As the carriage wheels ground over the final stretch of gravel road, a town came into view ahead — weeping willows swaying in the breeze, yet radiating a peculiar beauty of mechanical precision: Withered Willow Town.
This was the first gateway into the heartland of Mason Royal City, and one of the earliest pilot bases where Sophia had implemented standardized agricultural methods.
Old Pierre was pressed against the carriage window. After days of relentless visual shocks, his nerves had been wound to their absolute limit.
But when he looked out at the farmland along the roadside — at the fields where spring plowing was underway — the cup in his hand nearly slipped from his fingers.
"Gods above... why does the farmland in this town look so... orderly?"
In his field of view, the earth was not a patchwork of irregular plots. It was laid out with the precision of a ruler — perfectly spaced, perfectly parallel lines stretching as far as the eye could see. Every ridge was the same height, the same depth, the same volume of turned soil. From a distance, the land looked like a vast length of dark-brown silk, meticulously trimmed.
"This is the standardized planting method Irene devised," Sophia's cool voice drifted from the carriage interior.
"By using a specialized sowing technique, the seeds can be buried at a perfectly consistent depth, ensuring uniform heat distribution and water absorption. Order is the source of maximum efficiency."
"Hehe — Old man Pierre, this is the power of geometry!" Irene lifted her chin with a proud toss of her head, her two pink twin-tails bouncing with the rhythm of the carriage.
"Only when seeds are planted in neat rows will they grow without fighting each other for space. Understand?"
Pierre nodded, only half following.
They apply rules this terrifying even to farming?
In Avalon, we just scatter seeds into the dirt and let the Sea God decide whether they live.
But in Mason, this girl doesn't just rule the people — she makes every single seed buried in the earth line up in formation.
This desire to control all things... it has surpassed the bounds of kingship. She is reshaping nature itself.
Looking at the casual, matter-of-fact expression on Miss Irene's face, I finally understand — Mason's abundance is not the product of luck. It is the product of an iron will so absolute that even the earth cannot disobey it.
The convoy did not linger in the fields. But those Black Rose banners, snapping in the spring breeze, became the fuse that ignited this entire stretch of land.
A farmhand working in the field straightened up on a whim — and the moment he made out the imposing cavalry column on the official road, their black muskets slung across their backs, and that unmistakable carriage with its deep-purple tasseled fringe, his pupils snapped shut like a shutter.
His hoe struck the earth with a heavy thud.
"That's... that's the Black Rose emblem! It's the Royal City convoy!"
"Your Majesty! Your Majesty Sophia has returned in triumph again!"
"Gods — what miracles has Her Majesty brought back this time!"
The cry detonated like a thunderclap, exploding through the previously quiet farmland in an instant.
Subjects who had been strolling, toiling in the fields, or mending clothes at home — all of them, in that single moment, seemed to hear a divine summons. Heedless of the mud beneath their feet, some losing their shoes entirely in the rush, they surged toward the official road in a frantic tide.
"Long live Your Majesty!"
"Praise the Black Rose! Thank Your Majesty for the seeds you gave us!"
"Your Majesty Sophia returns in triumph! Mason eternal!"
Countless subjects threw themselves to their knees along both sides of the road. The roaring, mountain-shaking wall of cheers swallowed even the heavy drumming of hoofbeats whole.
The way they looked at that carriage held none of the old-era fear of power. In its place was something pure — a devotion bordering on worship, a raw, fervent adoration.
Old Pierre sat completely stunned.
The four workers behind him had gone chalk-white with terror, their hands locked in death-grips on the carriage frame.
Are these really just subjects?
In Avalon, we sent Her Majesty off with reverence because we feared her — because we hoped for her bread.
But these Mason people... the way they look at her... why does it look like they're seeing a living miracle with their own eyes?
That frenzy — it's more terrifying than the fiercest tsunami Avalon has ever seen.
So this is what the people of Mason are.
They were not merely ruled. They were conquered — body and soul — by this girl.
No wonder the Kingdom of Orr fell. Who could possibly stand against a people this utterly, fanatically devoted?
Hailey sat perched atop the luggage pile, her small hand trembling faintly with excitement, her pen tip tracing wild, joyful strokes across the page.
Withered Willow Town.
We're home! There's no fresh sea smell here, but the scent of wheat rising from the soil is wonderful.
The subjects shouting 'long live Her Majesty' were so loud that Nina actually started crying — but I told her, this is everyone saying thank you to Her Majesty.
The reason Her Majesty makes the fields so orderly is so that every person can have more bread than they can eat.
When bellies are full, voices carry this kind of power — enough to shake the mountains apart.
Delilah rode her horse in close guard beside Sophia's carriage window, her upright high ponytail unmoved by the roar of the crowd.
Her gaze swept across the sea of fervent subjects, then drifted, barely perceptibly, inward — sensing Sophia's presence within the carriage.
Last night, outside the Bedchamber in the City of Hill, I heard it all.
Vasha's weeping. Vasha's confession. And Sophia's response — tender, and yet ice-cold.
But Vasha is nothing more than a butterfly struggling in the ruins.
She believed that if she pushed hard enough, she could leave a mark on Her Majesty's heart.
But she doesn't understand. Her Majesty's heart carries the livelihoods of ten thousand subjects standing before us right now — carries the Order of this entire nation.
When Her Majesty said she didn't want to indulge those feelings for now, it was because she bore that weight herself, alone.
Those unnecessary emotions... I will deflect them on Her Majesty's behalf.
Since I have decided to be Her Majesty's sword, I must be colder than anyone, and faster than anyone.
Vasha — you guard the gate of the City of Hill.
And I... guard Her Majesty herself.
The carriage rolled slowly through Withered Willow Town amid the cheering, pressing onward toward that magnificent city in the distance — where thin wisps of cooking smoke were already curling up into the sky: Mason Royal City.
The carriage wheels struck the even stone slabs of Mason Royal City with a crisp, rhythmic sound. It was a solidity entirely unlike Avalon's shell-paved roads or the City of Hill's gravel tracks.
When the jet-black city gates — engraved with their enormous Black Rose relief — slowly swung open, a wave of presence unique to a Royal City crashed forward to meet them.
Old Pierre lost his voice entirely.
He had thought the orderly furrows of Withered Willow Town were already a miracle. But the Royal City shattered his understanding of the world outright.
The broad central boulevard had been swept spotless — so clean the polished stone on either side could reflect a person's face. Tens of thousands of subjects lined both sides of the avenue. None stepped across the invisible boundary. Every one of them cheered in perfect unison, waving black rose blossoms in their hands.
Gods above... this is what a true Divine Kingdom looks like.
Even the cheers of the common people here have a rhythm to them.
No jostling. No chaos. This order — an order carved into the bone itself — frightens me more than the black musket soldiers ever did.
Looking at these stone buildings, at the towers gleaming with some metallic sheen in the sunlight, I finally understand — Avalon's Blue Gold and pearls are nothing but a small ornament on this vast, towering colossus.
What we have attached ourselves to is a monster that is devouring the wilderness and defining civilization itself.
At the far end of the avenue, at the foot of the steps leading up to the Palace, several upright figures had been waiting.
They were Chancellor Valery of Mason and the historian Victor. Both wore Mason's latest high-grade finely-woven formal dress, the Black Rose emblems on their chests blazing in the sunlight.
"That would be..."
Victor narrowed those sharp eyes of his slightly. His gaze swept past Sophia's magnificent carriage and locked immediately onto the wagons behind — piled with dried seafood, carrying a handful of dark-skinned strangers clad in fish-skin and shell garments.
"People from that stretch of sea."
Valery adjusted the monocle on his nose, a smile of quiet, satisfied expectation pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems Her Majesty didn't merely go to the seaside for a breath of fresh air. She also took the liberty of filling in that blind spot on the map — and painted it thoroughly in Mason's colors."
Truly worthy of Her Majesty.
What she brought back is not merely salt — it is an entire suite of foreign subjects and an inexhaustible supply of ocean resources.
Look at the expressions on those foreigners' faces. That is the classic blank stupor of a civilization struck by a force operating leagues above their own.
Her Majesty did not merely conquer their territory. She has quite evidently locked their souls inside a cage called Mason.
And now the work begins again.
The carriages rolled to a smooth halt.
Victor and Valery stepped forward almost simultaneously and dropped to one knee. The sound of armor and fabric against stone rang out with unusual clarity over the clamor of the square.
"This humble minister Valery — and Victor — respectfully welcome Your Majesty's triumphant return! Mason's glory advances further with every step you take!"
Sophia stepped down from the carriage with Willow's assistance. The black velvet cape billowed in the wind, and those pale golden pupils swept across the crowd — and in an instant, the long-absent, overwhelming sovereign presence unique to the Royal City surged through the entire scene like a tide.
"Rise."
Sophia's voice was not loud, yet it reached every single ear with perfect precision.
"Valery — prepare to receive Avalon's household registry files. Victor — clear out the cold storage in the Royal City immediately. The ocean's gifts I have brought back must not go to waste."
"As you command, Your Majesty!"
Old Pierre watched these figures — people of immense weight and standing in Mason — behave before Sophia like the most docile house pets imaginable. His hands trembling, he grabbed Nina's hand and prostrated himself flat on the blue stone slabs, forehead pressed hard against the cold surface.
Sophia's first decree after stepping from the carriage was to have the Royal Guards escort Old Pierre and his companions to the Rose Pavilion in the Royal City's foreign affairs district.
When Old Pierre stepped through the doors of that stone mansion — top-tier even by Mason's standards — he did not merely lose his voice. His knees began to feel faintly unsteady.
The corridors held no dim oil lamps. Instead, they were lined with Irene's improved lamps, each one housed beneath a shade of clear, translucent glass that burned with a constant, unwavering flame.
Nina reached out a timid hand to touch the velvet curtains, then nearly flinched back — the texture was so impossibly soft she hardly dared apply any pressure.
And this is only the accommodation for outsiders?
In Avalon, even a queen's chambers carried the stubborn reek of brine, with sea-wind sand grinding underfoot.
But here, every single stone tile fits its neighbor without a hairline gap — as though laid by the hands of a god.
Even the manners of these Mason servants — the way they bow, the way they speak — carry a refinement that surpasses the Queen of Avalon herself.
I finally understand. Those scrolls Her Majesty brought back are not a census roll at all.
She has physically dragged two thousand-some uncivilized souls from Avalon into this paradise of steel and Order.
Anyone who would dare betray a master like this... must be out of their mind.
Sophia did not allow herself a single moment of rest.
She strode briskly into the round-table council chamber of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, her black cape cutting a sharp, severe arc through the air. Chancellor Valery and Historian Victor were already in their positions. The other retainers had followed her in.
"Your Majesty — during your absence from the Royal City, the tax account records from the City of Hill have been delivered by City Lord Vasha's courier."
Valery adjusted his monocle. Those sly, fox-sharp eyes glittered with calculated light.
"Though compared to Avalon's sea salt, that tax revenue does look a touch modest. I have already drafted a new sea salt monopoly bill — it will guarantee that every gold coin in the entire Northern Border flows into Your Majesty's treasury. The bill will be submitted presently."
Sophia took her seat at the head of the table and spoke concisely.
"The identity cards for the Avalonians are the top priority — they are the chains that bind hearts. Victor, you will draft the official documents regarding Avalon's submission. I want every subject in Mason to know that the ocean has become This Queen's rear garden."
Victor dipped his head slightly, his face wearing that signature smile of his — warm as a smiling tiger.
"Your Majesty may rest assured. I will record this momentous turning point in the most magnificent prose I possess —
The Taming of the Ocean: The Light of the Black Rose Illuminates the Deep Sea.
After all, an achievement destined to resound through the ages cannot be left without history's anthem."
Sophia's expression did not change. She had heard enough flattery over time that she suspected her own skin had grown measurably thicker from the exposure.
"Mm. Irene and Daphne — I'll need you to put in extra effort and keep a close eye on the West Tower's work. Willow, go handle the flagship store matters."
The meeting lasted barely half an hour before it was adjourned. Mason's supreme governing body had demonstrated an efficiency that left observers breathless.
Irene and Daphne did not even stop for a meal. The moment they returned to the Palace, they plunged headfirst into the West Tower laboratory.
Irene had already cracked open two enormous raw ore stones and was sketching excitedly on a blueprint, mapping out how to use this metal to enhance the efficiency of the identity cards. Daphne assisted her as a matter of course — and if Irene could not work something out, she would simply continue producing the previous design.
While the Royal City bustled and churned with activity, Hailey tucked her thick little notebook under her arm and knocked carefully on Historian Victor's office door.
"Victor — grandfather..."
Hailey held the notebook out with a slightly awkward fidget.
"This is everything I wrote down along the way. Her Majesty said history should be recorded truthfully."
Victor pushed aside the documents at his elbow and accepted the notebook with a smile.
As he turned through the pages — filled with painstakingly detailed observations and the uniquely sharp perception that only a child could possess — a flash of genuine, heartfelt admiration passed through those eyes.
"Oh? Observations of the Avalonian subjects being completely won over by soap — and this insight into the nature of the ocean..."
Victor stroked his chin, the upward curve of his smile deepening.
"Hailey, you've done better than I ever imagined. These details are something that dry, rigid record-keeping could never replace."
He looked at Hailey with a grandfatherly warmth.
"Go and rest, little historian. What you have recorded is the soul of Her Majesty's conquest of this world. I will weave it all into the Annals of Mason — and your name will endure alongside it."
Meanwhile, Willow was seated beneath the candlelight in the side hall, calmly cross-referencing the inventory list for the final shipment of Avalon goods entering the stores.
She was not merely processing material wealth — she was calculating the impact these goods would have on the Royal City's noble class.
She knew: once the first portion of salt was sold tomorrow, Mason's grip on its subjects would grow considerably tighter.
The true miracle Her Majesty has brought back is this quality of life — the kind that makes people cling to it and never let go.
Next week's budget will need to be tilted heavily toward the West Tower. The consumption rate of those two wild girls, Irene and Daphne, is absolutely astronomical.
But as long as I can see that satisfied look in Her Majesty's eyes... what does a few unfavorable numbers on a ledger truly matter?
The night deepened.
In the Rose Pavilion of the Royal City's foreign affairs district, a pleasant incense fragrance hung in the air. On the second floor in a suite of rooms, Old Pierre and his four companions — two men, two women — were huddled tightly together.
Though the carpet underfoot was thick enough to feel like walking on clouds, and the fire in the hearth crackled with extraordinary warmth, these Avalonians sat like small insects that had blundered into a giant's domain, deliberately keeping even their breathing as low and quiet as possible.
"Grandpa, I don't dare move... I'm afraid I'll dirty that shiny cloth," little Nina murmured, curled up in Pierre's arms, pointing at the silk-sheen cushion beside her.
The two Avalonian men — who had been capable of tearing large fish apart with their bare hands back in Cape Town — were now sitting rigid with their knees pressed together, not knowing what to do with their hands.
"Boss... is this really just guest accommodation?" one of them wiped a cold sweat from his forehead, voice hushed, an edge of lingering shock threading through his tone.
"Those stone buildings are four or five times taller than our whale-bone Royal Palace. The streets are so flat you could race horses on them. Even the roadside lamps — there are so many of them... I feel like I've wasted the last twenty years of my life."
"And those subjects," one of the Avalonian women chimed in, her eyes still carrying the shock of everything she had witnessed that day.
"Did you see? When Her Majesty Sophia entered the city, tens of thousands of people knelt — the sound could have drowned out Avalon's waves entirely. Back home, City Lord Marlena is fierce, sure — but she still drinks with us and goes fishing..."
"But this Queen — I feel like even looking at her for a moment too long could freeze your soul solid."
Old Pierre gripped his own trouser leg with white knuckles, squeezing so hard his joints had gone pale.
This is divine retribution... you thick-headed fool, Pierre.
I actually thought I could match wits with this Majesty?
I genuinely believed that the sea salt I brought with me could serve as a bargaining chip — that I was a man of some experience in the world, above groveling before anyone.
But look at Chancellor Valery. Look at Historian Victor.
And those planting methods, those buildings — looking at them again, Her Majesty has been far too lenient with all of them.
Every single one of the people around Her Majesty — their bearing, their presence — each of them could erase Avalon City from the map with a flick of their fingers.
And yet before her, every one of them makes themselves small and keeps their head down.
My attitude before... was inexcusably presumptuous. I didn't know the height of heaven or the depth of the earth.
This is a god who holds the power of life and death!
"Everyone — listen to me!"
Old Pierre spoke up suddenly. His voice was hoarse and suppressed, yet it carried a gravity he had never once shown before.
He swept a stern gaze over the four workers behind him.
"From this moment on — bury that casual 'we're all neighbors' attitude you brought from Avalon City deep in your belly and let it rot there!
Even if it's a servant who only carries water — if they belong to Mason Palace, you give them the same reverence you'd show the Sea God appearing in person!"
He stood up — his body swaying faintly from sheer agitation.
"And especially when you see Her Majesty Sophia — no, the supreme Queen herself! Even if she isn't looking at us, keep your heads bowed to the ground.
I, Pierre, have lived half a lifetime and only now understand — the reason Avalon was chosen by her isn't because we had something to offer. It's because she, in her infinite generosity, decided to reach down and pull us up.
If anyone dares embarrass Avalon here — if anyone sours Her Majesty's mood — I will personally drag them out to sea and feed them to the creatures below!"
The four workers exchanged a glance, shuddered in perfect unison, and nodded vigorously in the dark.
Late into the night, inside Mason Palace's Council Hall, Sophia slowly closed the last stack of gold-embossed scrolls.
The light of the colored glass lamp flickered across her cool, composed profile, casting over it the unhurried calm of someone who has everything accounted for.
Sophia pressed her fingers to her slightly aching temples and let the faces of those Avalonians — wide-eyed, tense, wheat-bronze — rise in her mind.
For them, simply providing shelter would not be enough. She needed to let them see wealth in motion.
"Delilah."
Sophia called out quietly.
From the shadows, that upright high ponytail shifted faintly. Delilah, hand resting on her heavy sword, materialized at Sophia's side like a precise streak of aurora.
"Your Majesty, I am here."
"Go to the Rose Pavilion. Tell Pierre — the location for their salt and seafood stall has been decided."
Sophia rose and walked to the great sand table of the Royal City, her fingertip coming to rest on a marking beside the Black Rose Flagship Store, the Royal City's main branch.
"The small stone house directly across from the flagship store. The space isn't large — but that is the most densely trafficked heart of the Royal City. Tell him: his salt cart may enter the premises first thing tomorrow morning."
Pure charity breeds dependents. Pure extraction breeds rebellion.
I intend to concentrate Avalon's sea salt, Mason's soap, and grain from every city onto a single street.
That clustering effect will induce a kind of fervent consumption illusion in the subjects — as though stepping into this street means touching the miracles of the entire world.
Plant Pierre in that small house and he becomes a little golden star I have cast toward all of Avalon.
So that those still out in the deep sea will understand exactly how much gold following the Black Rose can bring them.
Inside the Rose Pavilion, Old Pierre and his companions were crowded around the table, deep in heated debate over "the exact form of bow that would be most appropriate when greeting Mason people tomorrow."
BANG——!
The heavy pavilion door was shoved open by a force that brooked no argument. Heavy boots pressed into the carpet with a muffled, deliberate weight.
Delilah walked in with her hand resting on her heavy sword, those crimson eyes sweeping the dim sitting room — and the killing intent that radiated from that battlefield commander's presence instantly turned every one of the Avalonians who had been debating into something resembling a duck grabbed by the throat.
"Y-Your Maj — no, Lord Delilah!"
Old Pierre scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly cracked his forehead on the table corner, his tongue stumbling over the wrong title because he had been talking about Her Majesty so extensively just a moment ago.
"At this hour, you came yourself — has this old servant committed some offense?"
"Put away that trembling act of yours."
Delilah's voice was ice-cold, carrying the chill of the deep sea.
"By Her Majesty's verbal decree — the location for your salt and seafood sales has been selected. It is the small stone house adjacent to the Black Rose Flagship Store. That is a prosperous location personally designated by Her Majesty herself. If tomorrow you cause any trouble while selling your goods and bring shame upon Her Majesty..."
The guard on her heavy sword emitted a faint, ringing note of steel. "Then prepare yourselves to go back to Avalon and feed the sea beasts."
Old Pierre froze for a full three seconds. Then his entire body went limp, as though the bones had been drawn out of him, and he prostrated himself on the floor once more.
The small stone house beside the flagship store?
I haven't explored the whole Royal City yet — but I saw it when we entered today. The line of subjects in front of that store stretched all the way to the end of the street!
Her Majesty actually gave a place that precious — every inch worth its weight in gold — to us?
She isn't giving us a stall. She is driving Avalon straight into the heart of Mason itself!
This grace... what have I, Pierre, done to deserve it?
Besides offering this life of mine to this Queen — what could I possibly give in return?
"Lord Delilah, please relay this to Her Majesty!"
Old Pierre's voice came out rough and cracked, carrying the absolute conviction of a man who has burned every bridge behind him.
"Even if this old servant has to throw his life down for it — he will turn every last grain of Avalon's sea salt, every last small fish, into gold coins in Your Majesty's hand! We... we will not bring shame upon the Black Rose!"
Delilah's hand on the heavy sword slowly relaxed. Those crimson eyes — like faceted rubies — made a cold, sweeping pass across the Avalonians kneeling on the floor.
Her expression remained as immovable as a glacier ten thousand years old. But the suffocating killing intent that had filled the room quietly drew back by several degrees.
"Good."
Delilah clipped out those two syllables — and for once, that tone held none of its usual cold contempt that kept the world at arm's length.
In her view, anyone who served Her Majesty with their whole heart — even these briny, salt-reeking barbarians — could be considered, with some reluctance, a colleague.
"Remember what you just said, Pierre. Her Majesty's patience has limits — but her generosity is likewise without limit. Tomorrow — do not bring shame to that small house."
With that, Delilah gave her black cape a sharp, decisive swirl. The upright high ponytail carved a razor-clean arc through the air, and she vanished through the pavilion doors like a wraith dissolving into the night.
The moment Delilah's footsteps faded, Old Pierre snapped up from the floor with a speed entirely unbecoming of a man past sixty.
His wrinkled face had gone bright red from sheer, barely-contained elation.
"Move! All of you, get up! Stop lying there like a pile of wet sand!"
Old Pierre hissed at them in a low roar, rubbing his hands together in a frenzy of excitement.
"Did you hear that? That is a location Her Majesty personally chose! In the heart of Mason Royal City! We are going to make our fortune!"
The workers, who had still been wearing blank, dazed expressions a moment ago, were infected instantly by that surging, wild energy.
In the deep of that quiet night, a dozen dim oil lamps blazed to life in the pavilion's rear courtyard.
The shell ornaments and pearls that had been piled in rough heaps were now being washed and polished by the Avalonian women, cloth after cloth of clean water.
In the moonlight, those treasures of the ocean released a dreamlike, cool luminescence.
Even the dried silver fish were re-sorted into neat rows, arranged by size.
In Pierre's eyes, these were no longer food. They were offerings to Mason Royal City.
I thought the absolute ceiling of my life was to be a peddler wandering from street to street. But now — now I am operating in the very heart of the Mason Queen's territory.
Look at this salt in the moonlight — it glitters like crushed diamonds.
Tomorrow, I will make every Mason noble who steps into that small house understand — this saltiness is a divine miracle, scattered by the Sea God's own hand!
Once tomorrow makes its mark, the people of Avalon City will know — follow Her Majesty's path, and you truly can climb from the mud all the way up to the clouds.
This salt... we sell it with the spirit of gold!
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