as well. Our expansion has proceeded remarkably well, far smoother than anticipated. We have moved past the stage of requiring brute martial deterrence. What we must demonstrate to the citizenry now is that we have no intention of establishing a military dictatorship."

Malone's words were not merely soothing reassurances, but also an explanation of his strategic roadmap.

Suddenly, Malone ceased speaking, his gaze locking onto a figure approaching their location. It was a tall, burly, middle-aged gentleman with a portly frame, radiating the unmistakable poise and commanding aura of a seasoned aristocrat—a polished presence Malone did not yet possess.

The portly gentleman beamed warmly as he stepped up before Richie's father: "Mr. Robert, I have finally tracked you down! I have reached out to several distinguished colleagues of mine; they too are optimistic regarding our enterprise and wish to formally align with our ranks."

This portly gentleman was Gornor Vargo, formerly the mayor of a major industrial city. To date, he was by far the highest-ranking civil official to defect to their banner.

Because of his former mayoral rank, Vargo showed minimal deference to Malone.

Naturally, he had no intention of provoking Malone either. Malone's name had appeared alongside Richie's on that infamous warrant, making it widely known that Malone was an alumnus of the Internal Affairs Bureau. Everyone understood all too well the lethal nature of Internal Affairs.

Furthermore, as an old fox who had navigated the political waters for decades, Vargo saw through Malone's designs at a glance. Knowing Malone preferred pulling strings from behind the curtain, there was zero incentive to invite open friction with him.

Malone merely offered a polite nod in response, displaying neither overt warmth nor cold hostility; he too was largely indifferent to Mr. Vargo. Politics was an immense stage boasting countless seats; squabbling over one or two prominent chairs was utterly superfluous.

Malone understood better than anyone that for a political newcomer lacking deep-seated roots, forging a disciplined, loyal faction completely answerable to himself was paramount. Without a solid factional foundation, even if one captured an exalted office, one could never hope to sit securely upon it.

"I have drafted a comprehensive plan. If executed as outlined, it should swiftly secure the Restoration Party's widespread acceptance among the general public."

Speaking with polished confidence, Vargo presented a multi-page document with both hands, placing it into Robert's grip.

Over the past few months, Richie's father had not been idle; whenever spare time permitted, he immersed himself in books. Though still worlds apart from professional politicians, he was no longer the naive, bewildered clerk of the past. Flipping casually through the proposed document, an awkward smile surfaced on his lips.

"This... this seems... do we even possess the logistical conditions to execute such a proposal?"

Between the lines of the manuscript, Richie's father discerned only two unmistakable words: vote-buying.

While subtly differentiated from the sleazy populist tricks he had witnessed back in Glaslova, the underlying essence was virtually identical—dangling superficial handouts to coerce public endorsement.

Malone peered over from the side, a flicker of disdain stirring in his chest. He had long predicted that these career politicians possessed only this tired bag of tricks.

"The proposal is commendable. However, enacting it demands immense material resources. While the military supports us, should we divert supplies in this manner, they will certainly object," Malone said with an easy smile, fixing his gaze on Vargo. Seeing Vargo about to speak, Malone raised a staying hand and pressed forward: "I am well aware that Your Excellency wields extensive connections and has undoubtedly lined up powerful interests willing to assist us. The question is: no one offers aid out of pure charity. What are their terms of exchange?"

The former mayor offered a dry chuckle, deftly evading a direct response: "Terms of exchange are largely inconsequential, for political promises can always be revised."

"You intend to renege on the agreements when the time comes?"

Malone smiled in return. While reneging was standard operating procedure for politicians, the opposing party was undoubtedly an experienced operator who had certainly anticipated such an eventuality. That made the affair rather intriguing.

There could be numerous explanations.

Perhaps Mr. Vargo had inked a clandestine pact involving tangible, immediate deliverables that were redeemable on the spot—such as handing over proprietary intelligence networks.

Or perhaps the backers cared nothing for promises, playing a long game to reel in far larger fish.

The only scenario Malone truly worried about was a premeditated trap: coaxing their party into binding commitments to produce an egregiously disadvantageous secret accord, which would then be leaked to the public, dealing the Restoration Party a catastrophic, delegitimizing blow.

"I understand your apprehensions," Vargo said, unfazed by Malone's sardonic undertone. He made no effort to plead his innocence, knowing Malone wouldn't believe him anyway. "You aspire to become a transformative statesman of historic consequence, like the visionary founding fathers of our Republic. Whereas I and the men around me harbor no such grand illusions—we merely wish to govern; we wish to hold high office."

Vargo spoke with stark candor.

"Oh? I am unversed in such distinctions. Perhaps Your Excellency would care to enlighten me?" Malone said, his tone walking a fine line between mock deference and genuine curiosity.

"A simple matter, truly. The difference between a statesman and a politician is that the former designs the rules, while the latter exploits the loopholes while outwardly upholding those very rules. Thus, I have never opposed the framework you established. The Restoration Party has chosen the grassroots path, and I endorse it wholeheartedly, because the vast majority of those who fled across the border are destitute commoners without property. Even those who once owned modest businesses have lost their livelihoods. True foreign investors with external holdings are a microscopic minority, and even they face the constant risk of asset seizure."

"I joined the Restoration Party because I sensed you would triumph. Yet within the boundaries of the rules, I intend to carve out greater operational maneuverability for myself. I am acquainted with a substantial cohort of affluent individuals; their fortunes far surpass the average refugee here. Yet no matter how wealthy, funds deplete rapidly when idle. These individuals yearn to invest, yet dread existential risk. In the old days, even if an investment collapsed, as long as one's political connections endured, a comeback was always within reach. Today, without sufficient capital on hand, mere survival is an open question."

Vargo waved the papers in his hand. "Hence, I intend to offer them a helping hand."

With the conversation laid bare, Malone understood the crux of Vargo's ambition. Vargo was clearly attempting an elite gambit, and this entire blueprint was blatantly plagiarized from Malone's own playbook. Malone had offered stable employment as bait to win the loyalty of the refugees; Stein already hosted a battle armor manufacturing plant, food processing facilities, textile mills, and garment factories. Military procurement contracts were pouring in faster than they could be fulfilled, prompting Malone to contemplate major expansions after merely two weeks. Seeing this lucrative success, Vargo had experienced a sudden epiphany, seeking to rally affluent industrialists through identical incentives. In times of total war, manufacturing military supplies was the sole venture immune to unsold inventory or government non-payment.

"Do you intend for them to establish autonomous factories directly? Or have them inject capital as minority shareholders?" Malone pressed sharply.

"Establishing autonomous factories directly, of course. The operational efficiency is vastly superior," Vargo answered with an affable grin.

*Just as I thought,* Malone mused inwardly.

The maneuver was undeniably cunning—a blatant, elegant attempt to undermine his monopoly. If permitted to open autonomous facilities directly, a large factory would effectively grant them control over one to two thousand workers; even a modest workshop would control two to three hundred laborers. If the entire refugee populace fell under the payroll of those wealthy oligarchs, who would listen to Malone?

Furthermore, once those industrialists engaged in price manipulation, cartel building, or factional alliances as they had in the old days, they could choke the Restoration Party's logistical lifeline at will, transforming the party into their private playground.

"That will not do. In matters pertaining to war production, zero recklessness can be tolerated. Should anyone cut corners or compromise quality, the reputational blow will fall entirely upon our Restoration Party. Therefore, I intend to enact wartime industrial regulations. Just as the military maintains martial courts, we shall establish a Wartime Logistics Commission; every single manufacturing facility producing military material will fall under its direct oversight."

Malone had no intention of slamming the door completely shut. Vargo could certainly appoint representatives to this commission. In essence, the commission would serve as an institutional compromise—guaranteeing everyone's profits while ensuring no single faction enjoyed a total monopoly.

Vargo pondered Malone's counterproposal for a protracted moment; it certainly deviated from his original blueprint.

He hadn't intended to use those industrialists to seize control of the party or the armed forces—knowing this ruthless clique hadn't hesitated to butcher former president Yarno, he was under no illusion that they would hesitate to eliminate him if backed into a corner. Nonetheless, he had undeniably aimed to weave a formidable network of patronage and seize dominant legislative leverage.

Since its inception, the Republic had embraced an elitist governance model where an aristocratic patriciate guided the masses—a system tailored perfectly to men of his background. Malone, by contrast, while having yet to codify a formal constitution, had clearly telegraphed his intent to forge an entirely divergent path.

"Ultimately, factories must still be managed by capable hands—experts who will not embezzle public funds for private gain," Vargo maintained, subtly reiterating his stance that true operational devotion existed only when a proprietor owned the asset.

"These are times of war. So long as a factory delivers output strictly according to military specifications, no complications will arise. There is no need for convoluted bureaucracy; adopting the military's command model would be most fitting," Malone countered unyieldingly, refusing to concede an inch on the foundational trajectory of the party: "Appoint a team leader from each cadre of workers, observe their operational efficacy, and promote those who prove capable."

Vargo narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Malone. From Malone's words, he discerned vast implications.

Though they were debating nascent industrial workshops, this very dynamic would dictate Monstoke's future governance architecture. Going forward, officials would likely be required to rise through the civil service ranks from the ground up. Such systems had existed historically—the military operated on that framework, as did the Internal Affairs Bureau.

Vargo's expression remained inscrutable as he weighed the ramifications.

Whether this favored his personal fortunes was difficult to gauge in the immediate term. Even within the military and Internal Affairs, meteoric promotions occurred, meaning loopholes always existed. The difficulty lay in the fact that while propelling one or two gifted proteges up the ladder was feasible, monopolizing all high-ranking administrative posts as his clique had done in the past would become virtually impossible.

Yet alongside the drawbacks lay distinct advantages. Over centuries, elite offices across the Republic had been monopolized by established dynasties. In his own home city, the mayoral seat had rotated exclusively among six patrician families; outsiders could never break in, yet their own houses had found expanding outward equally insurmountable. Had his family hailed from a bustling metropolis, he might have accepted his lot; unfortunately, his domain was merely a provincial mining and metallurgy hub. Populous though it was, it was far from prosperous. Outside the city gates lay desolate stone quarries and rutted dirt roads choked with gravel and dust—a backwater enclave.

Given the opportunity, he desperately yearned to expand onto a wider national stage.

As Vargo contemplated the future, Malone was similarly lost in deep calculation.

He had previously overlooked the reality that those who had once commanded glittering wealth in the Republic might not enjoy smooth sailing today. Fleeing across the border did not imply having powerful patrons abroad. Ninety-nine percent of them were refugees as well—merely refugees wrapped in veneer and fine silks. Accustomed to opulence and desperately struggling to preserve their dignity, their daily expenses were staggering compared to ordinary folk. No matter how much gold they had spirited out, their reserves would inevitably dry up. In all likelihood, their inner anxiety far outstripped that of the common refugees.

If earlier Malone had merely been parrying Vargo's thrusts without genuine concern, he was now actively scheming how to bring this wealthy demographic under his heel.

***

While political intrigue and constitutional chess unfolded on one front, the proving grounds were consumed by intense activity.

Old Master Manu'em stared at the spectacle before him in sheer, jaw-dropping astonishment.

A solid slab of granite ten meters long and wide was spiderwebbing with massive, jagged fissures. At the direct point of impact, a half-foot-thick plate of cast-steel armor used as an anvil had been violently caved inward into a crater-like depression!

"The data! Give me the data!"

The old master was virtually roaring.

His research assistants had anticipated this explosion of curiosity; the moment Manu'em sprinted toward the shattered monolith, they dashed over to the 'Wisdom King' to extract the onboard telemetry recorder.

The data was swiftly retrieved. Looking at the registered impact figure, several assistants were struck dumb, unable to utter a syllable for several seconds.

"Two... two hundred and fifteen tons... Merciful God! How is this even possible?!"

Manu'em's senior disciple finally stammered out the reading.

The old master dropped the chunk of granite in his hands and sprinted back toward the instrument console, his eyes bulging wide.

"This isn't a suit of battle armor... this is a mobile siege cannon!" he muttered in awe.

"Zack is trapped inside! He appears injured!"

"Get him out! Quickly!"

"The hatch is jammed; it won't open fully! Bring a pry bar!"

The assistants swarmed around the towering armor, shouting in panic.

A crowbar and an axe were rushed over. A bodyguard knight seized the crowbar, wedged it into the half-open seam of the cockpit hatch, and leveraged his full strength to pry it open.

With a teeth-grinding screech of warping metal, the hatch shifted slightly before violently springing open with a resounding bang!

The hatch had not opened solely from the prying; along with the flung door, an armored boot kicked outward, leaving a distinct indentation upon the reinforced hatch plate.

Having kicked the hatch free, the Honor Knight piloting the suit crawled out while clutching his right shoulder. His face was pale, his shoulder visibly dislocated.

A crowd rushed forward to support him, while medics bearing a stretcher waited anxiously below.

"No need; I can walk on my own," Zack grunted, kicking the stretcher aside.

The knight who had pried the hatch glanced into the cockpit and sucked in a sharp breath of cold air.

The interior cabin was violently warped. A massive tear had breached the right bulkhead, through which a structural chassis strut from the shoulder had punched inward like a jagged spear.

"Quickly, inspect the structural failure!" Old Master Manu'em shouted from afar.

The testing assistants scrambled up, peering into the ruptured cockpit, their expressions draining of color.

The half-inch-thick steel plating was warped and peeled back, while the heavy locking bolts—each thick as a man's thumb—had been cleanly sheared off at the roots.

Richie stood at a distance, observing Manu'em and the engineers scurrying about, behaving entirely as a detached spectator.

"Are there any other modified 'Wisdom Kings' available?" Richie turned to ask a knight beside him.

The man questioned happened to be the captain of the security detachment assigned to safeguard Manu'em.

"Well... this..." The captain stammered awkwardly, unsure how to reply. There were indeed three other modified prototypes on site, but High Command had issued a strict prohibition: under no circumstances was this young grandmaster permitted to pilot such an experimental, lethal contraption.

"Never mind. I was merely asking casually," Richie sighed, having accurately anticipated the response.

Gazing listlessly at his surroundings, he felt a twinge of regret for coming here. Yet on second thought, he realized he had nowhere else to go. If he didn't loiter here, his only alternative was frolicking among his expanding retinue of women. The dilemma was that there were simply too many women, and attending to them all was becoming exhausting; lately, he had barely found time to visit Emily.

Right as he was pondering how to balance his domestic duties fairly, a sudden sensation prickled against his consciousness: someone was watching him.

The sensation was remarkably bizarre, difficult to articulate; it felt as though an invisible needle had pierced a tiny pinhole through the sensory 'field' enveloping his body.

He had first noticed this anomalous perception during the journey to Stein. Back then, uncertain of its nature, he had dismissed it as an illusion. But recently, after Lina and the squad arrived, he had casually brought it up. To his utter shock, Lina—who rarely exhibited strong emotion—had practically lunged forward, seizing him by the collar and demanding every minute detail of the experience. Even the icy Captain Galli had visibly blanched with profound astonishment.

Only afterward did he learn that during the covert raid to rescue Lina from the Varedin encampment, Galli and Nora had witnessed a similar perception—an exotic sensory acuity manifested only by Honor Knights standing at the absolute precipice of advancement, on the verge of breaking through to the Glorious tier.

Richie snapped his head around, glancing in the direction of the gaze. Previously, nine times out of ten, it had been one of Manu'em's assistants or an on-duty sentry knight watching him.

Yet this time, his eyes met nothing.

*Could it truly be an illusion?* Richie hesitated.

Right at that second, the prickling sensation brushed against him once more—merely a fleeting, microscopic glance, retracted the instant it made contact.

The first might have been an illusion, but the second was undeniably real.

Richie placed immense stock in this peculiar sensory gift. Every time he felt watched, he verified it without fail, and it had never once misled him; over time, it had evolved into instinct.

Seeing nothing did not mean no one was watching; it merely proved the observer was concealed with extraordinary skill.

Richie made no move to search blindly. Having operated as a scout knight, he was intimately versed in the art of camouflage; without high-magnification optics, rooting out an expertly concealed scout with the naked eye was near impossible.

Moreover, the observer could well be an ally.

Stein was currently crawling with Coalition intelligence operatives, and this testing ground even more so. Ever since the devastating potential of the 'Wisdom King' was exposed, the Coalition had deployed the Unicorn Guard Legion, while other member nations had dispatched their own security details, alongside countless undercover spotters.

"Has your security detail added more personnel recently?" Richie turned to ask the captain.

"No? Not that I know of," the security captain replied, looking perplexed.

Richie's thoughts raced. "Really? A few days ago, I didn't see any concealed sentries. Today, hidden posts have been established, yet the visible lookouts on the surrounding ridges remain unchanged, and your numbers down here haven't diminished. And you claim you haven't added personnel?"

Richie spoke offhandedly, but the captain's demeanor shifted abruptly, his relaxed air hardening into guarded solemnity.

"We do maintain concealed posts, but that is a separate detachment. How did you spot them?"

"You know I'm half a scout myself. One of them didn't hide properly; I caught a glimpse just now," Richie said, omitting the esoteric sensory details. Though on friendly terms with the captain, their relationship had not reached unconditional intimacy.

"Just now?" The captain's brow furrowed tightly. "Was it before the impact test began, or after?"

"Mere seconds ago," Richie replied cleanly.

The captain reacted as though scalded by boiling water, his hand clamping onto Richie's forearm: "Where?!"

Almost simultaneously, at the exact patch of ground Richie had been observing, the turf erupted violently! A dark silhouette burst from beneath the earth like a launched missile!

No further explanation was needed; everyone instantly recognized the reality of the situation.

The lurking scout knight—from whichever hostile power—had sensed exposure the moment Richie glanced toward his position. He had been eavesdropping intently, and overhearing the exchange, he had no choice but to break cover and bolt!

The sudden eruption sent shockwaves across the entire proving ground.

Manu'em's security detachment was composed entirely of seasoned knights. The instant the infiltrator sprang from his burrow, sentries perched along the ridges reacted instantly, closing in like a tightening web.

Simultaneously, the captain beside Richie sprinted toward Manu'em, hoisting the frail old master over his shoulder like a sack of grain and sprinting for safety; another guard flashed forward, planting himself defensively before Richie. Had they not known Richie possessed formidable combat prowess, they would likely have hoisted him up and fled in identical fashion.

Richie made no reckless display of bravado. His martial strength was formidable, but using flesh and blood to contest a metal battle armor was an idiocy he would never entertain.

"Give me a suit of battle armor! That is safer than anything else!" Richie shouted as he sprinted alongside them.

The captain, sprinting at full tilt with Manu'em bouncing on his shoulder, hesitated for a fraction of a second. Yet Richie's words were undeniably logical—for a knight, what sanctuary was safer than the cockpit of a war machine? Furthermore, he couldn't guarantee there was only a single infiltrator; what if this was a coordinated assassination trap, where the initial scout was bait to draw security away, leaving the grandmaster's back completely exposed?

"Follow me!" the captain signaled with a wave.

The hillsides were dotted with unassuming supply tents containing crude test materials—raw pig iron ingots, granite boulders, and testing ballast.

The captain bolted toward one specific tent, depositing the disoriented old master onto the ground.

Manu'em was completely dizzy; how could his ancient bones withstand such jarring violence? His skeleton felt shaken apart. Yet recognizing the lethal peril, he knew this was no time to complain.

The captain plunged into the tent first, Manu'em stumbled in behind him, and Richie brought up the rear.

In the center of the tent floor lay a reinforced sliding hatch built flush against the slope. The heavy panel slid back, revealing a broad subterranean cavity.

It was an inclined underground revetment, not exceptionally deep, housing a solitary 'Wisdom King'. The captain didn't linger; supporting Manu'em, he rushed to the far end of the chamber, where a reinforced bulkhead opened into a subterranean tunnel leading to a hardened bunker.

The two disappeared into the darkness, leaving Richie to his own devices.

Richie wasted no time, scrambling up the chassis of the war machine.

The cockpit of the Wisdom King was accessed from the rear, requiring the colossal back-mounted tower shield to disengage and swing aside first. When designing it, Richie had anticipated this vulnerability—if the locking mechanism jammed during combat, the pilot would be trapped alive. Unfortunately, given the structural constraints, no superior configuration existed.

Stomping firmly on a release pedal near the collarplate, the mechanism engaged with a series of mechanical clicks.

The massive tower shield slid aside, followed by the upward hatch swinging open. The cockpit door opened from above, integrated directly into the armored backrest of the pilot's seat.

Richie vaulted inside, sliding smoothly into the pilot's couch.

*Clang!*

The heavy hatch sealed down, locking into place with a thunderous mechanical thud.

The moment he settled in, Richie felt his torso firmly cinched down as automated leather harnesses extruded from the couch, strapping him rigidly to the frame. Simultaneously, the cabin bulkheads began inflating with compressed air. It was a layer of specially treated pneumatic leather bladders designed to pressurize and cushion the pilot upon occupancy.

These modifications had been engineered by Manu'em to enable human physiology to withstand the staggering kinetic recoil of the Wisdom King. Yet as today's test had demonstrated, even with such elaborate shock absorption, avoiding trauma was by no means guaranteed.

Since Manu'em had taken over development, numerous structural elements had been overhauled, yet the core neural control interface remained untouched. Consequently, Richie felt entirely at home.

The old master hadn't refrained from altering the controls out of respect, but out of fear. This armor was never conceived for ordinary knights; its flight dynamics and kinetic output were unprecedented. The sole operational baseline was Richie's personal piloting telemetry; without extensive operational data, Manu'em dared not tamper with the neural linkage.

The only interface modification was the addition of an auxiliary toggle switch.

Richie recalled Manu'em explaining that he had integrated a few legacy mana tendons alongside the new generation conduits, operating on separate manual circuits. During non-combat transit, the legacy conduits propelled the armor to conserve power, while the high-output mana tendons engaged exclusively for combat maneuvers.

Activating the startup sequence, Richie immediately felt an unsettling sluggishness. The Wisdom King was modified from a heavy chassis, inherently lacking agility; utilizing sparse legacy mana tendons starved it of torque, making its initial movements agonizingly ponderous.

The sole virtue of this system was that transporting the Wisdom King onto flatbed haulers no longer required crane crews.

Bracing both arms against the earth, the heavy machine pushed itself upright. The canvas tent overhead was shredded as the metal titan stood tall.

By the time Richie piloted the Wisdom King into the daylight, the situation appeared largely under control: the security detail had encircled the infiltrator in a tightening cordon.

Only now did Richie clearly perceive the infiltrator's machine.

It was a model he had never encountered before: stout, rounded, and devoid of sharp edges or protruding mountings, with stubby, muscular limbs.

Richie's initial impression was that it resembled an upright, bipedal mole.

While moles were clumsy creatures, this machine moved with startling dexterity. Even more shocking was that despite its compact stature, it bore the composite hallmarks of both heavy and light armor classes.

Its evasive maneuvers were slick as an eel soaked in grease, yet upon its forearms were mounted twin heavy bucklers, backed by dense composite plating.

The armor was already scored with deep battle gouges, indicating considerable internal damage, yet it fought with ferocious tenacity, seeking an opening to break out. The security cordon, while containing it, was momentarily unable to subdue it cleanly.

*Screeech—!*

A piercing flare rocket shot skyward, detonating beneath the cloud ceiling into a brilliant plume of crimson smoke.

An emergency alert rocket!

In Richie's assessment, the tactical situation was already contained; launching a red alert flare seemed an overreaction.

Yet right as that thought crossed his mind, a squadron of war machines galloped into view from the distance—all standard Republic issue: *Strikers*.

Seeing friendly forces arrive, Richie felt an initial wave of relief and raised an armored arm to signal them. But halfway through the gesture, he froze. A chilling realization struck him: the only units garrisoned in Stein were a detachment of the Unicorn Guard, Manu'em's personal security detail, and Velia's legion. Among them, only Velia's troops had utilized Strikers—and that had been a month ago!

Just within this past month, Velia's entire legion had completed their refit, transitioning entirely to the 'Dragon'!

A shiver raced down Richie's spine. And when he saw the approaching squadron split in two, five Strikers breaking formation and charging directly toward his position, his suspicion hardened into absolute certainty!

Knowing they were hostile impostors, Richie remained perfectly still, secretly flipping the toggle switch into combat mode.

Being an experimental prototype, the Wisdom King lacked conventional weapon hardpoints. Fortunately, it had the shield—and for this titan, that monumental slab of steel was deadlier than any blade.

"It is perilous here! Follow us quickly!"

The charging Strikers shouted through their external speakers—female voices. Yet Richie was utterly certain that within his memory, no such voices existed in Velia's ranks.

One had to remember: his intimate trysts with Velia's female knights had initially taken place in pitch darkness, and later while wearing masquerade masks. He had cultivated the habit of identifying every single one of those women exclusively by their voices!

With less than a hundred meters separating them, Richie struck.

In the blink of an eye, he materialized directly before the vanguard of Strikers!

The opposing pilots were completely ignorant of the Wisdom King's performance envelope. Though on guard, their lack of intelligence proved fatal. Furthermore, their formation was flawed: whether out of overconfidence or an urgent desire to end the capture swiftly, they had staggered slightly, forming a loose semi-circular arc.

Forming a tight tactical cordon against a charging behemoth meant bracing for direct kinetic collision.

A deafening barrage of impacts detonated across the field, followed instantly by the horrific screech of collapsing steel!

The Striker was an offensive platform engineered prioritizing speed and agility, leaving its structural joints somewhat fragile under extreme loads. Under this colossal kinetic impact, the frontal chassis of the central Striker disintegrated on the spot!

Nor was the devastation confined to the lead machine: the two flanking Strikers caught in the peripheral arc were violently swept aside as their blades struck the impenetrable tower shield, the monstrous shockwave dislocating their wrist actuators instantly!

Having pulverized the vanguard, Richie dropped into a fluid roll, his right leg sweeping outward like a scythe!

He had drilled this combination countless times. When scheming to assassinate Yarno, he had configured an elite Honor squad as his theoretical target; if this sequence could dismantle an Honor squad, crushing ordinary knights was trivial.

The sweep was devastatingly violent, the wind whipped up by the armored limb gouging a deep, circular trench into the earth!

Another violent crash echoed as two more Strikers were swept off their feet, crashing heavily onto the turf.

The remaining two Strikers had been positioned further back and managed to react in time. Seeing that devastating metal leg sweeping toward them, both pilots leapt high into the air simultaneously.

Their reflexes were commendable, but Richie's anticipation was swifter. When assembling this combat sequence, he had factored in every conceivable evasive reaction.

With a flick of his arm, he swung the massive tower shield.

The ring of saw-toothed flame blade-wheels mounted along the shield's perimeter detached, rocketing skyward like a screaming chakram toward one of the airborne knights!

Suspended mid-air without leverage, dodging was impossible unless one could fly like Richie. The pilot understood this, desperately swinging her greatsword downward to parry the spinning blade!

Another horrific shriek of splintering steel erupted. The blade-wheel measured an inch at its thickest edge, weighing five hundred kilograms; propelled by Richie's monstrous torque, a massive waraxe might have deflected it slightly, but a knightly greatsword was far too flimsy!

The greatsword shattered into flying shards. The razor-toothed chakram slammed into the Striker's chest, its serrated teeth screaming as they bit violently into the forged steel plating in a blinding shower of sparks!

The sparks flared and died in a fraction of a second. The chakram met slight resistance, yet sheared straight through, rocketing dozens of meters into the distance. Behind it, the bisected Striker plummeted from the heavens, crashing heavily onto the blood-soaked soil.

One pulverized, two swept off their feet, and one bisected mid-air—Richie pivoted toward the sole remaining Striker.

The surviving pilot was utterly paralyzed with terror. The horrifying lethality of the Wisdom King transcended her wildest nightmares; she began to wonder whether this was one of those mythical 'Super Battle Armors'. Seeing Richie advance, she retreated frantically in reverse, not even daring to turn her back for fear of that phantom-like speed.

Four out of five machines destroyed in the span of breaths! The remaining infiltrators were gripped by profound shock. They had originally operated in two prongs, the second intended to strike Manu'em's guards and liberate the trapped mole; now, that mission was entirely abandoned.

"This machine's speed and torque are monstrous! Do not engage in close quarters!" the retreating pilot screamed over the comms.

Her warning was redundant; the others had witnessed the slaughter and scattered outward to maintain distance.

Seeing hostile reinforcements materialize and fan out, four of them flanking his perimeter and slipping toward his rear quarters, Richie checked his forward momentum.

The Wisdom King was immensely formidable, but it was not omnipotent. In a direct head-on collision, he feared no machine, and close-quarters brawling was his domain. But once encircled and pelted from range, severe vulnerabilities emerged: the Wisdom King's defense relied entirely on its forward shield, while its armor plating was relatively thin, doubling as the internal load-bearing skeleton. Any structural penetration would be catastrophic.

Though he halted his pursuit, Richie had no intention of retreating. This was friendly territory; he could already see Manu'em's guards sprinting toward the fray. Furthermore, the red alert flare had been fired; within minutes, the Unicorn Guard or Velia's forces would arrive.

The infiltrators recognized this just as clearly. As dedicated intelligence operatives, they differed fundamentally from frontline assault knights; barring absolute necessity, they never fought to the death. More importantly, they now held vital intelligence regarding this new weapon; someone had to escape alive to deliver it.

With that priority, engaging in a protracted battle was off the table.

The flanking units held their distance, refusing to close in. Two pilots in the frontal arc pinned Richie down, while the rest dispersed to extract their downed comrades.

Richie could only watch vigilantly, not daring to overextend. This Wisdom King was merely an experimental testbed with numerous exposed conduits; his earlier dominance had relied entirely on the element of surprise.

The enemy's extraction was swift. The warped hatch of the central Striker was pried open, and when a blood-drenched female knight was dragged out, Richie fully appreciated the horrific reality of a two-hundred-ton kinetic collision.

The pilot was rescued, along with the telemetry recorder from the wreckage. Yet not all of them withdrew—four Strikers remained behind, positioned at his front, rear, left, and right.

Richie sensed imminent disaster.

Just as he feared, the four remaining Strikers converged on him simultaneously!

Richie dared not flee; turning would expose his unshielded back to lethal thrusts.

He charged straight toward the Striker on his right!

The Wisdom King was blisteringly fast, and with both machines closing at full throttle, they collided in a heartbeat. Yet to Richie's utter astonishment, his strike hit empty air—his opponent neither blocked nor fled, but deliberately threw herself flat against the ground!

A long-forgotten chill flooded Richie's heart: the cold breath of imminent death.

A blinding white flash erupted before his eyes. In an instant, the world turned radiant white, followed immediately by pitch-black void.

The deafening roar of the detonation shattered his hearing, yet beneath the numbness, he knew he was still alive.

The colossal tower shield was massive enough to cover everything above his knees. Consequently, the blast had devastated only the lower limbs of the armor, alongside destroying sensitive instruments like optical viewfinders and acoustic sensors.

His 'eyes' were blinded, his 'ears' deafened, yet Richie remained acutely aware of the battlefield. He had his sensory 'field', enveloping everything within fifty meters!

He felt the violent tremors in the earth; he sensed the three remaining Strikers lunging toward his crippled machine.

The blood throughout Richie's veins surged as if boiling. The proximity of death terrified him, yet simultaneously ignited a wild, intoxicating euphoria.

He finally understood what Miss Dana had meant when she told him that dying in battle was not a tragedy.

For a knight, the greatest tragedy was withering away on a sickbed; that was no death for a warrior.

In the past, his first instinct would have been devising an escape. But in this moment, he wanted nothing more than to fight to the absolute finish.

Bracing the tower shield firmly against his right shoulder, he dropped his center of gravity low. Having suffered once, he would not grant his foes a second opening, and with damaged legs, initiating an offensive was impossible anyway.

Fifty meters was a negligible distance for charging war machines; the three Strikers closed the gap virtually in unison.

Richie executed a sharp roll along the ground, sliding directly beneath the feet of the lead Striker!

Earlier, he had suffered from maintaining too high a center of gravity, leaving his lower frame vulnerable; now, he turned that exact lesson against his enemy.

The opposing knight had clearly not anticipated this maneuver, yet she pressed the self-destruct trigger without a shred of hesitation.

However, self-destruction required time: between pressing the trigger and detonation lay a delay of approximately one second. For Richie, that second was an eternity.

With a ferocious upward shove, he launched the Striker skyward, directly into the flight path of the other two converging machines!

A blinding fireball blossomed mid-air between Richie and the charging Strikers, the explosive shockwave rippling through the earth like seismic waves!

In an instant, both Strikers were torn to shreds within the inferno, dissolving into a shower of molten shrapnel.

The previous blast had already pulverized the soil, and this second detonation kicked up a colossal plume of dust and smoke into the heavens.

When the swirling dust finally settled, only the Wisdom King remained, half-kneeling on the scorched earth. Though smothered beneath a thick layer of soot and debris, its armored hull stood unbroken.

Richie exhaled a long, heavy breath, settling into a cross-legged position within the cockpit as the tower shield settled back onto its mounts.

He reflected on the sensation from moments ago.

In that split second of mortal peril, he felt as though something slumbering deep within his soul had finally awakened.

What had awakened was his true identity as a knight.

Knights were beings born to battle, and born to die in battle. The battlefield was their stage, and the battlefield was their ultimate resting place.