Layne’s villa sat in the southern outskirts of Mubay City, like a quiet stone set by the city road; take the left fork, and you’d reach it.

It was 9 a.m., the sun pale as rice paper over the fields.

Hoofbeats layered like ripples as our carriage rolled on; more packmen with mules crowded the road, and Brooke’s reins danced, speeding and slowing.

We had stopped once, about ten minutes back.

About ten bandits burst from the roadside scrub, knives flashing like thorns; they blocked a caravan wagon and moved to strip it clean.

They never made it. A patrol from the Lionheart Legion swept in like bronze hawks, ringed them tight, and cut off their fight.

Well-armed and many, the patrol left no room for struggle; under the roaring cheers of travelers, the bandits were executed on the spot.

“Master, that was hair‑raising,” Brooke said, voice bright with a veteran’s jittery thrill.

I felt only a cold knot, not excitement. “Do you? I don’t,” Lance’s voice came out steady. “Lionheart’s garrison sits in the east of Mubay. Golden Eagle’s base watches the north. The ducal fortress crowns the center. In a military city like this, bandits swaggering to our faces isn’t thrilling. It’s lawlessness.”

That wasn’t my true point. If patrols were everywhere and bandits still prowled, either the bandits were fools, or the patrol’s purpose wasn’t keeping order.

I’d seen the seam, but its meaning wasn’t for the road.

Brooke fell silent, then warmed. “Master, your month with Mr. Layne is showing. You’re getting sharper.”

“Am I? Haha, Lord Lance is the king of—” I choked on the word and coughed.

“Master, what?” Brooke leaned back. “Didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing.” A prickle of panic, then a smile. I, Fulin playing Lance, almost blurted a title from another world; same name, sure, but too odd for Nordland ears. “Keep driving, Brooke.”

“Yes, Master.”

The carriage rolled closer to Mubay. Travelers and packmen thickened into a tide; many weren’t moving at all, just sitting with brows knotted, like reeds bent by a brewing storm.

“Master, Mubay looks sealed,” Brooke muttered, staring ahead, voicing the shadow already sliding through my chest.

So it’s a lockdown. My bad feeling bloomed black. A month-old spark wouldn’t have died; it would ferment and swell. Imagine it: a Blood Clan showing up in the Iron Duke’s city, strolling past the Lionheart Legion’s watch like mist through a fence, then roasting a priest of the Church of Light in broad daylight.

No question—such a Blood Clan spat on the law, wild and vile, its stain spreading like ink.

Citizens saw it. So did merchants, travelers, and young nobles on study tours. In their eyes, the Iron Duke’s legions were a shield no blade could pierce, the kingdom’s sacred sword. The Church of Light’s clergy were the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s promised hand of salvation. And then, a bloodborn stranger from nowhere mocked all of it and threw the city into chaos.

I was innocent, but this cursed otherworld didn’t care; the Nordland Continent plays by its own twisted rules.

If nothing else had changed, the Iron Duke would now tag me as a Shadowspirit Legion scout, slipped past the front through the harbor routes—sent to assassinate him, or to shatter his image, and the Empire’s, in the hearts of the people.

By their logic, that Blood Clan was despicable and arrogant beyond measure.

As for the lockdown, I’d bet they’d already painted a portrait of “Fulin Belit” and sealed the gates to hunt. They’d choke the news too, to keep panic from galloping. Mishandled, some snake would whisper, “The Shadowspirit Legion has invaded the Doran Kingdom.”

“We’re done!”

The words matched my thought—then I realized it wasn’t mine. Playing Lance, I heard the shout outside as a fresh clamor swelled; I leaned to the window.

“Dark Spirit’s here! There’s a vampire in the city! I saw it myself! I swear to the Light Deity! A vampire, in the city!”

A gaunt man in torn clothes sprinted from Mubay’s direction, shrieking as he ran through the packed crowd; his voice was loud yet rasping, his eyes bulging with blood‑red threads.

His frenzy struck the crowd like a pebble on still water; rings of whispers spread, widening with each breath.

“What? A vampire?”

“Impossible. This is the Iron Duke’s city. Get real.”

“No, think it through. If something happened to the Iron Duke, the coastline on that side would—”

Words overlapped, and none knew the truth. Still, worry darkened their faces, a slow cloud crawling from brow to jaw.

Left alone, this would boil into panic.

Then a figure in a red robe flew in from Mubay’s direction, cutting through the air like a crimson blade. From Lance Morrison’s memories, he was a mid‑tier battle mage, likely moved here after the city tightened its defenses.

He caught the gaunt man and landed about five meters ahead, blocking him clean.

Without blinking at the stares, the red‑robed mage raised his staff and leveled it.

“Hals Slumber.”

The spell struck. The gaunt man jerked, tried to fight it, then his eyelids sank like stones; he toppled and slid into sleep.

Most bystanders were ordinary folk; magic to them was storm‑fire in a tale. Tongues readied to wag—then the mage’s gaze swept cold as winter water, and mouths snapped shut.

A nameless fear spread through the crowd like frost; no one dared meet his eyes.

He looked merciless to them, a blade without warmth. No one wanted the sleeping man’s fate—he lay so still it felt like death, silence humming over him.

A chill pressed every chest; spring sunlight shone, yet the air dimmed, wrapped in a deep, terrifying hush.

Someone broke. A few were ready to scream and bolt.

A squad from the Lionheart Legion marched in, shouldered aside the watchers, and bound the sleeper. Their officer saluted the mage, and the two began to speak.

The mage stopped looking our way. The fear thinned, like fog peeled off by a breeze.

Only then did Brooke dare urge the horses on, sweat beading like dew. “Phew, Master. That was close.”