Lance ran with the old butler on his back, a shadow cutting through mud like ink under a pale coin of a moon.

He ignored the mire that clutched his boots like cold hands. He ignored the black ahead that pooled like a lake. He chased the faint silver wash in the sky and kept running.

He stumbled more than once, a deer skidding on wet stone. Ten minutes of breath burning like coals later, he eased up, turned, and listened. No horse snorted behind them. The camp lights at the waystation sank behind the bend like dying embers.

Safe for now. Relief fell over Fulin like a blanket pulled tight.

Only then did Lance’s body feel poured full of lead, every step heavy as an anchor. His right hand, where she’d clumsily condensed Battle Aura, still throbbed like a muted drum. Fulin tasted again how fragile Lance’s body was, a porcelain jar held in a storm.

They’d saved the old butler, but her chest held no triumph, only the thin chill of luck.

The plan had been a coin toss tossed into wind. Lance had climbed the arrow tower and laid three men flat, more brawl than silent kill. If the bandits on the ground hadn’t had their eyes dragged by that blonde young lady, if even one had kept glancing up, he would’ve been dragged down right there like a fish off a hook.

After clearing the archers, the next move was madness set to rhythm. He jumped from the tower to the wall, skimmed the two-foot ridge like a bird on a wire, then scrambled along to the gatehouse. He cut the winch rope with a bite of steel, then dropped to the yard like a stone loosed from a sling.

It played like a stunt reel, but Lance wasn’t built for grace. Fulin had puppeteered a clumsy body with sharp hands, pushing a dull blade to carve through silk. One slip and it was game over, a name scratched off in the dark.

The next step wasn’t the last, but it was the knife-edge. He had to jump from the gate. The damned gate rose ten meters, a cliff-face in the night—like dropping from a third-floor window into a well of black. Fulin hadn’t been a stunt actor in her past life, and Lance wasn’t cut from iron. To land without snapping like brittle twigs, he had to sheath himself in Battle Aura the way Layne had told him, a coat of fire over wet skin. Easier said than done.

Battle Aura was a beast with a tight rein. Unlike the pinpoint ease of Fulin Belit’s skills—point, strike, done—the Aura woke only when will hammered the gong, then had to be held like hot coals.

To use it cleanly, you entered a pin-drop hush, felt for it with your fingertips, and guided it grain by grain like sand through a glass.

Lance, as she wore him, had barely practiced. That he jumped and landed without face-planting or splintering a shin felt more like luck’s wink than skill’s hand.

Why insist on jumping from the gate? Because it was loud as a bell. It pulled every eye at once and set every alarm ringing at full pitch.

Then Fulin used the trick she’d honed as an office worker—information like arrows, words like hail. Short lines. Heavy data. An info-bomb that stunned them, letting her fish in muddy water and haul the old butler free.

She had planned for thick heads swinging first and thinking later. So Lance had crammed a set of Secret Fist: Blazing Fire—pocket edition of Secret Sword Blazing Fire. He wrapped Battle Aura into flame around his knuckles, one punch a thunderhead that could blow a man down.

But poor control bites back. That punch skinned his knuckles like scraped bark, and his right arm hung heavy, a lead bar wedged under muscle.

Fulin shook her head in the dim, a crow flapping off a fencepost. When this was over, she’d beg Layne for more tricks with Battle Aura. Lance had to hold that blaze with a steadier hand.

Not now.

Lance stopped. He eased Brooke down, then found a timber stump and let the weight slide off like a pack dropped at dusk.

“Brooke, you all right? They didn’t rough you up?” His voice tried for ease, a warm lamp behind a curtain.

Old butler Brooke felt his old bones rattle like beans in a gourd, yet his breath shone with survivor’s spark. “Oh, Light Deity above… If not for you, young master, these old bones would be tinder in there. You startled me tonight!”

“If the old man cashed out, I’d have a hard time explaining to my father.” Lance tossed a dry joke like a pebble across water.

“That’s true, that’s true…” Brooke breathed out, but worry pinched his brow like a tight string. He hesitated, a man with a bitter cup in hand. “But…”

Fulin frowned inside, a moth circling a lamp. Did she play Lance wrong? Or was Brooke upset they only took him? No… unlikely. In Lance’s memory, Brooke was upright but no saint. He’d looked past Lance’s scrapes, even pampered the dimwit scion and his rowdy buddies when mischief painted the town.

Lance let impatience flick like a tail. “Spit it out.”

Brooke finally spoke, apology soft as rain. “I’m grateful you risked your life. But was that wise, young master? These bones aren’t worth your blood. You living is… for madam…”

So humble? Annoyance pricked Fulin like nettles. She slid the talk aside. “Enough, Brooke. If you die, who’s going to serve me?”

Brooke blinked, then the knot in his face loosened. “Young master, you… you’ve grown up.” Tears traced his cheek like thin silver.

Fulin stared, thrown for a beat. She didn’t mind gratitude, but her mind painted those tears on the blonde young lady instead, and then clothes fell like silk petals—no, wrong picture. She shook her head fast, like a rattle drum in a temple.

She kept Lance’s mask on, high chin and lazy eyes. “Brooke, did you always take me for a child? One day I’ll be the strongest knight on the Nordland Continent. Watch me.”

“That I believe. But, young master…” Brooke settled on a stone like a bird on a cold perch, safe now but words sticking like seeds.

Why so many words tonight? Fulin sighed inside, a wind scraping bamboo. It was one life saved, not a legend carved.

Lance stood, brushed dust from his coat like dead leaves. Irritation crept in. “Say it. We’ve still got miles to go.”

“You bet your life for me. But what of your name?” Brooke rose, voice bare as winter branches.

Fulin blinked, a ripple over still water. A noble saving a servant ruins reputation? In the Doran Kingdom, that was virtue. Were they going to scold loyalty now? Nonsense.

And if they did, who cares? Mubay City already knew the Morrison house sheltered a dimwit heir. Fulin didn’t mind Lance’s name dipping lower like a moon behind clouds.

They followed the road toward the nearest village, boots tapping the night like slow drums. Lance laughed, the sound light as thistle down. “What’s a name worth? You want me to build prestige among short-sighted mice? Then I become a big rat and get eaten by a cat.”

“You’re… too right,” Brooke said, eyes widening as if a lantern flared. He hurried to keep up, apology tugging at every syllable. “But they’ll mock you. They’ll say you abandoned those noble maidens. Whether or not you saved me, they think you were bound to die for them. You didn’t meet their script. So Mubay City will condemn you. In their eyes, you’ll be a rat scurrying across the street. They might even name you guilty and march you to a gallows.”

Fulin’s surprise flashed like lightning. Anger followed like thunder behind hills.

Keyboard warriors, sharp tongues and soft hands. Let them try the blade themselves.

She had thought of snatching one or two girls on the way. But unlike the men, simply trussed like firewood, the handful of noble maidens were ringed in iron.

Out of a hundred mercenaries, a third crowded their circle, twenty-some brutes snorting like bulls. You couldn’t even approach; step closer and you’d be gored.

Lance’s Battle Aura was newborn flame. Even awakened, he was only a full-fledged knight by title. No solid armor. No keen weapon. That would be meat tossed to wolves.

Even with gear, numbers crush steel. One knight doesn’t beat twenty mercenaries. They’d swarm like ants and club him flat.

Unless someone handed him a Chicago typewriter. Or she shed the mask and showed her true self. Not in this world.

Fulin’s temper rose, hot steam under a lid. She wanted to stamp the dirt, wanted to pinch the lace hem and bite it like a cornered fox.

But she was an actor, Lance Morrison’s skin like a role on stage. Discipline smoothed the boil, a lotus closing at dusk.

Anger stayed inside like banked coals. The face wore only a faint scowl, a rakehell’s lazy contempt.

“Vermin are vermin. Even if they dream big, they can’t reach. I may stand on my own, but I’m not cut from my family, am I? Don’t they know my father commands the Golden Eagle Legion? He fights for the duke and the kingdom’s honor. He’s a hero. My name may be mud, but I’m a hero’s son. Let those viscounts and counts try touching a hair.”

Fulin as Lance had found the right drum to beat.

But Brooke knew all this. His worry wasn’t wind.

“The duke’s daughter, Alice. You know her?”

Lance watched his footing, avoiding patties in the black like stepping between clouds. “I’ve heard. They call her a golden rose. I haven’t seen her.”

Fulin skirted a small mound, mind whispering: if she’s truly a golden rose, and she’s to marry Brother Duncan, that’s a rose planted on dung.

Even so, Lance had never seen her.

For a noble girl not yet in society, a face hidden behind screens was normal. That’s why they called them boudoir maidens—a silhouette behind silk, a name without a portrait.

Brooke rubbed his forehead, head swaying like a reed. “Young master, she visited our house with the duke a week ago. You forgot?”

Lance frowned, a cat at a closed door. “Didn’t you tell me to avoid them? You said the duke hated me. I hid in my room. Wasn’t that right?”

Brooke covered his face, words tumbling like loose stones. “Ah… yes, I told you to avoid them. But you didn’t think to peek? Like you always do—head sneaking through the stair rail. Don’t you often go to town and stare at girls’ undergarments—Light Deity above, what am I saying?!”

His voice tangled tight. Fulin’s Lance stood blinking, a lamp without oil.

Lance grabbed a quick excuse like a fallen branch. “I couldn’t be rude to the duke. I heard he’s a powerful knight. If I peeked and got caught, father’s face would crack.”

Brooke sighed, heavy as a bell. “You’re right.”

Disappointment crept through his tone like fog. Fulin didn’t mind. She held Lance’s performance as if with strings tuned fine; Brooke’s letdown fit the dimwit scion like an old coat.

Another sigh. “It’s not your fault… oh, madam…”

His self-blame deepened, and Fulin’s confusion thickened like mist.

“What do you mean? Is Alice at the waystation?” The trail of words led to that door.

Lance spread his hands in weary air. “Even if she is, then what? Brooke, you’re not a fool. I can’t save them. Don’t talk about saving Alice. Do you want me to trade my life? And if Alice is inside, isn’t she guarded and safe?”

The old butler sighed again, the breath like wind through old pines, then began to explain.

"You're right; Alice will surely be saved by the Lionheart Legion, that hope rising like dawn.

But because she survives, if people learn you were there and pulled me out, they'll say you abandoned Alice, and blame will cling like soot.

Do you see my meaning, young master—how the shadow falls?

By that telling, tongues will cut like knives.

They’ll say you led roving mercenaries to take her—wolves scenting blood—maybe even defile her.

The duke will forgive you, yes—like a brief calm in a downpour.

But others won't; their favor is a baited hook.

To curry favor, or for reasons even I can't read, they'll smear you with tar by any means, even lay snares."

Fulin's heart jolted like a startled deer, yet she clung to a thread of hope, thin as dawn mist.

Lance wore ease like a borrowed cloak and said, "Brooke, don't rush. Even if you're right, does Alice even recognize me?

If she learns you were pulled out and someone asks, just say someone else saved you; let the truth drift like smoke in a crowd.

As long as they don't dig for real, the dust won't rise on me."

The old butler almost let a cold laugh slip, frost on his tongue.

He swallowed it like bitter tea for the young master, his rescuer, and the late lady.

He drew out every syllable like pulled taffy and sighed.

"Your red hair is unique around Mubay City—even your father doesn't have it; it's a torch no one forgets.

So everyone here knows the Morrison house has a red-haired brat, a mark on the gate.

That means you, Lance Morrison—no hiding under any hood."

Fulin heard that and went blank, her mind wiped like fresh snow—she hadn’t imagined even this.