A spring breeze carrying the fragrance of soil from the rear hills swept through the Palace Square, sending a small tempest swirling around the public notice board.
The moment that list of fifty selected subjects — personally circled by Sophia — was pinned squarely beneath the Black Rose emblem, the crowd that had been buzzing with chatter fell into a stunned silence, before erupting into a frenzy even more fervent than before.
The subjects pressed together until there was no room left to breathe, every pair of eyes searching that sheet of parchment as though hunting for a ticket to the future.
Hans pumped his fist, roaring with laughter.
"Look! First place! I knew those three giant boulders weren't moved for nothing — Her Majesty really is watching us!"
The onlookers gnashed their teeth even as they couldn't help but admire him.
"Tch, that Hans fellow really lucked out… but he did bust his back out there on the rear hills. Next time there's land-clearing work, I'll have to throw my life into it too."
Among those who had worked with such focus and effort that day on the rear hills, Lilith also found her name.
Lilith pressed a hand to her chest and sighed.
"Thank you for Her Majesty's grace. I can finally bring something living home to my family — a few chickens are the hope of staying alive."
"The way Lilith tidied every inch of that path, it's no wonder she gets goslings. I've got to learn from that — can't just rely on brute strength."
"Missed by three spots… doesn't matter. Next time Her Majesty needs work done, I'll bring my hoe from home and dig out two more ponds on those rear hills if it kills me!"
"I wasn't selected. I'm so envious of the ones who were — won't they be eating eggs before long?"
In Sophia's eyes, these brief, burning exchanges were the most perfect engine of social psychology imaginable.
Envy without resentment. Longing that transforms into action.
The following afternoon, on a clearing within the inner Palace grounds, the fifty selected subjects stood in several slightly awkward rows.
Most were broad-handed, heavy-footed laborers or women worn by years of toil, with a scattering of bright-eyed young men and women among them — yet all of them stood with heads bowed, nerves written plainly on their faces, staring at the six-year-old girl before them.
Hailey had dressed especially for the occasion in a specially tailored, sharply cut light-grey work uniform. Her beloved little notebook hung at her waist, and in her hand she held a lightweight teaching pointer that Irene had made for her.
Hailey tilted her chin up slightly, mimicking the manner of Her Majesty Sophia, and cleared her throat.
At first, the eyes of the subjects were full of disbelief.
A child who can't even reach the top of a stove is supposed to teach us how to raise livestock? Is Her Majesty joking?
But the moment Hailey opened her mouth, that professional bearing — carrying the unmistakable echo of someone in authority — silenced the entire assembly in an instant.
"Stand up straight, all of you! Listen carefully — what Her Majesty has entrusted to you is not a toy. It is the foundation of Mason!"
Hailey kept her small face stern, rapping the pointer against the wooden display stand beside her with a sharp crack.
"Chicks that have hatched fewer than seven days are at their most fragile. If anyone takes one home and kills it within three days, that is not merely waste — it is a desecration of Her Majesty's divine grace!"
"First, on the matter of feeding."
Hailey pinned several simple sketches drawn by Irene onto the display board.
"Grain is precious right now, and Her Majesty cannot bear to have you waste wheat on chickens. So you need to learn how to prepare green-energy feed."
"Dandelion, purslane, and the young alfalfa from the rear hills — or any non-toxic tender grass will do. It must be chopped fine — the finer the better. Mix in a small amount of plant ash and fine sand; it will make them grow sturdier."
"In the afternoons, catch grasshoppers and earthworms in the grass. Remember: live insects are the best tonic for them — that is the extra dividend Her Majesty specially permits you to collect while clearing wasteland. But absolutely bear in mind: do not add too many, or it will interfere with the livestock's development."
The subjects listened with blank stares. They had assumed raising chickens meant tossing a handful of grass. Who could have imagined there was a logic hidden inside it all as precise as Alchemy.
"And the coop!"
Hailey puffed out her small chest and walked to stand before a miniature model.
"Each household may collect four animals, and the specific types will be decided by lottery. So your coop doesn't need to be large — but it must satisfy three requirements: sheltered from wind, dry, and fresh straw changed regularly!"
"Every morning without fail, you must clear away the droppings — that is the finest fertilizer, and it must be stored and handed over to Lord Valery's assistants. It will be fermented and returned to fertilize our crops."
Hailey pointed at the subjects' hands with great gravity.
"If anyone's coop starts to reek and a chick falls ill because of it, that is dereliction of duty!"
*Gods… is this child really only six years old? Listen to these words — every single one of them drips with expertise. Even a child at Her Majesty's side can make chicken-raising sound like a great art. This must be the result of Her Majesty's personal instruction!
Queen Sophia is truly a True God descended to the mortal world. She can subdue sea monsters, produce identity cards, and yet she can even turn this kind of humble farmyard business into gold. We must treat these little chicks like holy relics from now on — they are not mere animals, they are clearly an extension of Her Majesty's will!*
The afternoon sun stretched the shadows on the square to extraordinary lengths.
Hailey stood before a scale model — built one-to-five by Irene's own hands — and swept the slender red-wood pointer through the air in a sharp arc, landing it precisely on the miniature roof.
"Pay close attention! Building a coop is not about piling up wood. Raising these little creatures is all about three words: dry, warm, and ventilated!"
"Step one: the foundation must never rest directly against bare earth!"
Hailey strode back and forth before the fifty subjects crouched in a circle around her, like a general surveying her domain.
"The moisture in the soil is the greatest enemy of these small lives. You must use broken stone or discarded bricks to raise the floor of the coop at least half a palm's height above the ground. The bottom layer must be spread with dry quicklime, and then covered with a thick layer of chopped wheat straw."
*So the raised foundation isn't for looks — it's to cut off the cold seeping up from the earth? Her Majesty has even accounted for the moisture lurking deep within the soil. This isn't building a chicken coop — this is practically constructing an altar for these little lives!
Our own mud huts never had this much thought put into them. It seems that under Her Majesty's guidance, even the livestock live more comfortably than nobles in other kingdoms.*
Hailey used the pointer to flip open the side wall of the model, revealing the complex layered structure within.
"On the subject of walls: the standard personally decreed by Her Majesty is the sandwich filling method."
An outer layer of tightly woven willow-branch mesh. A middle layer packed with the cheapest sun-dried crumbled moss or scraps of worn cotton wadding. An inner layer coated with clay mixed with a small amount of plant ash.
"This kind of wall insulates against heat in summer and blocks wind in winter. Even when temperatures drop deep in the night, the temperature inside the coop will remain at least three to five degrees warmer than outside."
As she spoke, Hailey casually wrote a simple balance equation on the small chalkboard beside her.
The subjects couldn't make heads or tails of the complex symbols — yet that string of characters, like a divine oracle, filled them with something close to religious reverence for this tiny little coop.
"The most critical part is here — the ventilation opening."
Hailey pointed to a cleverly angled slit cut into the top of the model.
"The coop cannot be fully sealed — the fumes inside would choke them to death. The ventilation opening must be positioned high on the sheltered north side, and covered with old burlap that has fine holes in it. This allows the foul air to escape while preventing cold drafts from blowing directly onto their tender wings."
Hailey's small face was absolutely unyielding:
"If anyone is lazy enough to block the opening shut, or opens it so wide that rainwater gets in, I will personally record a major demerit against your name in Her Majesty's ledger!"
"Finally, the floor must be sloped!"
Hailey used the pointer to demonstrate the slight incline inside the model.
"The gradient must be kept between this angle and that angle, with a shallow drainage channel dug at the exit. That way, when you pour a bucket of water to flush it each morning, the droppings and dirty water will flow along the channel into your own small kitchen garden as fertilizer — rather than piling up in the corner of the coop and rotting into disease!"
*You hear that? Even the slope has its requirements! A six-year-old child at Her Majesty's side can speak such precise principles. This must be the sacred wisdom of the Palace simplified down to a level we can understand.
Once this coop is built, it will be nothing short of a miniature perpetual-motion factory! Meat, eggs, fertilizer… Her Majesty is teaching us how to conjure gold coins from the earth itself! Anyone who dares not to study this with their whole heart is committing a crime against Mason's future!*
When the demonstration ended, Hailey put away the pointer and, mimicking the way Willow always carried herself, briskly straightened her cuffs.
"Now — split into groups of ten and head over to the practice area. Using those timber pieces and dry straw, build me a qualified model to scale! Anyone who doesn't meet the standard does not get the Palace-supplied lunch today. Bread!"
"Yes, Lord Hailey!"
All fifty of them answered in a unified thunder that shook the air.
Some began skillfully whittling wooden wedges; others sorted through the wheat straw. A light unlike any they'd ever had before shone in their eyes.
Sophia stood on the terrace of the Council Hall, watching the small, commanding figure below. Her fingertips lightly tapped the stone railing, and her pale golden pupils warmed with a flicker of quiet satisfaction.
"Willow — it seems Hailey's talent for instruction has been fully awakened. As long as this standardized process is rolled out, within a year, every backyard in Mason will become the most solid grassroots stronghold."
"Your Majesty is wise. This is not merely teaching them to build a coop — it is teaching them what standards and Order mean."
Willow responded softly, then presented a new document.
"Next, we distribute the first batch of chicks based on how they perform."
As the subjects dispersed to the corner of the Drill Ground to practice building their coops, Hailey finally let out a long breath and plonked herself down on the steps, flipping her little notebook open at speed:
*Spring. Palace clearing. Her Majesty has launched the covert operation known as: Cultivating Little Capable Hands.
My performance just now should earn full marks, right? The way those older sisters were looking at me — they were even more awestruck than when they look at Sister Delilah.
The reason Her Majesty had me do the teaching is because she wanted to prove to the subjects — that in Mason, as long as you follow the Black Rose, even a child can master the power to change their fate.
Watching them carefully writing down the names of wild plants, I'm sure those little chicks will grow into the most plump golden-egg-laying machines on the entire continent.
Sister Willow gave me a thumbs-up from behind just now. Heh heh.
I'm going to work hard to grow up and become just as amazing as Her Majesty, and let everyone know — every single part of Mason is irreplaceable!*
The practice area in the corner of the Drill Ground instantly transformed into a roaring worksite.
Although these subjects were all veterans of hard labor in their daily lives, when faced with the extraordinarily precise, practically scientific scale-model standards Hailey had laid out, these rough-and-tumble men and weathered women found themselves, for once in their lives, completely at a loss.
The fifty were divided into five groups. Gathered around the piles of cut timber and dry straw, they let out a chorus of head-scratching sighs.
"Hey, Hans — why is that piece of wood lying sideways here? That's obviously the support pillar for the foundation, isn't it?"
A dark-skinned young man held up a plank, staring at his companion in bafflement.
Hans was crouched on the ground, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to fit two pieces of willow-branch mesh together. Without looking up, he hollered back:
"Nonsense! Didn't Lord Hailey just say the foundation needs to be raised up? This sideways piece isn't a beam — it's the frame for the physical isolation layer! And what about you — that plank in your hand, was it supposed to be the north wall or the south window?"
"I… my head seems to have gotten completely turned around during that part."
The young man scratched his head in embarrassment.
"Lord Hailey said to put the ventilation opening on the north side — does it angle upward or downward?"
Compared to the men's arguments about structure, the women's group led by Lilith seemed considerably more organized — though their movements were still full of the stumbling uncertainty of beginners.
"Lilith, do you think this moss is packed in thick enough?"
One woman carefully stuffed dried crumbled moss between two layers of willow mesh, her movements as gentle as tucking a blanket around her own child.
"I keep feeling there's a draft coming through this gap — should we add another bit of plant-ash clay?"
"Can't be too thick, and can't be too thin."
Lilith cross-referenced Hailey's chalkboard, her expression as solemn as if she were performing some form of Alchemy ritual.
"Lord Hailey said this is called the sandwich wall. Too thick and it won't breathe — the little ones will suffocate. Too thin and it won't hold back the spring cold. We have to spread it evenly. This section must be flat, otherwise Her Majesty's divine grace will leak right out of it."
"Right, right — it has to be flat! This is the house where Her Majesty's seeds will live. We can't bring shame on the people of Mason!"
The greatest headache of all, however, was the sloped floor that Hailey had hammered into them repeatedly.
"Is this slope… enough of a five-degree angle?"
One subject squinted, attempting to gauge that tiny gradient with his eyes alone.
"The way I see it, if you pour water on this it might run back the other way."
Hailey clasped her hands behind her back and prowled through the practice area like a small cat on patrol, conducting a sweep of her territory. Wherever her gaze landed, subjects who had been muttering to each other fell instantly silent, straightening up at once and desperately showing off the half-finished work in their hands.
The sounds of hammering on the Drill Ground gradually grew sparse. Fifty small livestock coop models — each one different in form yet structurally sound — stood in silent formation on the flat open ground.
Hailey clasped her hands behind her back and moved back and forth along the rows of models, the pointer occasionally coming down on Hans's slightly lopsided roof, or tapping against Lilith's wall that was spread a touch too thick.
Though the work of these beginners was still rough around the edges in its details, the forcibly raised foundations and the scientifically placed ventilation openings had already begun to sketch the future character of Mason.
"The models barely pass."
Hailey stood before a broad stone table, the sternness on her small face unrelenting.
The table was laid with several pieces of clean fine linen, upon which rested several neatly arranged piles of fresh, tender grass leaves still touched with morning dew.
"Next — we identify plants. In Mason, grass is not just decoration on the ground. In those years past, it was also the lure that claimed countless lives."
The subjects' nerves, which had just begun to ease, snapped taut in an instant.
They thought of those plagues. Of the countless companions who had eaten wild plants out of desperate hunger and died in agony.
Hailey's bright eyes swept across the crowd, and there was a gravity in her voice that had no business belonging to someone her age.
"Her Majesty says: to let you live like human beings, the first thing is to let you tell apart what is food and what is poison. These plants are not only for feeding the little ones — they are the skills that keep you alive."
Hailey pinched a tender sprig with a faint purple tint between her fingertips and held it up in the sunlight.
Dandelion. Purslane. Alfalfa. Plantain. Wild pea.
These leaves unfurled in the sunlight, releasing the clean, green fragrance characteristic of plants and grasses — the ones Hailey declared absolutely safe as green-energy feed.
Beside them lay poisonous plants bearing a striking resemblance to the safe ones, yet marked by serrated poison glands or dark-red spots.
"Look carefully at this false alfalfa. Its leaf-tips are rounded, but the stem has red threads running through it. If it gets mixed into the feed, an entire brood of chicks will be dead within half a day."
Hailey's voice was clear and bright — yet it sent a simultaneous shiver through every single subject present.
*Gods… I've been pulling weeds in the field my whole life and never once thought that two plants that look completely identical could be — one is food, and the other is death itself.
Her Majesty isn't just trying to get us to raise chickens and geese. She is teaching us how to steal ground back from the God of Death!
Watching Lord Hailey's little hands move nimbly among the poisonous plants, I suddenly feel that my decades of life on the wasteland have been no better than a stupid donkey with its head down gnawing at the dirt.
Her Majesty has such a precise grasp of even these tiny things crawling out of the soil — is there anything in this world that could escape her eyes?*
Once every subject had passed the plant identification test, Hailey pointed to a row of heavy wooden chopping blocks and gleaming side-blades nearby.
"Knowing them isn't enough — you need to know how to prepare them. A chick's throat is much narrower than you'd imagine. Now — start chopping. Very fine, until it's very fine. Mix in a small amount of washed fine sand and plant ash. Only then can they digest it. Only then will they grow strong bones."
Lilith was the first to step forward. She rolled up her sleeves, and though her grip on the side-blade was a little clumsy, it was rock-steady.
The blade split through the juicy alfalfa, and the tart green juice splattered across the chopping block. That scent, full of vitality, quickly spread through the air.
The other subjects joined in one after another, and soon the Drill Ground was filled with a rhythmic, steady tap-tap-tap.
*This must be some advanced Alchemy formula — the sand grinds away the impurities within their bodies, and the plant ash purifies their blood. Even a six-year-old child at Her Majesty's side can articulate the principles of all creation with such clarity — how astonishingly learned and talented Her Majesty herself must be!
I'd stake my life on it: any egg laid by a chicken raised this way is bound to glow with Holy Light!*
When the first faint rays of dawn pierced through the morning mist, Mason's Palace Square had already become a soundless yet seething sea.
Several thousand subjects gathered of their own accord around the outer edge of the square, standing on their tiptoes and holding their breath, their eyes glued like adhesive to the temporary black platform erected at the center.
Around the platform, Royal Guards cavalry bearing black muskets stood as rigid as an iron wall, while the fifty fortunate chosen ones stood in agitated rows at the very front, every palm soaked through with sweat.
Sophia stepped unhurriedly onto the platform, her black cloak sweeping a cold, clean arc in the morning breeze.
Before her sat a square box crafted from specially made black wood. Inside the box were no expensive tokens — only broad leaves freshly picked from the Wanfang Garden in the rear hills, each one still glittering with crystal dewdrops.
On each leaf, Irene had written in special red mineral pigment the words: "Chicken ×2," "Duck ×2," or "Goose ×2."
*"Look! Her Majesty is using green leaves from the rear hills as lot-tokens! What does this mean?
The rear hills are Her Majesty's domain; the green leaves are the breath of this land. Her Majesty is telling us — the livestock we take away are bound to this land, bound to Her Majesty's will!
Every leaf is a covenant. What we're taking away is not a living creature — it is plainly a corner of prosperity that Her Majesty has torn from herself and gifted to us.
This method of using plants as proof — it is ten thousand times more brilliant than those worthless papers stamped with a muddy seal."*
Sophia extended her slender fingers and rested them lightly on the edge of the wooden box. Her voice was cool and carried an unmistakable clarity:
"Silence. As per the notice issued previously by this Queen: each of you fifty will now draw two tokens. Each token corresponds to one gift. Drawing is done in the order of names on the list. Whatever breed of livestock you draw, you must treat it well. Hans — you are first."
As Hans shuffled forward, arms and legs moving in the same direction, trembling nearly head to toe, the several thousand subjects packed around the square erupted in a flurry of urgent whispers:
"Hans! If he draws two 'Goose ×2' tokens, his backyard is going to be raining gold!"
"I'd willingly go clear three more acres of wasteland on the rear hills just to touch one of those leaves!"
"Look at Lilith's eyes — she looks like she's praying to that box… if I were standing up there right now, my legs would have given out already."
"Her Majesty personally presiding over the distribution — this isn't receiving livestock, this is practically receiving a noble title!"
"I have to be selected next time! I want to raise little chicks too!"
Under the gaze of Sophia's pale golden pupils, Hans felt as though his very breathing might stop.
He stretched out a trembling right hand, rough with calluses, and carefully pinched two damp leaves from the wooden box.
He flipped them over. Written on them, plain as day: "Chicken ×2" and "Chicken ×2."
"Two tokens — four chicks in total."
Sophia gave a slight nod, and the attendant beside her immediately delivered four fuzzy yellow fluffballs into Hans's arms — packed in a soft-grass basket, cheeping and chirping in a frenzy.
Hans clutched the basket, and his eyes went red instantly. Right there in front of everyone, he gave Sophia a deep, full bow, his voice thick with emotion:
"Your Majesty… I — I'll treat them like my ancestors. I'll put them on a shrine!"
Next was Lilith.
Beneath the scrutiny of ten thousand gazes, she drew two leaves with gentle hands.
"Goose ×2" and "Goose ×2!"
The entire crowd went dead silent for one second — then a collective gasp of disbelief broke across them like a wave.
"Lilith… she drew four geese!"
Someone below the platform let out a shriek.
In this era, geese were not only more prolific egg-layers — they were also the finest guards and the heaviest source of meat one could own.
Lilith looked at the four fluffy, loudly-honking little creatures, and tears simply burst from her eyes.
Willow stood quietly half a step behind Sophia.
She watched the subjects fall into rapturous joy or drop to their knees in reverence upon receiving their tokens, then let her gaze drift back to Sophia's profile — still perfectly calm, even faintly cool.
*Her Majesty always says this is merely a redistribution of assets — a way to make the labor force dependent.
Yet watching her reach out almost absently, in the moment a leaf curled slightly at the edge, to smooth it flat against Lilith's palm with the tip of her finger…
I know. Her heart is far, far wider than what she shows the world.
Those subjects see only meat and eggs. But only I — through the cool of this morning breeze — can sense the ambition within Her Majesty as she bestows these living things: the ambition to change, entirely, the rotten color of this world.
Good heavens. The way Her Majesty looks when she works this seriously — even I, who stand at her side every single day, find myself wanting to join those subjects and cry out 'long live the Queen' at the top of my lungs.*
Willow's lips curved upward slightly, that tender smile of hers catching the morning light in a way that was uncommonly lovely.
When the fifty subjects walked out through the Palace's main gate, bamboo baskets cradled in their arms, escorted by the solemn measured steps of the Royal Guards, it was as though the entire city of Mason pressed a mute button for a single breath.
Then a clamor hotter than oil flung onto a fire blazed outward from the central avenue in a great fan-shaped roar.
This was not merely a distribution. In the eyes of the subjects, it was nothing short of a sacred procession.
Inside the fifty finely crafted bamboo baskets, cushioned with the softest dry straw, the fuzzy yellow balls huddled and chirped, glowing in the sunlight with a vitality that seemed almost unreal.
The man at the very front gripped the rim of his basket in both rough, powerful hands, his steps measured and utterly steady.
The four chicks inside poked their heads out with great curiosity, their fine yellow down trembling gently in the spring breeze.
As the procession moved, the air carried not just the damp rot of the slums — but something stranger: a mixture of dry straw, the warmth of small bodies, and the faint, lingering radiance of Holy Light from the Palace.
"Look! They're alive! That's fur — that's meat that moves!"
"Look at that coloring… are those really ordinary chicks? In the sunlight they practically glow! These must be spiritual beings that Her Majesty hatched from the sacred air of the rear hills!"
"That Hans fellow — the way he's walking, he looks like a Marquis inspecting his domain. If it were me, I'd probably balance the basket on top of my head. Not one speck of dust shall fall upon these little ancestors."
"This isn't receiving chickens — this is receiving Her Majesty's divine grace! From now on, every crow of a rooster from Hans's backyard will probably be a hymn to Her Majesty's Divine Miracles."
"So this is what a chicken looks like — I've lived over ten years and this is the first time I've ever seen one alive!"
"What do eggs taste like? Are they sweet, like honey?"
Everywhere the procession passed, the subjects lining the streets parted into two rows of their own accord. The dull blankness of their usual expressions was gone — replaced by longing hot enough to melt snow.
"Her Majesty said diligence is all it takes to receive them. Next year I'll bring home four — no, eight! For that basket, I'd empty every last stone from the rear hills!"
"Those four goslings… that Lilith girl really has good fortune. The way those long necks crane out — more impressive than any of those greedy tax collectors from the old days. Her Majesty is watching over us. There will never be famine in Mason again."
"Did you see that bamboo basket? The weave pattern seems to echo the pattern on Her Majesty's cloak somehow. This must be some kind of Alchemy formation, a blessing to ensure the lives inside come to no harm. Everything in Mason is within Her Majesty's calculations."
Sophia stood on the highest terrace of the Council Hall, looking down at that river of life made from fifty small yellow dots winding through the city below.
Her fingertips drifted lightly across the cold stone of the balustrade. In her pale golden pupils, that pulse of Holy Light — perceptible only to herself — was slowly spreading, like a drop of ink diffusing through clear water, across the longitude and latitude of the entire city, flowing with the movement of those fifty baskets.
"Willow — look at those people's eyes."
Sophia's voice was cool, yet it carried the absolute certainty of someone who holds everything in hand.
"They are no longer looking at meat. They are looking at a dignity called ownership."
Willow stepped half a pace closer and draped a velvet cloak over Sophia's shoulders with practiced ease.
She followed Sophia's gaze downward, and the knowing smile at the corner of her lips deepened.
*This move of Her Majesty's — she has practically packed the desire of this entire city into those fifty little baskets.
Watching those subjects bow and prostrate themselves before a few bamboo baskets, I know: from this day forward, even if someone came to tempt them with chests full of gold coins, they would never dare betray the Black Rose.
Because gold coins are dead things. And those four chirping little chicks are the living future that Her Majesty personally placed into their hands.
Her Majesty is always like this — weaving the most inescapable net using the most tender of means.
Ah — that manner of hers, where even the act of showing mercy carries the beauty of dominion. I could watch it forever and never tire.*
Night fell.
The oil lamps along the Palace corridors had long since been lit one by one, their warm amber halos chasing away the gentle chill of the first spring nights.
In Sophia's study, the air carried the faint scent of fir incense mingled with ink.
The Girl Queen, exhausted from a full day's work, had at last shed her heavy black cloak, and was dressed in nothing more than a fitted silk shirt. After hours bent over documents, her usually cool posture carried just the faintest trace of imperceptible languidness.
Delilah stood behind Sophia, those hands of hers — hardened by years of gripping a sword — now moving with an extraordinarily gentle and rhythmic pressure, slowly working at the stiff muscles of Sophia's neck and shoulders.
*Every time I touch Her Majesty's shoulders, they are even more slender than I expect.
In the eyes of the world outside, she is the absolute sovereign who subdued sea monsters and reshaped Order. But beneath my fingertips, she is nothing more than a young girl bearing the weight of an entire city.
Every inch of tension in these muscles is the price of those precise calculations — about seeds, about coops, about the futures of the people of Mason.
I cannot share her intelligence. But I can use these hands to restore even one ten-thousandth of the ease that this body — the body carrying Mason's fate — has lost.*
Delilah's breathing unconsciously softened, a look close to reverent protectiveness shimmering in her eyes.
Just then, a telltale flash of pink slipped quietly through the gap in the heavy door.
Irene was pressed against the doorframe, her sapphire-bright eyes darting this way and that. When they met Sophia's pale golden pupils, she let out a sheepish grin.
"Come in — stop standing there acting as a doorstop."
Sophia didn't look up, but her voice, though cool, was entirely free of reproach.
Irene giggled and hopped inside, nimble as a rabbit.
"Your Majesty, you haven't rested yet?"
Irene leaned against the desk and looked at the mountain of name-registers stacked before Sophia. Her voice dropped a little.
"Those little ones that just hatched… they've all been sent away now, and the greenhouse has gone so quiet all of a sudden. It feels like things have eased up, but there's this hollow feeling in my chest."
Sophia listened to Irene's slightly childish complaint. She tapped a fingertip lightly on the desk — then in the instant Irene leaned in close, she raised her hand and gave the pink-haired genius a light flick with her finger, straight to the forehead.
Thwack.
"Oww!"
Irene clutched her forehead with exaggerated drama, though her eyes were full of laughter.
"Already feeling hollow?"
The corner of Sophia's mouth curved into the finest sliver of a smile — the kind of softness she only ever showed in front of these few close aides.
"It's barely early spring. Mason's soil has only been turned over for the first time. What comes next — transplanting, expanding the livestock coops, road-building, trade — which of those doesn't need you to work out the calculations? There is a great deal to be done this year."
Irene's motivation instantly surged.
*Of course — the chicks and goslings were only warm-up exercises. Her Majesty's eyes hold the prosperity of an entire continent.
I, Irene, am Mason's Chief Great Inventor — how can I be feeling sentimental over sending away a few little chicks?
I'm going to build an even bigger greenhouse. I'm going to grow even more miraculous fruit trees!*
"I'll work twice as hard! I absolutely will not bring shame on Her Majesty!"
Irene puffed out her chest, her two pigtails thrashing about with the force of her excitement.
Willow, keeping watch at the doorway, gently smoothed the account ledger in her hands. Her voice was elegant and unwavering:
"Your Majesty, the Ministry of Internal Affairs budget has already set aside reserves for the plans ahead. Wherever Your Majesty's decree points, this minister would spend the last drop of ink to lay the most solid cornerstone for Mason."
Delilah, who had been kneading shoulders, stopped at this, pressing her right fist firmly to her chest. The ring of iron armor against the breastplate echoed through the quiet of the night with particular resonance:
"The Royal Guards stand ready for Your Majesty's command at all times. Whether you wish to clear another stretch of wasteland or take another neighboring kingdom — our blades are your will."
For a moment, the atmosphere in the study shifted from warmth to something solemn.
Three young women of wholly different temperaments — yet guided by a single soul, they etched their eternal oath into their hearts.
Sophia gave a gentle wave of her hand, gesturing for everyone to relax.
Her pale golden pupils turned toward Willow, a barely perceptible note of concern threading through her voice:
"How is Daphne? Has the fever broken?"
Willow inclined her head slightly, and the tension in her expression eased considerably:
"Your Majesty, the Medical Officer visited just a short while ago. After you departed, the Saint's bodily functions began recovering at remarkable speed. The high fever has largely subsided, though she remains very drowsy and her lucid moments are few — she will need a few more days of rest. When she woke, the first thing she asked… was whether you were still straining yourself over official documents."
"Good — as long as the fever's broken."
Sophia waved a hand, signaling Delilah she could stop.
"I'll go check on her tomorrow. And Delilah —"
"This minister is here."
"Tomorrow, take some people to see how those fifty subjects who received the livestock are getting along."
"This minister receives the order."
Delilah struck her breastplate once more, the low metallic clang reverberating through the room.
*Her Majesty is sending me to inspect — and it is most certainly not just to check on a few fluffy little chicks.
From the moment those fifty subjects walked out of the Palace gates, they became living specimens of Mason's grassroots Order.
Her Majesty is watching — to see whether these people, once grace has been placed in their hands, have truly learned how to build proper fences. Whether those who were once wild weeds of the wasteland have genuinely taken root.
If anyone dares cut corners on the coop construction, or shows careless indifference in the feeding — it will not be merely four chicks that are destroyed, but the covenant of trust that Her Majesty wove with her own hands.
I must watch each and every coop's slope angle as vigilantly as I would watch for an enemy's ambush.
Because in those coops, what is growing is the military rations and the civic spirit of Mason's tomorrow.*
Delilah's expression grew ever more steely. She had already begun mapping out the inspection route for the early morning raid in her mind — ensuring those subjects felt, with absolute clarity, that behind Her Majesty's grace stood an iron law no one could cross.
Sophia turned her head again, looking toward the pink-haired girl who was gazing at her with bright, eager eyes.
"Irene — aside from the poultry, the larger animals in the livestock program… how much longer before they can enter the second phase of distribution?"
The moment this was raised, Irene's earlier excitement dimmed slightly. She scratched at her fluffy pink hair with a somewhat troubled expression, counting on her fingers.
"Your Majesty, the other animals — you know, those pigs, sheep, and cattle you worked so hard to bring back from Leighton — their breeding cycles are nothing like chickens or ducks. And in an era without growth-accelerating feed, it's only going to be slower."
Irene scrunched up her small nose and explained with great professional seriousness.
"Even though I've been giving them the best feed, and we've incorporated some of Daphne's Holy Light nourishment, there's still a hard limit on how fast the numbers can grow right now."
Irene racked her brains, running through those tedious growth curves in her head.
"The founding population we brought back was just too small. The current stock count has tripled compared to last year, but if we want to distribute them to the people on the same scale as we did the poultry — we'd need to wait at least another half year or so. Otherwise, our breeding stock would drop below the critical threshold, and then we'd be cutting off our nose to spite our face."
"Leighton…"
Sophia turned the word over slowly, and a sharp, turbulent ripple stirred in her previously still pupils.
Back then, to see Mason through that winter of scorched and barren earth, she had indeed employed some extraordinarily efficient measures, bringing back fine breeding stock from the neighboring Kingdom of Leighton.
And in that chain of maneuvers, one particular figure she found extremely troublesome had unavoidably surfaced in her mind — that Leighton Princess.
That obsessive, clinging gaze that followed her like a shadow, and that boundless, nearly suffocating enthusiasm with absolutely no sense of personal boundaries — it was one of the memories Sophia most wanted to erase from her entire reign.
"Ugh…"
Sophia gave an involuntary shudder out of nowhere, her shoulders drawing inward slightly.
Willow caught this unusual movement immediately.
She narrowed her sharp eyes by a fraction, and without asking a single question, she stepped forward with complete naturalness and turned up the wick of the oil lamp on the desk, which had dimmed a little.
Then, in the same seamless motion, Willow gently laid her warm palm over Sophia's cold fingertips resting on the armrest.
It seems that Leighton's princess truly left an exceptionally unpleasant impression on Her Majesty.
Sophia drew a slow, steadying breath and recovered that cool, razor-edged gaze of hers.
That kingdom — famous for its tedious ceremonies and hollow social niceties — had gone completely silent since their whole delegation trudged home in disgrace, like a stone sinking to the bottom of the sea without a single ripple.
This was deeply abnormal.
That land is now quiet to the point of near-death. Is it that the Princess, upon returning home, used some obsessive means to crush all voices of dissent? Or has that old lion of Leighton finally realized that Mason is not a backyard to be casually pushed around — and is lurking in the shadows, grinding its dulled blade, preparing to deliver a surprise at harvest time?
This kind of silence could be either complete submission — or the final stillness before a viper strikes.
Neither option appealed to Sophia in the slightest. She disliked any variable that slipped outside her control.
For some reason she couldn't name, every time she thought of that woman, she felt a sense of foreboding — but for now, she would put it aside. There was no time to deal with Leighton in the near term.
At this thought, the cold wariness in Sophia's eyes gradually crystallized into something approaching a hunter's stillness.
She wasn't afraid of Leighton starting a war. With Mason's current strength, fighting Leighton would not cost too dearly.
What she feared was that Princess coming up with yet another suffocating, boundary-obliterating idea that no one knew how to handle.
If the other side came at her with force, that would actually be a relief.
But if it came wrapped in something soft and yielding, leaving one without any idea what to do — that was when Sophia would find herself genuinely at a loss.
Against a malicious enemy, Sophia would pull the trigger without a second thought. But against someone looking at her with eyes full of admiration and adoration — really, who could bring themselves to pull that trigger?
"Willow."
Sophia spoke abruptly, her voice unusually crisp and clear in the emptiness of the study.
"Tell Victor to increase surveillance on the southern trade routes. If there are any communications or caravans from Leighton of a private nature, do not report first — intercept directly. Once intercepted, detain the persons or goods, then report to me immediately."
"Yes!"
Delilah felt the shift in Sophia's bearing and ventured a question.
"Your Majesty, this minister can lead troops to deal with Leighton."
"The Leighton matter can wait for now. There is far too much within Mason itself that still needs to be put in order. That can hold for the time being. Delilah — for now, focus on training your soldiers. Make sure they are capable of striking at any moment and holding at any moment. And the livestock: since the breeding rate is limited, prioritize keeping what we have alive. As long as they survive, the breeding potential never goes away. Irene — your experiments cannot stop. I want to see greater disease resistance."
"Yes! Task will be completed!"
Irene shouted her reply.
"All right — everyone go rest."
Sophia gave a gentle wave of her hand.
"Tomorrow, I want to see Delilah's inspection report."
"Yes!"
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