The black cloth didn't darkened the world.

Through the Eye of Insight, the land no longer appeared as it truly was, but as layers of monochrome interference–muted, restrained, filtered through shadow. Kiaria lowered himself and pressed his ring-wearing hand to the ground.

The touch was deliberate.

The Yaksha Ring responded.

A faint pulse spread outward, and from within the ring, Fei emerged. Her form did not fully manifest, yet her antennae extended, vibrating sharply as they resonated with the land.

Within seconds, motion across nearly half a mile was mapped.

Every disturbance.

Every absence.

Every unnatural stillness.

Fei vibrated her antennae again.

The waves did not travel outward.

They traveled inward–directly toward their King.

Kiaria stiffened.

For the first time, without study or preparation, the vibration resolved itself into meaning. He understood the message without translation, without learning.

It was not language.

It was recognition.

He straightened and closed his thumb into his palm, wrapping the four remaining fingers around the ring to form a fist. The gesture carried intent–an instinctive royal signal.

Thank you. Step back.

Fei's antennae stilled.

She withdrew instantly, dissolving back into the ring without a trace.

Kiaria turned toward Hylisi.

"Lady Hylisi," he asked calmly, "in your memories–did the fortress look like this?"

He gestured lightly toward the silent structure.

"No guards. Two watchtowers. An arch-shaped fortress. Did you feel something was off as well?"

Hylisi's expression tightened.

"This is the location," she said slowly. "But this is not how it was."

She hesitated, then shook her head faintly.

"And you shouldn't rely on my memories too much. I haven't been in contact with this place for years. Things can change annually."

Her gaze moved toward the empty entrance.

"But there is something that should not have changed," she continued. "There was always an open medicine trade here. A registration patrol camp stationed at the entrance."

Her voice hardened.

"That was an official rule. Unchangeable."

She exhaled quietly.

"And yet, there is nothing."

Kiaria nodded.

"That confirms the Queen's warning," he said.

He turned toward the Chief.

"Chief," Kiaria continued, "begin now."

His gaze swept the surroundings once more.

"I've confirmed that no entity is observing us. None of us are currently inside any active formation either."

A pause.

"Let's proceed."

"As you wish, Patron," the Chief replied.

Kiaria reached out spiritually.

The Evil Spider responded instantly.

A concealment domain unfurled in silence–black, dense, circular. Energy vanished within it, severed from external detection. From the outside, nothing appeared altered.

Inside the circle, the Chief stepped forward.

His martial soul manifested.

The Silver Snow Hawk emerged, wings unfurling as frost-white feathers shimmered into existence. Before the Chief, an Empty Scroll levitated, blank and unmarked.

The Hawk plucked one of its own feathers with its beak.

The feather softened, reshaped, and sharpened–transforming into a feather pen. The martial soul liquefied and condensed into the pen's tip, stabilizing it.

The Chief began to write.

First–Orswae Motion-Sensing Inscription.

Then above it–Huan Ling Butterfly Inscription.

And finally–Orswae Yinxing Inscription layered atop both.

Three inscriptions.

One above another.

The process took twenty-five minutes.

Sweat beaded along the Chief's brow as he completed the final stroke. He inhaled deeply.

The feather pen vanished.

The inscriptions did not sink into the scroll.

Instead, they lifted.

The symbols detached from the surface and began circling the Empty Scroll, rotating in controlled orbits. The Orswae Motion-Sensing Inscription merged with Orswae Yinxing, their structures interlocking.

Then the combined formation integrated with the Huan Ling Butterfly Inscription.

The result condensed.

Compressed.

Refined.

The layered inscriptions collapsed into a dense, micro-drawn inscription array–intricate beyond normal perception.

The transformation completed.

The inscription dissolved into the scroll.

The scroll folded.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Paper became form.

A living origami butterfly emerged–small, transparent, its wings refracting the world around it. Two pupils shimmered faintly within its eyes, mirroring the Chief's martial soul.

The Chief's vision shifted.

He was now seeing through the butterfly.

Without hesitation, it took flight.

It did not approach the entrance directly.

Instead, it drifted toward the fortress walls, searching for fractures, seams, and openings–any place where the world had already been broken.

A silent enchantment settled over the butterfly.

The concealment technique of the Evil Spider activated fully, erasing not only presence but spiritual footprint. To formations, to senses, to instinct itself, the butterfly ceased to exist.

It circled the fortress fence once.

Then twice.

Then three times.

By the fourth circuit, no breach revealed itself. No crack. No flaw. No neglected seam. The fence was perfect–too perfect.

There was no choice left.

The butterfly drifted toward the entrance.

Before it could reach the gate, a sudden current of air surged outward. The shift was slight, almost imperceptible, but enough to disrupt the butterfly's balance. Its wings faltered for a fraction of a second.

That was enough.

The airflow twisted sharply and vanished into a coin-sized hole near the base of the fence, close to the entrance frame. The suction pulled the surrounding air inward–and the butterfly with it.

The hole was not small.

Inside, space stretched unnaturally.

The butterfly was drawn into a narrow spatial passage, a hidden wormhole embedded within the fence itself. Wind roared through it endlessly, not violently, but relentlessly.

The butterfly did not fight the flow.

It followed it.

For nearly an hour, it flapped its wings continuously–not to escape, but to stabilize itself as the tunnel carried it forward. Space folded and unfolded around it, direction losing meaning.

Then–

The pressure released.

The butterfly emerged.

It had entered the true Mainland Guardian Association.

The exterior had been deception.

Inside, the world expanded grotesquely.

The space was vast–far wider than the fortress walls should have allowed–and chaotically structured. What greeted the butterfly was not order, but sprawl.

The entrance stood unguarded.

No sentries.

No patrols.

Instead, tents filled the space.

Rows of them.

Near the entrance and along the fence line stood large, well-constructed tents–cloth reinforced with metal frames, decorated, guarded by wealth alone. Further inward, the tents deteriorated rapidly.

Bare ground.

Ragged coverings.

Improvised stalls.

Poverty bled outward from the center like rot.

The butterfly flapped gently and settled atop a piece of armor displayed inside one of the richer tents.

The armor was light.

Used.

Not ceremonial.

Through Hawk Eye Vision, spiritual remnants lingered faintly across its surface–echoes of previous wearers. None were alive. The armor had not been maintained, polished, or purified.

A man stepped forward.

His face was scarred deeply, the marks old and untreated.

Behind him, a rope dragged across the ground.

Seven women followed, bound together, their dresses torn and stained. Their heads were lowered. None dared look up.

"How much for this armor?" the man asked.

The merchant woman lifted the piece.

The butterfly drifted away, settling lightly onto the hair of one of the bound women.

"One slave," the merchant replied calmly. "Seven months."

The man scoffed.

"Seven months? Too much. Lower it."

The woman's expression did not change.

"One lady," she said. "Eight months."

He hesitated only briefly.

"Fine."

The exchange was made.

A girl was shoved forward.

"Hey," the man said abruptly. "I don't take little girls."

He turned and left, armor in hand.

The merchant's composure shattered.

She grabbed the girl by the hair and kicked her down hard.

"It's your fault," she snarled. "You ruined good business."

"You'll pay for it."

The girl collapsed.

As she fell, her face was revealed.

Half-human.

Half-demon.

A rabbit-girl.

Her ears trembled as she cried out, clutching her side in pain.

The butterfly lifted off silently.

It drifted upward and settled on a rope tying the tent structure.

Below it, an old man sat on the ground.

Broken ores.

Cracked materials.

Used scraps laid out on cloth.

No one stopped.

No one looked.

The butterfly watched.

And moved on.

The butterfly lifted from the rope.

Before it could rise, a turbulent current pressed it down again. The air within the fortress moved against nature–compressed, redirected, dragging everything toward the ground as if height itself were discouraged.

The butterfly yielded.

It dropped low, wings trembling, slipping through the crowd at knee level. Boots passed inches away. Chains scraped stone. Robes dragged across dust-darkened ground.

Feet moved constantly.

No rhythm.

No direction.

Only flow.

A man stumbled forward, pulling a bound figure behind him.

"Move," he muttered, jerking the chain.

Somewhere, the current carried the butterfly with them.

In its evasion, it failed to take in the whole at first. Bodies pressed close. Voices overlapped without coherence. The noise was not loud–just endless.

The butterfly flapped upward suddenly.

A tree trunk broke through the chaos–a single, weathered remnant left standing between tents and stone structures. Wind battered its wings as it struggled upward.

After several attempts, it settled on the bark.

From there, it looked.

Its vision widened.

Directly ahead stood a raised platform.

Iron bars enclosed it.

Cages lined its edges, stacked two levels high. Inside them–half-beast humanoids with dulled eyes, full beasts bound in suppressive collars, humans of unfamiliar tribes huddled together.

Women.

Children.

Men.

No separation.

A guard leaned on his spear below the platform, posture loose, attention unfocused. The butterfly drifted down and settled on the spearhead.

A voice rang out.

"This one," the auctioneer said, pointing.

"A boy. Medium-quality pill."

The crowd shifted.

Another voice called, "Two frostleaf bundles."

"No," the auctioneer replied. "One pill. Sealed."

A pause.

"Accepted."

The cage door opened.

Another call followed immediately.

"A girl. Three medium-quality pills."

Hands rose.

"Two pills and a vial."

"Rejected."

"Three pills," someone shouted.

The auctioneer nodded.

Chains rattled.

The tone changed.

"A man," the voice continued.

"Five high-grade pills."

A murmur passed through the crowd.

A woman laughed softly. "That's generous."

A scarred man spat. "He won't last long anyway."

Laughter followed.

Then–

"One woman," the auctioneer said.

"Three vials of top-tier pills."

Silence.

Then movement.

A wealthy-looking man lifted his hand slowly.

"Done."

The cage opened.

The butterfly lifted.

It left the stage behind.

The air shifted again, pushing it sideways into a narrower corridor formed by overlapping tents. Cloth brushed its wings as it passed.

Medicinal stalls lined the passage.

Bundles of herbs hung openly, drying unevenly. Pills were laid out in shallow trays–unsealed, some cracked, some discolored, others wrapped hastily in cloth.

The butterfly settled atop a small hanging chime.

It rang softly.

Below it, two merchants argued.

"This pill was stronger last month," one said.

"You're paying for access, not purity," the other replied.

A guard missing two fingers leaned against the stall.

"Price dropped?" he asked.

The merchant glanced at his uniform.

"No."

Behind him, a chained prisoner held a vial tightly, knuckles white.

"I only need one," he said. "Just one."

The merchant did not respond.

The chime rang again.

No patrol passed.

No authority intervened.

Trade continued.

The butterfly remained still.

And watched.

The butterfly remained suspended above the medicinal stalls.

Glass vials clinked softly as they were set down and lifted again. Labels were crude. Seals uneven. The aura leaking from them was thin, unstable.

A man leaned over a table, voice low.

"This one," he said, pointing. "What will it take?"

The merchant did not look up.

"Two mid-grade spirit herbs," she replied. "Or one low-tier beast core."

The man swallowed.

"I only have iron-bark roots."

"Then bring more," the merchant said flatly.

Behind him, a woman stepped forward, her hands trembling as she opened a small pouch.

"I have silver dust," she said. "Refined. Half vial."

The merchant glanced at it once.

"Not enough."

The woman hesitated.

"I can work," she said quickly. "Six months. Cleaning. Sorting."

The merchant's eyes shifted–not to her face, but past her.

"Who else?" she asked.

The woman turned slowly.

A boy stood behind her.

Thin.

Quiet.

The merchant nodded.

"Bring him," she said. "You get the medicine."

The exchange was immediate.

Ropes appeared. Hands pulled the boy away before he could speak. The vial slid across the table.

The butterfly lifted.

It drifted with the movement of the crowd, following the traded bodies as they were guided–not rushed, not resisted–toward the stage.

At the platform, voices overlapped.

"Two bundles of frostleaf for that one."

"Add a storage talisman."

"No."

"Then I'll take the smaller one."

A cage door opened.

A half-beast man was dragged out, collar glowing faintly as he struggled. The guard slammed the spear down, forcing him to kneel.

"Medium pill," the auctioneer announced.

"One body. No returns."

Hands rose.

The butterfly did not linger.

It turned away, drifting toward the open frontal area of the fortress.

The air thinned.

Stone replaced cloth.

Stretchers covered the ground.

Guards lay across them–some conscious, some barely breathing. Bandages soaked through. Armor discarded nearby, cracked and dented.

At their waists hung tokens.

Association tokens.

A woman pushed through the rows slowly, clutching a vial in both hands. She knelt beside a young guard whose leg was wrapped in splintered wood and cloth.

The butterfly settled lightly on her shoulder.

She uncorked the vial carefully, tipping it toward his lips.

"Slowly," she murmured. "Don't choke."

He swallowed.

His breathing eased.

He looked at her, eyes unfocused.

"Mother…" he said hoarsely.

"That medicine… what did you give them?"

She did not answer immediately.

She wiped his mouth.

Smoothed his hair.

"You talk too much," she said softly.

"Rest."

He stared at her.

"…Was it father this time?"

Her hands paused.

Only for a breath.

Then she smiled.

"Sleep," she said. "You'll need strength."

His fingers tightened weakly around her sleeve.

She did not pull away.

Tears fell–quietly–onto the stone.

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