Chapter 77: First Fortress 29

Two days had passed since Gu Xianqing’s fall from the tower, yet Min He still hadn’t caught her. Logically speaking, the Lower City was swarming with mobilized mercenaries, and Gu Xianqing was hardly one to slink about unnoticed. There was no way she could leave zero traces.

But every time Min He tracked her into the Lower City, Gu Xianqing’s scent vanished, blending into the stench of garbage and shanties. The roads in Districts 2 through 20 had been dismantled and rebuilt so many times over the years that they changed annually—Min He herself wasn’t all that familiar with the terrain anymore. Gu Xianqing, though, swam through it like a fish in water.

Min He quickly suspected that Gu Xianqing had locals in the Lower City providing backup.

Thus, during her audience with the Saint Lord, Min He seized the chance to voice her suspicions.

An He was there as well.

An He was still leaning on a crutch, but her wounds had actually healed at an astonishing speed. Over these past few days, tales of An He’s heroic feat and the Saint Lord’s favor had spread throughout Babel Tower. As a result, the attending physician had taken it upon themselves to inject her with Regeneration Debridement Drug every three hours.

This gave An He’s freakish recovery rate a perfect cover.

That said, a fractured leg wasn’t some minor scratch—it still needed time to heal properly.

An He listened quietly to Min He’s report. She caught the urgency in Min He’s voice. In just one more day, Min He would completely lose her window to prove herself.

Talk about bad luck—born at the wrong time, crossing paths with me and Gu Xianqing, An He thought.

She took a soft breath in, then slowly exhaled.

Min He noticed the gesture immediately. Her eyes sharpened. To her, An He’s calm demeanor looked like blatant provocation. Min He had greatly admired An He’s actions that night, but admiration was one thing—she wasn’t about to drop the matter. She bowed to the Saint Lord. “One more thing…”

“What?” Sekhmet looked up from behind the desk, hands crossed on the surface, gesturing for Min He to speak freely.

“When Gu Xianqing fell from the tower two nights ago, Vivian directed her to flee west,” Min He said, straightening her spine. “But our people chased that way for half a day and found nothing. I thought it suspicious, so I doubled back to the fall site and retraced the scents. In fact, the blood trail led east—the exact opposite of what Vivian said.”

“Oh?” Sekhmet shifted her gaze to An He. Min He turned her head too, watching for An He’s reaction.

An He frowned. “Impossible. It was definitely west.”

The faint pity An He had felt for Min He evaporated in an instant. She turned to face her directly. “I trust what my eyes saw. Scents… are they reliable?”

“Of course they are,” Min He replied gravely. The undisguised suspicion in her eyes chilled An He’s expression as well. Sure enough, you can’t show mercy to enemies.

Min He ignored An He and addressed the Saint Lord directly. “Yesterday, I reviewed that night’s battle in detail. I found two instances where Vivian’s interference kept me from grabbing Gu Xianqing. It’s not just the Lower City—maybe we have collaborators here too.”

Her implication hung in the air. Min He had received top-tier training at the Heroic Spirits Society; her low-voiced report carried a steady, forceful weight, every word resounding.

By contrast, An He couldn’t muster a single coherent rebuttal.

An He quietly observed Sekhmet’s expression. The lofty Saint Lord remained impassive. Even after their long talk that one night, An He still couldn’t read what the woman was thinking.

Leaning on her crutch, An He stepped forward, her foot landing squarely on a white flower in the carpet. “Saint Lord. I think this officer hindered my capture too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had to jump.”

Her voice lacked any real force. She strained to form full sentences, stumbling over them like a child.

But Min He clenched her teeth hard. Her gaze flicked to An He’s foot, and the cocky certainty in her heart suddenly wavered—that white flower on the carpet was a hyacinth, Sekhmet’s favorite. Heroic Spirits Society lore held that when someone truly important to the Saint Lord died, their funeral was blanketed in these lab-grown blooms. Even Commander Sora avoided stepping on them during audiences.

It was taboo.

Throughout the High Tower, only Wen Yewang could ignore it—her expertise was irreplaceable.

Now here was An He, and Sekhmet hadn’t rebuked her disrespect.

For a split second, Min He felt her accusation was doomed. But then Sekhmet brushed off An He’s defense entirely and turned to her. “If what you say is true, what do you plan to do?”

Under the Saint Lord’s gaze, Min He snapped to attention. “It means Vivian has some hidden connection to Gu Xianqing. I suggest the Saint Lord investigate thoroughly and use people with caution.”

An He rolled her eyes inwardly. This dog-nosed woman’s sharper than I thought—she nailed it.

Sekhmet turned to An He. “And what do you think?”

An He drew a deep breath. She couldn’t show ambition like Min He—a Cabin Cocoon without training wouldn’t crave status innately. She raised her crutch. “If this officer thinks she can catch Gu Xianqing, then I yield it to her.”

The word “yield” dripped with arrogance. From the corner of her eye, An He saw Min He’s teeth grinding.

Sekhmet’s face darkened. She rose from her seat and stepped away. “Very well. Starting today, imprison Vivian for interrogation. Wen Yewang will handle the drug questioning personally.”

Both women’s faces changed at once.

Sekhmet descended the steps, her eyes sharp and profound, a faint severity tugging at her lips—as if issuing a routine order. “Min He, does this outcome satisfy you?”

“The Saint Lord decides all. If it uncovers anything suspicious, of course it’s good.” Min He lifted her head, every motion precise and resolute from her training.

Both turned to An He. She felt a crushing weight of authority bearing down, their raw ambition on full display even among fortress kin. Low morals and high entitlement coexisted in these women.

Suddenly, An He understood why her “yield” had infuriated Min He so—not because she’d been belittled, but because someone without a fighter’s spirit wasn’t even worthy as an opponent.

For a moment, An He fell silent.

She’d been confident Sekhmet would keep favoring her after the last operation—the treatment proved it. Now, doubt crept in.

“You can go first,” Sekhmet dismissed Min He, leaving An He alone in the vast office.

Sekhmet ascended the steps and picked up the Holy Sword from the desk, turning it over in her hands. “Vivian.”

The Saint Lord murmured the name, back turned.

An He was utterly baffled by Sekhmet. For a heartbeat, she feared some slip-up had been spotted—that she’d be hauled off for Wen Yewang to dissect or run through by the Saint Lord’s blade.

But no.

Sekhmet turned, looming over her, hilt extended toward An He. “This Holy Sword is yours from now on.”

An He looked up in surprise, eyes on the gleaming blade. “Me?”

The scene felt eerily familiar. Ide had bestowed a sword on her too—its golden hue as blinding as sunlight.

“Your expression says you don’t want it?” Sekhmet’s brow furrowed slightly.

“No.” An He hesitated, then used the same excuse. “It doesn’t suit me.”

Besides, everyone who’d taken this sword seemed to meet a bad end.

Unlike Ide, Sekhmet wasn’t swayed. She raised the Holy Sword. “This blade symbolizes power and honor. You don’t have to fight with it, but you will accept it. Or do you buy into that old ‘humility is a virtue’ nonsense?” Sekhmet was displeased with An He’s earlier performance, her aura radiating unyielding authority.

An He straightened. “What good does accepting it do?”

“Power is the good.” Sekhmet’s voice rose sharply, decisive and echoing through the room. “When you’re cornered, your views dismissed, your efforts undermined by the meek—power lets you skip those petty struggles. From that position, you make the final call.”

An He met Sekhmet’s eyes. So this is why the Saint Lord claws her way to the top? No one could dilute her authority, no matter her plans. She wielded the sharpest weapon, the tools to reshape everything—rules, future, all of it.

No—An He realized. “You mean what just happened?”

“Yes. Your performance was raw. Honestly, I’m disappointed.”

That’s why Sekhmet had gone along with Min He’s push for imprisonment. An He’s self-assured defense had zero impact. In the First Fortress, real damage came from strength and rank—the command to hammer down final judgment. Min He got it; An He was still grasping.

Sekhmet thrust her wrist forward. The blade slid half an inch from its sheath, light from the window refracting into An He’s eyes. She raised a hand to shield them.

A warning. “Brute force without real power doesn’t last. If you don’t want others deciding your fate in a few words, don’t scorn it.”

An He straightened her back.

The Ninth Fortress never taught Thorn Lamp members to seize power—only sacrifice and duty. Yet in this brutal, rigid hierarchy, the top leader wanted ambition in her subordinates.

Doesn’t the Saint Lord fear being toppled?

“That look says someone with too much power might replace me, right?” Sekhmet met her gaze unflinchingly. “They might—as long as they’ve got the chops.”

Heat surged in An He’s chest. Crutch in hand, she stepped forward and took the Holy Sword.

The weapon she’d rejected in the Ninth Fortress now belonged to her in the First.

Power had no “fit”—only the weak were unfit. As the blade’s hefty weight settled in her grip, An He fully understood: this wasn’t just a sword anymore. It was a voice.

She no longer had to fear Wen Yewang dragging her off for tests, or Min He’s whispers landing her in a cell. She could even access the archives to dig into An Ning’s past.

So I don’t need to lurk or scrape by—I can do this all out in the open.

An He finally saw it: earning trust was a tool, not the goal. Power meant freedom.

“Thank you, Saint Lord.” An He bowed her head.

“Your speech needs work. Levels five through seven of the High Tower hold historical texts and the Library. I’ll assign a tutor.” Sekhmet continued, “I trust your learning ability.”

“Understood.” An He accepted gladly. At least no more playing dumb.

What Sekhmet didn’t say: all power in the First Fortress came with equal responsibility.

The Saint Lord turned. “This afternoon, a Lieutenant will take you to scout Lower City terrain. Your leg’s not healed—stay back from the front.”

“Yes.”

An He gripped the Holy Sword as she left. On the way to the barracks, she passed the logistics depot. She paused, pushed open the door, and found the uniform officer.

The logistician eyed her curiously. “Changing outfits? Why? Don’t like Heroic Spirits Society gear?”

An He nodded.

Not her—she didn’t care.

Someone else did.

The logistician scratched their head. No one ever requested uniform swaps, let alone came straight to them. They nearly refused, but their eyes caught the sword’s golden gleam.

“Combat uniforms are custom. For alternatives, I can take you to storage,” they said.

Half an hour later, An He emerged in a fresh outfit better suited to her: a black hooded cloak coat, new but reminiscent of her usual wear. Perfect for concealing a weapon at the waist or vanishing into the night.

An He walked down the corridor, and not a soul raised any objections to her attire. When she brushed past Wen Yewang, the other woman didn’t even recognize her.

Sekhmet soon learned of the matter from Wen Yewang’s own mouth.

“Good. I don’t need her tangling with the other families like Tina does—she can wear whatever she wants.” The Saint Lord didn’t even look up. “Knowing how to make use of her own abilities is a good thing. I told you, she learns fast.”

At two in the afternoon, An He boarded the patrol vehicle bound for the Lower City.

She had brought the Holy Sword along, securing it to her back with leather straps. Now, viewed anew, the golden scabbard matched her black outfit perfectly.

An He tugged at her collar and gazed out the car window.

No one knew what exactly lay hidden beneath her loose clothing.