Karl: "..."
He was momentarily stunned. Was Margarita truly this forward, or was she merely testing his limits? Could anyone realistically throw out a question like that with such effortless composure?
His eyelid twitched twice, but he maintained his stoic facade. He wasn't actually deploying any X-ray perception, after all. "Nothing," he replied casually, keeping his tone entirely flat.
Margarita's eyes widened, a flash of genuine amusement dancing across her features as she locked her gaze onto him. "You... you actually managed to glimpse it?"
Karl's jaw tightened slightly. It had been a complete shot in the dark—how in the world had he guessed correctly?
Clearing his throat with a sharp cough, he did his absolute best to project an aura of unshakeable professionalism and ironclad rectitude.
"Miss Margarita, I am a man of strict principles who holds a deep, fundamental respect for personal boundaries."
"Peeking beneath a lady's garments without express authorization... that is a boundary I would never cross."
He paused for emphasis, squaring his shoulders. "Absolutely not. Even if the request came directly from the individual in question... it remains entirely out of the bounds of discussion."
Without waiting to observe the brilliant, knowing smile expanding across Margarita's face or the questioning glint taking root in her eyes, Karl pivoted smoothly. Depriving her of any opportunity to counter, he accelerated his stride, heading directly toward the heavy phalanx of knights marshalling under Dalton's command.
Margarita remained exactly where she stood, tracking his swift retreat. Finally, unable to suppress the impulse any longer, she lifted a slender hand to press against her lips, letting out a soft, thoroughly delighted laugh.
"A man of principle... is that what we are calling it? It appears this arrangement is becoming far more entertaining than I anticipated," she murmured under her breath, the humor crinkling the corners of her eyes.
A few paces away, Triss absorbed every nuance of the exchange. While the precise words eluded her, the theatricality of Margarita's gestures and Karl's defensive posture allowed her to easily deduce the nature of the conversation. Rolling her eyes toward the sky, she muttered to herself, "Dean... your definition of 'passionate and free' knows no bounds..."
Yennefer stood beside her, a subtle, knowing smirk playing on her lips as her gaze drifted back and forth between Karl and the laughing academy head.
In stark contrast, Hen and Tissaia remained completely oblivious to the brief diversion. Their faces were masks of absolute neutrality as they continued mapping out logistics and coordination vectors.
Any lingering amusement vaporized the moment Karl reached the vanguard and initiated the assembly.
Karl stopped before Dalton, Philipp, and the dense gathering of heavy cavalry. "The vanguard is fully accounted for. Prepare to move out."
"We await your command, Lord Karl!" Fifty-three voices answered in a singular, thunderous rhythm, the synchronization flawless.
There were no elaborate speeches, no dramatic battle cries—only a cold, mechanical readiness. The unit turned on their heels in unison, advancing toward a sequence of precisely aligned wooden crates containing their modular plate armor elements.
The spectacle that followed arrested the attention of everyone on the grounds, particularly those familiar with the traditional, labor-intensive rituals of the heavy knighthood. Normally, a knight required a small retinue of squires and a minimum of ten to fifteen tedious minutes to accurately layer and buckle a full harness. Here, that paradigm was entirely shattered.
The knights executed the assembly with a cold, militaristic efficiency, concluding the entire process in under two minutes.
As the final rider driven the heavy locking mechanism of his steel greave into place with a sharp, resonant metallic snap, every single man—Dalton and Philipp included—stood fully encased in pristine plate armor.
They stood like stone monoliths, the morning sun striking the polished steel surfaces and projecting a piercing, silver brilliance across the square. The contours of the armor were flawlessly rendered, incorporating smooth, sweeping geometries, deeply etched reliefs, cross emblems, and gold-leaf prayers. The integrated forging methodology gave the suits an almost seamless appearance—a perfect convergence of structural violence and exquisite craftsmanship.
More significantly, a faint, rhythmic magical resonance pulsed through the metal, silently broadcasting the extraordinary nature of the gear.
The unit systematically selected their secondary armaments, sliding uniform daggers into heavy leather sheaths at their hips, while cocked crossbows, their tracks pre-loaded with heavy bolts, were secured to the opposite sides of their utility belts.
For their primary armaments, the choice was nearly universal: a weighted one-handed longsword complemented by a reinforced shield. Only Dalton and a senior officer deviated from the template, each lifting a massive halberd spanning well over two meters in length. The weapon heads featured a lethal, armor-piercing spike for thrusting mated to a heavy crescent blade for cleaving—an exceptionally difficult tool to govern in live combat. Choosing such a weapon signaled their explicit intent to serve as the kinetic wedge, the vanguard designed to shatter enemy shield walls.
It was a logical calculation. Every individual in the unit had undergone rigorous conditioning in the Sun Breathing methodology under Karl's direct tutelage. Their raw physical thresholds, cognitive processing speeds, and aerobic capacity completely outclassed ordinary soldiers. They had no operational need to hide behind a static shield wall like conventional infantries; their bodies were the fortresses.
When these dozens of silver-clad giants assumed their formal ranks, the ambient pressure across the assembly grounds shifted violently. A dense, suffocating weight settled over the area.
The younger sorceresses, including Triss and Keira, found themselves unable to tear their eyes away from the formation. Watching the cold light play across the silver surfaces, the ominous anonymity of the lowered visors, and the unyielding gazes tracking through the narrow helmet slits triggered an involuntary wave of awe within their chests.
Margarita narrowed her eyes, evaluating the unit with a seasoned, professional scrutiny. She noted the periodic hum of energy washing across the plates—the unmistakable sign of a magical enchantment reaching saturation. Even from several yards away, her internal senses could detect the sheer volume of magical output radiating from the steel. The depth of that resonance comfortably eclipsed any specialized artifact she personally carried.
"This is easily at the threshold of intermediate enchantment... no, it borders on advanced artistry," Margarita concluded internally, her mind reeling at the implications. A mass-production run of this magnitude required a king's ransom in rare materials, immense chronological investment, and the undivided attention of master-tier enchanters.
Turning her head toward Triss, Yennefer, and Keira, she offered a questioning look. "The enchantments governing this armor... was it a collaborative effort among your circles? A network of this scale..."
Triss and Yennefer shook their heads in unison.
"Lord Karl engineered the entire sequence personally, from the raw forging to the final runic integration," Keira clarified, her voice dropping into a quiet, respectful cadence. "Our circle had no hand in its creation."
Her tone was measured, yet the specific inflection she used when pronouncing Karl's name carried an undeniable undercurrent of absolute deference—an implicit acknowledgment of ownership.
Margarita's eyes shifted slightly, her gaze lingering on Keira for a calculated beat. She recognized the behavioral shift instantly; Keira did not regard Karl as a colleague or an equal. It was the absolute, unyielding loyalty reserved for a sovereign lord or a master.
Suppressing the urge to interrogate further, Margarita simply categorized the data for later analysis.
Karl ignored the analytical whispers behind him, his focus entirely locked onto the readiness of his formation. Satisfied, he turned and crossed the distance to where Hen and Tissaia were finalizing their preparations.
"Master, I am surrendering the operational anchors of my realistic illusion to you and Mistress Tissaia," Karl stated clearly.
"According to our strategic timeline, the construct will intercept and guide King Foltest's vanguard, establishing a definitive blockade line along the western lakeshore."