Anya staggered backward.

"Ah—"

She looked up.

The person she had bumped into was a young female knight. Her hair was neatly tied, her armor slim yet clearly refined—not that of an ordinary soldier.

The knight immediately dipped her head slightly.

"My apologies, little lady."

Anya hugged the papers to her chest,

then gave a small nod.

"Un."

She bowed awkwardly.

"Iron Knight will excuse herself."

Without waiting for a response, Anya ran toward Geralt.

Her steps were small—quick, hurried.

—

The female knight frowned.

"…Iron Knight?"

Her brows furrowed.

She turned her head, following the direction Anya ran.

It's been a long time since I heard that nam—

Her thought stopped short.

Her eyes widened.

She saw it clearly—

the paper in the little girl's hands.

A faint, round seal reflected the light of the setting sun.

That was no ordinary paper.

The knight stepped forward once.

That little girl… is carrying an important document?

Her military instincts reacted immediately.

But before she could call out—

—

In the duel arena—

Lucas had begun to dominate, attacking brutally. Even so, Aldric was still able to endure, even landing several cuts across Lucas's shoulder.

Slowly, blood began to soak into the fabrics clinging to Lucas's body. The warmth of it flowing became vividly clear against his skin.

He lowered his gaze for a split second.

And the moment he realized it,

the euphoria in his mind went out.

The deception of adrenaline no longer worked on his nerves.

"…AGHHH—."

In a single breath—

all the pain arrived at once.

A sharp stab from his shoulder.

A burning ache from his thigh.

A punishing vibration in his wrist.

His body trembled.

Holy fucking shit… he thought briefly.

His legs nearly gave out.

But in front of him—

Aldric was panting as well.

His face was pale.

Sweat mixed with anger.

One of his legs was clearly limping.

They locked eyes.

—

Outside the arena—

Geralt, realizing Anya had vanished from his side, pushed through the crowd and met her as she finally reached him.

The little girl was gasping for breath.

"Father—" Anya lifted the paper with both hands. "Iron Knight… observe… this is important."

Geralt glanced at it.

And his smile vanished.

His eyes hardened.

"…Anya."

He quickly closed the paper,

pulling Anya slightly behind his body.

The sound of armored steps stopped behind them.

The young female knight stood upright.

Her sharp gaze locked onto the document in Geralt's hand.

"Excuse me," she said flatly, professionally.

"May I ask where that child obtained this document?"

Geralt did not answer immediately.

In the arena—

the clash of weapons echoed once more.

CLANG—!!

The fight was not over.

Geralt stared at the female knight for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Anya clutched her father's trousers, clearly confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere.

The knight noticed the defensive reaction. She drew a shallow breath, then subtly relaxed her stance—not in surrender, but to de-escalate.

"I have no intention of taking it by force," she said calmly. "However, that document… is not something that should be in a child's hands."

Geralt let out a soft, friendly chuckle.

"Ah… may I know your name, Miss?"

The knight dipped her head a notch. Formal. Disciplined.

"My name is Veska Grimhelt," she said clearly.

"A member of the Crowseals of Grimhelt."

Anya peeked out from behind Geralt's body.

"Crowseals…?" she murmured quietly, not truly understanding.

The woman then explained in a polite tone that the document Anya was holding could potentially spark conflict, as it bore a noble seal.

Anya tugged at Geralt's sleeve and spoke, her voice small yet resolute.

"That paper… it belongs to some evil man."

Veska's gaze lowered to the girl. She neither dismissed the claim nor accepted it at once.

"Then it must be examined," Veska replied evenly.

After a brief silence, Geralt eased his grip.

The document passed into Veska's gauntleted hands.

She inspected it at once.

The parchment.

The script.

The seal.

"…Rosevelt."

Her thumb traced the sigil's edge.

Too pristine.

Too shallow in its impression.

A forgery—

Her eyes shifted to the body of the text.

And then—

Her breath caught.

"…Stones of Staboyonaz?"

Veska's expression changed at once.

Her grip tightened.

Before she could speak—

The measured tread of armored boots drew near.

A young male knight approached, cloak shifting with each step. His posture was rigid, disciplined. His gaze flicked briefly to Geralt and Anya before returning to Veska.

"Veska," he said in a low voice, "we are due to continue our patrol. Lady Matruska's command."

Veska turned, raising the document so he could see the writing.

"Karska," she said, voice lowered, edged with urgency.

"Do you still carry the Sigil Resonator?"

Karska frowned.

"For what purpose?" he asked in a low voice.

Veska turned the paper around, revealing its contents.

Karska's gaze swept across the lines—then stopped.

His jaw tightened.

"…A forged seal," he muttered.

"And this name—Stones of Staboyonaz."

He turned to Veska.

"That cursed artifact?"

"Possibly," Veska replied shortly. "Or bait. Either way, whoever forged a noble seal has already violated Imperial law."

She tapped the false emblem once.

"We track the tool," she said firmly.

Karska let out a short breath.

"…Understood."

He reached into the left pocket of his coat and drew out a small object—round, serrated along its edge, dull metal etched with faint runes.

With his other hand, he took out a monocle and fitted it over his left eye.

Karska pressed the device against the forged seal on the paper.

Click.

The object began to rotate on its own, tiny internal gears whispering softly.

Karska closed his right eye.

The monocle glimmered faintly—then projected a small sigil into his field of vision.

From the forged seal, a vortex of fine iron dust began to form.

Invisible to anyone but Karska.

He followed the direction of the swirling dust.

Then he stopped.

His eyes widened.

Veska noticed immediately.

"What is it?"

Karska did not answer.

He simply raised his hand and pointed.

Toward the source of the sound—

TRANK—! CLANG—!!

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