The soldier stared at the Gold Coins in his palm, his eyes wide. He swallowed hard.

Murphy’s voice rang out again, colder than before. "How you use this money... I will have someone ask you later. If I find out..."

As he spoke, he took a seemingly casual step with his left foot onto the gravel-strewn ground beside him.

HUMMM!

A low thrumming sound echoed.

No dust was kicked up, but centered on the tip of his boot, all the gravel in the immediate vicinity simultaneously turned into fine powder.

The color drained from the two soldiers’ faces. The hands holding the money trembled as they bowed hastily. "Y-Yes! Sir, rest assured! We will do exactly as you command! We wouldn’t dare pocket a single coin!"

Having done all this, Murphy turned his head. His gaze seemed to pass through the carriage window, meeting Elizabeth’s for an instant.

His expression remained calm and impassive, offering no hint of comfort or explanation.

For a moment, the din outside the carriage seemed to fall away.

Elizabeth heard her own dry voice whisper inside the carriage, "Are they... just being left like this...?"

Murphy seemed to hear her. His level voice came through clearly, penetrating the carriage walls. "Your Highness, there have always been numerous civilian villages before the Iron Ridge Mountain Range, serving as buffer zones and production centers. When the war began, protocol dictated a scorched-earth policy: abandoning them and their homes to slow the monsters."

"The Ironspine Duke taking them in was a rare mercy. But Blackstone Fortress was never designed to hold this many routed soldiers, refugees, and wounded. Supplies are scarce, order is on the verge of collapse, and the human spirit... is sometimes more easily broken than the monsters outside the walls. What you’re seeing is just the tip of the iceberg."

Elizabeth took a deep breath, and the foul air made her lungs sting.

She forced herself to look away from the unconscious woman and the body covered in sackcloth, turning her gaze to Murphy.

"Surely... surely there must be a better way?" she asked, her voice soft and laced with a hint of unrealistic hope.

"Limited resources, cruel choices." Murphy’s reply was concise and cold, shattering her last shred of naive fantasy. "The Priests of the Church Court and the army’s physicians prioritize soldiers who can still fight and noble officers. Commoners, and even ordinary soldiers... can only rely on the most basic of aid and a sliver of luck. This is reality, Your Highness. Coordinating between factions, allocating finite resources, balancing survival with combat strength—this is part of what His Majesty the King wanted you to come here to understand and learn."

His words were like a bucket of ice water poured over Elizabeth’s head.

The strategies from her books, the compromises taught by her tutors—they all seemed so pale and powerless in the face of such raw, living tragedy.

Human empathy, that stinging pain of shared suffering, left her at a loss. She had no idea how to apply that cold knowledge to the lives being crushed all around her.

She looked around at the numb gazes, the pained groans, the desperate wails... They all took on a new, crushing weight in her eyes.

These weren’t case studies. They weren’t numbers. They were a bloody, unfolding reality.

"I... I understand," Elizabeth finally said in a low, unsteady voice.

She looked at Murphy again, at the man who had laid the truth of war bare for her. "Where... where do we go now?"

"First, we report to the command center," Murphy said, striding forward. "We’ll get an update on the war and confirm your secure quarters."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the hellish landscape. "Then, you will do what you must, and I will fulfill my duties."

Without another word, he led the way.

Elizabeth followed close behind, her fingers unconsciously clenching.

...

The carriage struggled through the chaotic throng, eventually turning into a relatively "clear" passageway.

The moment it passed through a massive archway manned by Heavy Armor Guards, the scenery changed abruptly.

The shanties on either side disappeared. The ground was no longer a mess of mud and debris, but a clean passageway paved with enormous flagstones. Every few steps, steadily burning sconces hung on the walls, emitting the clean scent of pine and dispelling most of the darkness.

The cloying stench in the air faded. Although the scents of sulfur and rust were still faintly discernible, the air circulated much more freely.

The deeper they went, the more the sounds of the crowd outside faded, replaced by the regular tread of footsteps, the clinking of metal plates, and the faint, rhythmic shouts of command and hammering of forges in the distance.

Occasionally, small squads of soldiers in worn but clean uniforms passed by, heading in the same or the opposite direction. Upon seeing the carriage and the Royal Family’s crest, they would stop and salute by striking their right fists to their chests. When their eyes fell on Murphy, their gazes would hold a flicker of assessment before shifting into deeper reverence.

At the end of the passageway was a wide stone staircase that climbed upward. At the top of the stairs, two heavy, rivet-studded oak doors stood open, spilling a steady, bright light from within.

Four fully armed Guards in gleaming, polished armor stood like statues beside the doors. Their gazes were sharp, their postures erect—a stark contrast to the exhausted, numb faces outside.

Murphy stopped before the steps and inclined his head toward the carriage. "Your Highness, please disembark and proceed on foot. Ahead is the command center of Blackstone Fortress."

Elizabeth took a deep breath, smoothed out her skirt and the wrinkled cuffs of her sleeves, and descended from the carriage with the careful support of her attendant Maid.

As her foot landed on the smooth stone step, its solid, cold touch was a stark contrast to the muddy, filthy ground outside.