“I’m not just lying around waiting to die~.” Fulin muttered on the bed, bored like a fish in a drying pond. But Alice had already slipped away like dawn mist.

Third morning after the incident, the room at Tulip Manor felt cool as a shaded grove. Fulin bit a small pillow, easing the Blood Clan thirst like snow on a fever.

She rose, breath steady as a still lake, and faced the mirror like a quiet moon. She tried a little dress she’d impulsively bought in Springwater Town, then spun twice like a maple seed.

“What am I even supposed to do~!” The Blood Clan girl in the mirror looked gaudy as a peacock in bloom. Shame pricked like thorns, and Fulin stopped cold.

Dual Incarnation. Her breath sank like a stone into deep water. She triggered the advanced Dark Warrior talent, and again became Lance Morris.

As Lance, she glanced at the folding wall calendar, a wooden ring of weeks and years. Its concentric circles marked time like tree rings holding rain and sun.

It didn’t track day-of-month, just the week’s flow like wind through reeds. To fix a date, you recalculated from each Sunday, bead by bead.

“Only one day left...” The words fell like a pebble into a well. Ripples spread across her plan.

Today was the day before Lance left home, a knife-edge before parting. Tomorrow was Alice’s birthday—her fifteenth, her adult step across a painted gate.

The Iron Duke would host a banquet bright as a thousand lanterns. For Alice, yes, but also for heavier meanings under the silk.

Invitations went to Mubay City’s backbone like roots in earth—nobles, merchant names, officers in polished steel. Even the Church’s bishop and imperial envoys would come like migrating cranes.

The celebration would also unfurl among the people, wide as a harvest moon. It would move in other forms, not just crystal and chandeliers.

Mubay City would take a holiday for Alice’s day and three beyond, a pause like snow blanketing fields. Farmhands and workers would taste meat and wine from their lords’ tables.

Soldiers wouldn’t get leave, but they’d get two silver coins extra, a bright clink like hail. About a week’s extra pay to warm a cold pantry.

City folk would see taxes eased this quarter like loosening a belt. On banquet day, they’d receive a tiny portrait of Alice, a keepsake polished like jade.

Craft is craft, and a gift is a gift, like a shell from the sea. No citizen minds free art that gleams on a shelf.

So everyone around Mubay City would celebrate Alice’s fifteenth, drums like rain on rooftops. And they’d remember what happened that day as if carved on stone.

If you had heavy news to announce, timing was a blade across silk. The banquet night was the brightest stage, without a doubt.

By custom, if Alice didn’t declare her court debut to the king, she’d announce her betrothal like a bell in a temple. The wedding date would follow like a second chime.

“Lady Alice to wed the Golden Eagle Legion commander’s eldest son.” The message would fly like a falcon and blanket the realm.

It would be a tonic shot straight to the heart, hot as wine. It’d show the Iron Duke’s lands weren’t in chaos from vampire unrest.

Not only unshaken, but steady as a mountain in storm. The Lionheart Legion would guard the people, iron paws sure on the ground.

The Golden Eagle Legion would keep pressing at the front lines like a spear through fog. In the end, with the Heavenly Spirit Empire, they’d drive back the evil Dark Spirits.

That was the Iron Duke’s purpose in piling silk and silver on this feast, a lattice holding vines. All of it for stability, a hearth in winter.

“So this is a duke’s daughter’s duty. Quite something...” Lance—Fulin inside—shook his head, a leaf brushing water.

Because the banquet was so lofty, Lance had no place under those chandeliers, a moth before a bonfire. Invitations went out a week ago; even the old butler got his yesterday.

That didn’t mean Lance couldn’t be seen, a shadow at the edge of the lantern light. As the Golden Eagle commander’s son and Duncan’s brother, he had to show face.

He couldn’t join the core rites, but absence would look like spitting into the wind. Not showing up would insult the Iron Duke like mud on boots.

Called to attend, yet too low to stay—pitiful to some, like a sparrow outside glass. Fulin didn’t see it that way; the sky felt open.

At least as Lance, skipping the later formalities, he could pour everything into the final step, a bow drawn to the ear. Today mattered like first snow.

Today, Lance would show Layne Valco the Secret Sword Blazing Fire, a flame leaping from tinder. He’d make Layne honor the oath and grant a formal knighthood.

Lance stepped out. The old butler, Brooke, waited at the door like a brass clock at the hour.

Lance cut him a sideways look. “Brooke.”

“Here, young master.” His reply was crisp, like a blade tapping a scabbard.

“Let’s go. Today’s likely the last time I visit Mentor Layne for years.” The words drifted like a farewell at a gate.

“Understood. I’ll ready the carriage.” The butler bowed, neat as a folded letter, and turned away.

Lance didn’t rush after him. He gazed down the long corridor, a river inside a house, full of small tides.

All month, he’d marched this hallway like a courier on a road, A to B. He’d never spared a glance for the paintings, leaves along the path.

Fulin couldn’t read art, but these oils were copies thin as paper bark. They hung thick as ivy, one every two meters along the windowed wall.

Still lifes caught fruit and porcelain like dew on skin. Landscapes replayed fields and gardens, green waves in afternoon wind.

Others painted ideas like banners—divine right and constitutional crown, senatorial republic and elder councils. Four vassal states, four weathers on one compass.

The stairwell and the great hall downstairs were hung the same, a patchwork of seasons. But at the hall, as Lance, Fulin had no mood for looking.

“My dear brother, you learned to read paintings at last?” Duncan’s voice drifted like a cat’s purr. “Or are you reluctant to leave this nest?”

Duncan lounged in the dining room that opened into the hall, a tea cup steaming like autumn breath. His eyes held mockery and pity, twin thorns on one stem.

Lance replied politely, the smile a thin glaze on ice. “Hardly. I’m so happy I could sing.”

“Heh. Keep fronting.” Duncan’s laugh clicked like stones. “When you leave, I’ll watch you fall. Try not to look too ugly, hahaha!”

With Father away, Duncan was brazen as a dog off the leash. His words didn’t mind cutting, sharp as a new coin’s edge.

Lance only shrugged, anger cool as a buried ember. “We’ll see.”

Fulin, inside Lance, didn’t wait for a reaction. He strode out the door like a breeze through reeds and climbed into the waiting carriage.

The old butler flicked the reins. The carriage rolled from Tulip Manor like a boat pushing off a quiet shore.

Only then did Duncan step from the dining room, a shadow at the threshold. He watched the carriage shrink like a star at dawn and hissed, “Don’t get cocky, Lance.”

“I don’t know how you survived a month ago, like a moth through fire.” His eyes burned like coals. “But tomorrow night—that’s your real death day.”