Am I Fighting Kal'tsit? Seriously?

"Either become a campaigning knight. I might die on the battlefield, but in return, my abilities won't be displayed before the Commercial Union and turned into their golden trademark, completely tarnishing my family's title—once everything is made into entertainment and reduced to labels, no matter how glorious this family's past was, it will eventually become nothing more than idle chatter and mockery after people's meals."

His voice slowly drifted away with the wind, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.

"Yet even so, my father still didn't want to trade his hollow dignity for my future. He wanted to compromise. In the end, though, I refused him."

"Heh... because none of this matters to me."

Gerald spoke each word deliberately.

"After all, I was already planning to go to the battlefield that belonged to me."

Return Home

Overall, Kazimierz began as an alliance of territorial nobles before transitioning into a republican system. Its governing core was coordinated and managed by the Arbitration Council, later expanding into military rule.

The Arbitration Council was primarily composed of knights, responsible for governance and decision-making while maintaining both military and political authority.

The National Assembly was Kazimierz's legislative and judicial core, though some of its authority had also been taken over by the Arbitration Council. Meanwhile, the Commercial Union gradually took control of the nation's economic activities, replacing the traditional nobility's position of control.

They appeared opposed, but in the end, they were all part of the same family.

Only one other group stood in opposition to all of them—the nobility.

"That's perfectly normal. If I were in their position, I might have made a similar choice."

Gerald didn't care much about what his status among them had been. "But clearly, their 'equal treatment' went a little too far. Especially considering how several generations of my family died on the battlefield, it can't help but feel like they were throwing us away once we'd outlived our usefulness."

"But if you look at my father, it feels as though they hadn't exactly done anything wrong. He relied on the family's old reputation for political socializing, yet lacked sensitivity and would occasionally do things that made them shudder. Compared to that, they probably preferred us to live ordinary, aimless lives with more money than we could ever spend."

Saria had been listening in silence. Only during this pause did she seize the chance to ask her question. "So that's why you became a campaigning knight at fourteen?"

"Sometimes I read history. I've also seen some history firsthand, Saria."

Gerald lowered his gaze slightly, imagining the feel of a sword in his hand. "Commerce and finance are the foundation supporting everything in Kazimierz. The vast flow of capital is this nation's blood."

"Healthcare, education, transportation, agriculture—all of it is provided to society by contracted companies. Nearly everyone I know who understands even a little economics believes that Kazimierz's unstable social state will collapse one day."

"And the only thing that can overcome that instability is the power of an individual. Knight competitions couldn't give me that, but the battlefield could."

He crossed a chaotic sea, became an embryo, then spent his first three years in a daze. The memories and wisdom in his mind were bound by a tiny head, until he gradually grew up and became aware of Originium Arts—

Of course, he had been more willing to approach this unknown thing he had never seen before.

Having already died once, what could death possibly mean to him?

"So, I became a campaigning knight."

The wind swept past once more, making the hem of his clothes sway faintly. He turned around, slowly placed a hand against the wall behind him, and leaned back slightly.

"I voluntarily applied for the harshest training, did the dirtiest and most exhausting work, and accelerated every moment of my life as much as possible—fast enough that I could slightly influence the course of the future before becoming an adult."

"At least that way, my father could more or less break free of that hollow pandering and find other hobbies... painting, novels. And I wouldn't need to hold anything back over what I wanted to do. I could simply focus on improving myself."

"Fortunately, my family's past glory wasn't just decoration. My relatives' old comrades had always supported and helped me, allowing me to become one of the Silverlance Pegasi before I came of age."

That single sentence brought every movement Saria had been making to a halt.

Even for most people who loved modern knight culture, the term [Silverlance Pegasi] would probably be unfamiliar. After all, only the most fanatical fans would trace the real-world remnants of its existence.

Then, the instant they tried to enter a Kazimierz military base, they'd be arrested and thrown into a cell to spend the rest of their lives in peace.

But for Saria, who had dealt with Columbia's politics—or rather, had been drawn into them herself—she had heard the name Silverlance Pegasi before.

One term summarized it all.

The pinnacle of Kazimierz.

"But unfortunately, my lance wasn't as good as my sword. Besides, you've seen my Originium Arts." Gerald shrugged. "Operating alongside a group of Silverlance Pegasi required coordination. You had to sand down your own strengths and edges, then combine them into one complete, invincible lance."

He paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts. "At the time... let's call her my direct superior. She was a grandmaster who had survived the most brutal battlefields of the past, and she wanted me to join a campaigning knight corps responsible for decapitation strikes."

"Of course, I was more than willing. Like pulling down enemy banners and breaking their formations on the battlefield, I'd be facing true aces and powerful opponents. My wind made me unmatched at both raids and escapes. The army gained military merit, and I gained experience. You couldn't call it anything but the most suitable choice."

The Vouivre, who had listened all along, quickly understood what that meant. "But it was dangerous. Your superior should have known that too."

"She did, but she herself was only a symbol beneath Kazimierz's banner. The part of her that belonged to herself had little influence over such matters."

Gerald shook his head lightly.

"Whether it was Ursus, which had suffered a crushing defeat in the Battle of Bloodpeak and ushered in the Great Rebellion, or Kazimierz, glamorous on the surface but hollow within, both needed battlefield victories from time to time to remind their citizens that their nations remained invincible in war."

"To outsiders, we were sacrifices, disposable tools, bayonets destined to clash with Ursus's remaining forces. But within the army, we were vanguards responsible for relaying intelligence, death squads tasked with decapitation strikes, and allies capable of reducing casualties most effectively."

"Ah, perhaps my superior had other thoughts. I could tell she wanted me to earn more military merit through a less dangerous method, but she ultimately failed."

Gerald gave a derisive snort. "After all, in some people's eyes, I still had a noble title frozen in place. If [Long Rider] died on the battlefield, they would naturally have a legitimate reason to strip my family of its title."

"So I quickly found a method that could train a person very well—stay alive, then bring every single one of my comrades back to the place we'd come from."

"..."

His words gradually faded into the howling wind at the end of the corridor.

"I failed."

"The last time we set foot on a battlefield, we ran headlong into the Emperor's Blades—the Inner Guards of Ursus."

"—There were three of them."

Gerald said nothing more.

His thoughts seemed to have been dragged back to the battlefield years ago. His expression was calm, but his clenched fist constantly spoke of the fury in his heart.

The rest of the story wasn't difficult to guess.

A family that had lost [Long Rider] could only meet one ending, and a half-year gap was more than enough time for those with ulterior motives to make many things happen.

She hadn't heard of any major incident occurring in Kazimierz two years ago. Perhaps it had been covered up... after all, the lingering execution described in Columbia's files had already allowed her a glimpse into the past.

She should no longer touch any of his wounds.

"Do you hate Kazimierz?" Saria suddenly asked.

Hearing his friend's question, Gerald slowly stepped forward and gently touched the railing before him.

"Hate? That brings nothing, because Kazimierz is only a symbol. Hating a symbol is empty, Saria."

"I've already achieved the revenge I wanted, though I was more badly hurt for it than I'd imagined."

He smiled as if it didn't matter. "Several times, I nearly got caught in Originium bombs they'd planted in advance. Those were truly dangerous moments. But they were all people who'd never seen a battlefield. All I had to do was find my targets and let them die in the most painful way possible."

"This prison isn't my cage. By the second year, my injuries were nearly healed. I have Duma to thank for that. Otherwise, I really don't know whether I could have recovered from the wounds the Inner Guards left me. I should also thank myself for not taking even one hit from their Dominion. Otherwise, I'd have long since been reduced to ashes somewhere else."

"But wanderers always have to return home. Everything I traded my time and years for wasn't so I could kneel at the feet of the Arbitration Council and the Commercial Union, continuing to be their dog."

A longsword formed beside his hand.

"—Kazimierz needs to give me an explanation."

"Even if that explanation's ending will always be unsatisfactory."

Mansfield's Last Day

Ten days passed in the blink of an eye, and soon the final day arrived.

During that time, Saria didn't act according to her usual habits. Since Jesselton had already blended in among the prison guards, her best choice now was to minimize contact with Gerald and avoid doing anything conspicuous.

Robin would use the time during medicine changes to visit the morgue, where she would open a route from the infirmary into Mansfield's underground structure. According to Duma, the prison had many abandoned structures left over from its construction. Through those places, they could reach the prison's docking area.

From time to time, Kafka exchanged information about the prison's current state with Mina—the Liberi intern who had provided them with the blueprints.

Having Mina check the camera locations with her in the surveillance room wasn't meaningless. Compared to the others, a former Columbia gang member was clearly much more familiar with those details.

Once the breakout began, neither Gerald nor Saria could accompany them out of Mansfield. After reaching the underground passage beneath the morgue, the rest of the rendezvous would have to be completed by them alone. The Originium Arts left on them would come in handy.

During this period, Anthony and Duma still maintained their original routines. One quietly remained in his cell reading, while the other treated the prison's inmates and worked her final shift.

Thinking about it, Duma had been a doctor in prison ever since she was born. She had learned everything she could and treated people to the best of her ability, yet Mansfield only paid her a token salary. It really was something worth thinking about.

But those days had come to an end. Starting today, she would no longer need to think about those so-called meanings. She would have enough time to witness everything outside with her own eyes.

The calm ten days were no different from any ordinary day, and Ticarondo appeared before them as scheduled.

The prison break had begun.

This cleaning crew heading into C Section was unusually noisy and boisterous.

That was probably due to the personality of the guard leading them. Fortunately, this talkative fellow—the brother who had survived the attempt on Anthony's life in C Section last time—had once again been assigned the job of leading prisoners to clean, bringing a bit of entertainment to his otherwise idle supervision duty.

Similar to the group from that assassination attempt were the Vouivre at the front, Kafka hiding behind the Vouivre, and Robin, whose bandaged leg required Kafka to lend her a hand.

"Well, damn, you lot." As they walked, the guard who had just been intimidating another prisoner turned around and immediately spotted Robin and Kafka hiding in the group. "Why's it you two again?"

"Come on, brother, this is only the second time we've met. Isn't 'again' a little much?"

Kafka chuckled. "You're making it sound like we're bad luck charms. That's not very nice."

"You'd better be." The guard sighed. Ever since entering C Section two minutes earlier, he had felt his right eyelid twitching nonstop, and his head had begun to ache faintly.

When those two familiar cells appeared before them, the guard at the front, who had been grinning moments earlier, stopped again. He turned around and swept the group with a cold gaze.

His voice echoed through the empty corridor. "Your task is simple. Clean the cells properly, and don't cause me any trouble. If anyone tries to slack off or do anything unnecessary..."

Bang!

This time, what landed on his head was a heavy punch—the "standard" product of Columbia's Rhine Lab, Saria's Hand. The record holder of the Defense Division's punching machine to this day, it possessed perfectly exceptional power and stun duration.

With a swipe of the keycard against the wall, the cell doors opened as well.

What approached the prisoners now were two hulking brutes. With their outstanding combat ability and exceptional physiques, they would surely leave these "worldly innocent" prisoners with an unforgettable memory—especially when fists pressed against their chins and the flashes of their lives ran through their minds.

"Sorry, brother." Kafka clasped her hands together and observed a second of silence for the guard lying on the floor. "At least I wasn't the one who hit you. Rest in peace."

"He's not dead. Why're you cursing him for no reason?"

Gerald used the wind to roll the guard's clothes from the floor into a bundle, stripped off his own clothes, tossed them into the cell, then threw the removed uniform to Anthony. "See if it fits."

"...Using Originium Arts for something like this is really extravagant."

"Got to consider our ladies' feelings." Gerald answered casually.

Anthony sighed and compared the size of the uniform. "It should work if I squeeze into it. Shall we proceed according to plan?"

Gerald glanced at the camera overhead and nodded. "We'll follow the plan. This guard will lead you to the connection between the tower and the underground levels. I'll go to the top floor and lower C Section's tower, then find Duma as quickly as possible. Once the floor loses power, leave through the tunnel immediately."

After saying that, he was about to turn and leave, but Anthony silently stopped him.

"What is it?"

Gerald looked up to see Anthony set the guard's uniform aside. The man extended his furry hand and patted him on the shoulder.

"Take care, brother."

"We'll meet again someday."

Anthony spoke in a low voice.

Not see you later, nor see you again after returning to Columbia.

But [we'll meet again someday].

The Pegasus, who had been about to leave, froze for a moment and wanted to say something. Yet when he saw that familiar resolve in the other's eyes, the words he had imagined gradually settled back into his heart. In the end, only a few words left his mouth.

"Mm. You take care too, brother."

He answered briefly, extended his fist, and tapped it against the hand resting on his shoulder.

Then he turned and sprinted toward the elevator shaft, vanishing from everyone's sight in an instant.

Without looking back.

Xiao Jie, Do You Think Your Sister Can't Pour Her Own Water? (4K)

The instant Gerald left C Section, the shackles on his hands shattered into fine powder with a sweep of wind blades.

Over the past two years, he had never run at full speed in reality. But when he finally broke into a sprint, the sensation was no different from his dreams—if anything, it was even better than when he had pushed himself to the limit on the battlefield.

Was this transformation brought by his dreams, or had the piece of cloth on his shoulder and the ornament on his chest given him new strength?