Rogue stirred awake, the rough wooden ceiling of the cart slowly coming into focus. The gentle swaying beneath him told him he was inside a carriage. A particularly violent jolt sent pain radiating through his battered body, forcing a loud groan from his lips.

With a snap, the curtain over the window was swept aside, revealing Ete’s broad face. "Awake, Rogue?"

"Where am I? How long have I been out? Damn this wretched cart—and this road! Are we driving over rice paddies?!"

"Patience. Two more hours and we’ll be back at Faerburg. There, a priest will tend to you. For now, we’ve only the potions we brought to keep your wounds sealed. You’re tougher than you look—cooked nearly to perfection, almost dinner for the lads tonight. Heh, heh." Ete grinned, clearly amused.

"Damn it, we’re one priest short. Next time, we’ll drag one along if we have to. Fess’s potions are garbage! They’re killing me. If his brews were half as good as his magic weapons... How’d the fight go?"

"Four more lads wounded besides you, all bad. Never thought a mere cavalry patrol would be this fierce." Ete shook his head. "We hit the jackpot. It was the Ice Silver Fox Mercenary Group—specifically, their elite Snow Fox Battalion. Three hundred strong, ten times our number. That lieutenant of theirs? Nearly a mid-tier knight. Thank the gods he had the brains of a turnip—challenged Kait to single combat. Fraggio put an arrow right in his backside before he could blink."

That day in the jungle, the patrol captain had been seized from the shadows and endured several rounds of interRogueation. When Lance stripped him bare and smeared honey on his privates, then shoved him near an anthill, the truth came spilling out in minutes.

After seizing the small Cyrus Castle, the Snow Fox Battalion had sealed off the lord’s manor and conscripted over a hundred laborers from the vicinity. Day and night, they dug relentlessly within. But the mission was tightly guarded; even a patrol captain hadn’t clearance for its secrets. When Lance dumped another handful of ants onto the captain’s already lacerated flesh, he shrieked: "I’ll talk! I’ll talk! They say the previous lord enshrined a necromancer here—this lab’s supposedly his!" After demanding water, the captain confirmed nothing more under repeated questioning. A swift slash of Lance’s dagger ended his suffering.

With multiple men critically injured and Rogue—their only wizard—reduced to a roasted pig, thirty fighters stood little chance against a full assault. The disgraced nobles quickly cut their losses. Four months remained until their deadline; there was time yet. The expedition hadn’t been wasted—they’d learned their strength lagged far behind the Snow Fox Battalion’s. As for spoils? "Pah! Elite unit of a top-tier mercenary company, yet poorer than beggars. All they had was junk!" Kait, tasked with looting the battlefield, cursed without a knight’s dignity.

The middle-aged priest healing Rogue at Faerburg’s chapel seemed unremarkable. Only after seven Healing spells did Rogue’s wounds mend. The portly Rogueue sprang from the bed, full of vigor, and shoved two gold coins into the priest’s hand. Ignoring the tide of flattery behind him, he bolted out—he instinctively loathed such places, only tolerating them for the priests’ unmatched healing.

Night fell. The disgraced nobles gathered again at "Lyon Night," Faerburg’s most opulent haunt—a veritable Shangri-La where gold flowed like water. From wine to companions, Lyon Night claimed to offer Faerburg’s finest. Ordinary folk couldn’t dream of affording it, but merchants and nobles from every corner kept its halls bustling.

Soaring like a six-story tower despite its three floors, Lyon Night dominated a broad plaza. By night, the square brimmed with lavish carriages. Before its entrance stood a five-meter-diameter magic fountain, its waters jetting skyward in a glittering arc before scattering five meters high. Suspended above the mist, a perpetual violet flame burned. Beneath the pool, a grand magic array cast rainbow-hued light onto the spray, weaving an aura of romance and mystery. The array alone devoured staggering sums daily. Through the four-meter-tall doors, the gilded lobby shimmered under enchanted radiance, every surface dipped in golden luminescence. Artifacts from distant lands adorned the halls. The second floor housed private chambers, each styled after a major continental nation’s aesthetic—cradles of conspiracy and clandestine affairs. The third held a larger hall where weekend slave auctions thrived, alongside occasional grand events.

Slavery existed to varying degrees across Gloria Continent. Captives of war, rebels, and even intelligent races like Dwarves, Elves, Orcs, and Dragonkin often became slaves. Humans frequently warred with other races, though conflicts between human kingdoms were far more common. Most human nations welcomed other intelligent races internally, per the Church of Light’s doctrine: humanity was the Creator’s favored child, yet all races shared divine origin. Most slaves labored as common toilers; Lyon Night’s auctioned stock, however, was never so lowly. Rogue had purchased Jin and his apprentices here.

Since "Hammer of the War God" began flourishing, Rogue and his companions frequented Lyon Night. These disgraced nobles—lesser scions compared to powerful, pure-blooded aristocrats—now reeked of newfound wealth, Rogue most of all. Even Fraggio couldn’t resist, casually remarking to outsiders, "Ugh, stayed too late at Lyon Night last night—still can’t shake the fatigue," then savoring the envy in their eyes.

Now, the group slumped dispiritedly in a corner of the lobby. The second floor remained reserved for the extravagantly wealthy or influential; they weren’t quite there yet.

"Bone wizards’ trinkets—I’ll never grasp why anyone’d risk three hundred men for them. Damn foxes may be penniless, but their skill’s no joke!" Ete sighed heavily.

"Three hundred! What can we do? With thirty fighters, we’d need six hundred. Our coffers barely cover a hundred’s gear." Kait scowled.

"Money’s not the worst. If we fail, we’ll never curry favor with the Duke of Bavaria."

"Don’t despair! We killed their wizard—and no low-tier one either. A mercenary battalion might have just one or two. Now they’re the ones fearing us! Six riders and a mage, gone. They’re probably panicking in circles. Hahaha." Rogue glanced around. No one laughed. He trailed off into a Heh, heh.

"We can’t let this slide!" Kait suddenly surged forward. "My father’s bled for decades—military strategy, battlefield prowess, where did he falter? Only a baron, stuck as deputy commander of the city guard for fifteen years! A fifteenth-tier Light Knight! While Chambers, that fat sow, sits as commander because he’s an earl and the war minister’s nephew. If he’d half the skill of an eighth-tier knight, I’d lick his son’s boots! We can’t waste this chance. To rise above, we must risk everything!"

"You’re lucky. At least you’ll inherit a barony. My father’s stagnated under yours for ten years—he won’t even leave me his title. We strut like nobles, yet live like beggars. In the capital, we’d fight over who got to bed a common girl. Without Rogue’s brains founding 'Hammer of the War God,' we’d gawk at places like this from outside. Lyon Night? Never."

Fraggio cut through their whining. "Enough! When did you complain about status while chasing town girls? Kait, rejoice—you and your father aren’t branded Dark Knights. This chance won’t return. Whatever Ophirock sees in us, succeeding hooks us to the Duke of Bavaria. Let’s plan our next move!"

Rogue drained his cup, inspiration striking. "Recruit heavily. Take all we can get—no need for fancy gear this time. Just better than those beggars. Focus on quality weapons; fewer horses. Three hundred’s doable. Kait, Ete—you two train these louts hard for two months. That mercenary lot’s broke; maybe one more wizard tops. We’ll bring Fess. With his gear, dispatching their mage’s a given. 'Hammer of the War God' can churn out basics for now."

Lance’s hand lingered on a passing waitress, tracking her until she vanished backstage. "We won’t face them head-on. Outnumbered? We run. Isolated targets? Surround them. Eventually, they’ll bolt from their shell. We’ll hire trap-setters from the Thieves’ Guild, lure them in, and let them taste our hospitality. Stock up on crossbows—bows are clumsy, but shortbows work. With those mercenaries’ shoddy armor-piercing, they’ll weep. And crossbow bolts must be infused with paralyzing poison."

Revived, the group schemed with grim delight. Ambushes, poison, pitfalls, tripwires, threats, playing dead to feign surrender—their arsenal of treachery grew by the minute.

Dawn’s first light found them exchanging Heh, heh laughs, drawing wary glances from every patron.

"The Dragon and Beauty" mercenary company soon became Faerburg’s talk. Recruiting two hundred fighters caused a modest stir. Despite the tacky name, seasoned veterans and military ruffians joined—united, it seemed, by shared tastes in companions. In the Thieves’ Guild’s training ground, Lance drilled twenty elite thieves relentlessly. Years earlier, hunted by mercenaries in the capital, he’d shed his sloth; survival mattered more. Now he embraced his innate thief’s calling—nothing suited his shadowed soul like felling foes with traps and hidden blades. And no profession excelled at spying.

Lord Vennington, hearing of the disgraced nobles’ exploits, stayed silent. Yet the next day, his fifty personal Heavy Lancers resigned from military service to join the company. Kait handpicked a hundred from the mercenaries, equipping them with warhorses, steel-link mail, and halberds to form semi-light Halberd Cavalry. For two months, Kait trained alongside them daily.

The remaining two hundred fell to Ete’s command. Having dabbled in countless roles, Ete now aimed to become a Spellsword—making him ideal for infantry training.

As for Fraggio? He murmured, "My life is art," then vanished designing the company’s banner and Emblem. The group fumed—until they stumbled upon him one day, buried in practice with an estoc against a dummy target. Every thrust landed precisely in gaps in armor: eyes, wrists, legs, even more delicate zones. Scalps prickled, especially Kait’s as a knight. Fraggio’s family swordsmanship, famed for footwork and precision, now paired with this vicious style, multiplied its lethality. Recalling Fess’s recent gift—a fine estoc laced with electric paralysis—they shuddered anew. Poison? Trivial; everyone did it.

Rogue oscillated between meditation and Fess’s workshop, refining magic. Occasionally, he’d don full armor and swing axes with Ete’s troops.

In the lab, Rogue chanted softly. As smoke cleared, Vanna stood before him. Now she gripped a longsword in her right hand and a shabby shield in her left—far more imposing, especially beside a Necromancer’s skeletal troops. Rogue still puzzled over her gear’s origin. When he’d given her new equipment, she’d swap it willingly. But once banished to The Otherworld, the items were abandoned. Next summoning? Always the same sword, the same broken shield.

Fess, brought in, was equally baffled—his knowledge of Necromancy barely scratched the surface. On Gloria Continent, magic was strictly tiered, though school distinctions blurred. Masters of one discipline often cast spells from others, save for diametrically opposed arts. Most mid-tier wizards could summon a few skeletons if pressed—but poorly. Practicality was limited; three trained soldiers could handle two or three skeletons. True Necromancers, having pledged themselves to Death and transformed into undead, wielded vastly amplified powers. Corrupted by death’s taint, they grew fanatical and cruel—save rare Archmages who retained sanity. Curses from Necromancy and Dark Arts proved devastating in war, so rulers often tolerated such mages, banning only undead Necromancers. This leniency owed much to Ophirock’s legacy; after him, the Church of Light hunted Necromancers relentlessly, nearly eradicating them over twenty years.

Vanna’s key difference from common skeletons was her intelligence. Rogue didn’t know how he sensed this—the damned Necromancer had left scant magical knowledge, especially nothing of his vault. Whenever Rogue stared at Vanna, he felt her studying him back. Man and skeleton would lock gazes for long minutes, silent and still.

During rare breaks, Rogue, under Fess’s guidance, painstakingly upgraded his gear. Flush with gold now, he wore four potent magic-amplifying rings on his fingers. Mastering mental control over magic, he’d grown adept—despite being a fifth-tier mage capable of only one third-tier spell, he now cast three effortlessly. His obsession wasn’t the popular Fireball, but the Haste spell. Through repeated trials, he’d trimmed redundant syllables, shortening incantation time by a third.

As summer’s heat faded, the disgraced nobles’ strength grew steadily. "Dragon and Beauty" took shape. Lord Vennington observed their training in secret, then gave Kait a silent nod. With the deadline looming, restlessness stirred. As Lance honed his skills, his thieves’ recon missions to Cyrus Castle’s outskirts yielded vital intel—though Faerburg’s thefts rose slightly. No one knew how vast the Necromancer’s ruins were; they’d dug for over half a year and still hadn’t finished.

Facing a formidable foe, the nobles unusually avoided trouble, training rigorously instead. Their underhanded tactics—poisoned blades—stayed hidden. In public brawls, they fought with knightly honor, one-on-one. Though tempted to gang up, they maintained noble decorum before crowds.

Even as proper ladies, they still had to uphold the Memorial Arch.