“I didn’t ask where you live,” Layne said, voice flat as wet ash.

“Your first question was about my identity. Isn’t a home part of that?” Lance kept a straight face, carved like a wooden mask.

“Mm. Fair point.” Layne sighed, wind through old reeds.

“Shall I continue?”

“No, no need.” He paused, then offered a freshly picked wild berry. “You know why I asked first?” His eyes pricked like cold needles.

Irritation first, then action—Lance dipped the fruit in hot water again and again, steam curling like morning mist. “I do. I’m fifteen. Most knights awaken Battle Aura around thirty, in their prime. So I should keep a low profile, right?”

Layne watched him scald the skin off the fruit, baffled, like a fox at a millstone. He didn’t press it. “Right. You’ve got good instincts, kid. And your identity?”

“Of course.” Lance gulped the fruit down like a stone dropped in a well, then spoke quick as flint. “I’m the second son of the Morrison house. We’re barons. Folks say I lack my elder brother’s merit, so I have no claim. But now that I show unusual talent as a knight, people will start scheming. I need to guard against whoever approaches.”

Wrinkles like river maps, Layne’s eyes widened, then he clapped, palms cracking like dry branches. “Excellent. Sharp instinct, clear head.”

“Obviously,” Lance said, nose tilting like a proud sparrow.

“Then why’s your reputation in shambles?” A shard of cold light flashed in Layne’s gaze, thin as frost on steel.

Fulin felt the suspicion stir like a chill draft, yet her heart stayed steady, a lantern in fog.

She had been a 996 office worker in her last life—social skills like a honed blade. Against a medieval career soldier, modern craft was a cliff to a stream.

Playing Lance, she let ease lead, like a breeze over tea. “Life should be lived with flair. Keeping a spotless name has a heavy cost. It drains the body, grinds the spirit, and burns money. If one needn’t shoulder duty, why not live for oneself?”

That was Fulin’s honest core, a pebble clear as spring water.

Layne breathed long, like smoke from an old brazier. “Kid, I wish I’d heard that when I was young.”

The cold glint was gone. In its place, a strange envy, like moonlight on closed doors. Did this old knight carry a regret? Fulin wondered, thoughts drifting like leaves.

“Want me to pass that on to your daughter?” Lance asked, casual as a tossed coin.

Layne stiffened, wary as a cat in rain. “You trying to fish in muddy water? Ask the father first.”

Lance rolled his eyes, a wheel over gravel. “Your daughter’s at the magic academy in Maple City. If I head to Golden Bay City later, Maple’s a short hop.”

“Still fishing, aren’t you? Listen up—my Jasmine is—”

Why is he picking a fight? Fulin’s doubt rose like smoke.

“Alright, alright. Even if she’s your jade, isn’t your current state a forked path for Jasmine?”

“Jasmine thinks this is a bad road…?” Layne’s fatherly gaze went hollow, like a house with no lamps.

Why’d the mood turn bleak again? Fulin’s heart twinged, a sparrow tapping the window.

Time to close this topic. Playing Lance, she scratched her head, sheepish as a pup. “Uh, mentor, no offense meant. My first answer should be fine, right?”

Layne rallied fast, spirit kindling like embers fanned. “Yes. Good. I’m glad you’re an earnest prodigy. You look solid—solid enough I’d leave my last affairs to you. Ha!”

The words landed heavy, like a yoke on Fulin’s shoulders. She could tell he’d been called tone-deaf when young.

Lance kept his thoughts clear and struck while iron was hot. “As for how I learned—”

“Yes, yes! I’m dying to know.” Layne leaned in, eager as an old hawk at dawn.

“You said Battle Aura can take shape by imagination. I did as you said.” Lance grabbed a woodcutter’s axe. He gripped the haft, and within seconds, flame sheathed the blade and part of the handle.

A good demo, bad choice—the haft was raw wood, no lacquer, no rare hardwood. Wood meets fire, wood burns. Lance rushed to douse it, water hissing like rain on coals.

“I get that,” Layne said, not upset about the ruined axe. His deeper point cut like a fine chisel. “I mean how you spotted the method of Secret Sword Blazing Fire—first layer of aura coats the blade, second layer covers the back side of the swing.”

“Because your Secret Sword doesn’t just accelerate at the strike,” Lance said, voice calm as a still pond. “It accelerates after. Past the muscle’s power phase, any extra speed must come from something else. That’s the secret of its destructive power.”

Layne went wordless a beat, then smiled with a drifting melancholy, like twilight on old armor. “I honed that for ten years, and you, a Morrison boy, saw the heart of it at a glance. With that eye, you could learn every art under the sun. I’m a little jealous.”

Lance shook his head, humble as moss on stone. “Not necessarily. I’ve tried other arts. Iron Heart made me feel awful after just one attempt.”

“Iron Heart, huh? Tell me.”

So Layne didn’t know what happened at the coach station camp. Fulin, playing Lance, gave a trimmed account, like a tailor hiding seams. What had to be hidden stayed hidden, shaped cleanly in the words.

The former chief knight listened, then nodded with thought like slow thunder. “So that happened. Without you, that birthday banquet might have fallen apart. As for Iron Heart—it’s a Refined Art. It tests how you control your aura.”

“Refined Art? Control of Battle Aura?”

“Yes. I’ve seen you’re good at controlling aura outside the body, but you’re weak at using it to reinforce yourself. You’re the opposite of most. Compared to the girl from Maple City’s Jinflower house, you’re the other extreme.”

Layne’s words reached the edge of Fulin’s map. Her knowledge went foggy, like hills under rain.

“Battle Aura has types?” Lance scratched his head, a twig dragged over bark.

“Maybe,” Layne said, turning his head, like a blade catching light. “I suspect so. The aura world says there are two approaches: Aura Arts and Refined Arts. Shape it outside, Aura Arts. Reinforce the body, Refined Arts.”

“So aura doesn’t have fixed types, but how we use it is classified. That it?”

Layne nodded. “Close. I’d say you were born for Aura Arts. I learned them later. Like everyone, I started with Refined Arts. Their key is controlling your breath.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Breath control. Explaining it takes time. If you keep training with me, I’ll teach you step by step. Truth is, that’s my field. But you seem short on time.” Regret colored his tone like a cloudy dusk.

“I’m very sorry,” Lance said, apology light yet sincere, like a bow of willows.

“It’s not your fault. Many Charge Knights study this a year or two after awakening aura. Honestly, at first I wasn’t sure you’d awaken at all. Ha!” Layne laughed bright as noon, then his face cooled, steel under snow. “But those mercenaries…”

Fulin saw an opening, a door in a storm. Layne, a capable knight, had orders to secretly investigate the Blood Clan. She needed to know how these strict, neutral humans saw a lone, pitiful blood.

Playing Lance, she asked, voice calm as tea. “Lionheart Legion said they came because of Blood Clan unrest. Is it that bad?”

“I don’t know,” Layne said, firm as a locked gate.

The tone was iron nailed to wood—a secret, or a block he wouldn’t move.

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry. Might be classified,” Lance said, reading the wind.

Layne shook his head, a tree shedding rain. “No. I’m not keeping it secret. I truly don’t know. Three skilled knights are on it, me included—Blazing Sun, Dawn, and Steelheart—your father. Three Earth Knights in total.”

“My father? Malte Morrison? He said the duke gave him leave, so he came back from the front.”

“Fronts don’t give leave to legion commanders when there’s ‘no war.’ He should’ve told you the truth. Poor kid.” Layne’s look softened, pity like warm lamplight. “Anyway, each knight took what he does best. My flame counters the Blood Clan. They hunt on moonless, windy nights. Mubay City’s west side is the entertainment district—chaos there like tangled reeds—so the Iron Duke sent me to sniff out their trail.”

“So you weren’t out carousing?”

“Of course not! If those bloods don’t show, I’m stuck in a hotel with a drink. And—”

For a month, Layne was the least busy of the three. Dawn suspected Mubay’s black-street syndicates hid bloods, and smashed several dens across cities. Steelheart focused on the vast outskirts, sending patrols like nets over fields.

They worked to the bone, yet got nothing. Like bait tossed into empty water.

“Sounds severe. How many did the bloods kill?” Fulin, as Lance, tested the waters, face placid as a pond. She needed to know if a new blame was circling her.

“They killed one bald monk of the Church of Light,” Layne said, mind elsewhere, like a cloud drifting.

“Is that serious?”

“Very. The Heavenly Spirit Empire wants the blood caught alive. Or they’ll intervene themselves.”

“That sounds bad.”

Layne didn’t dare look at the sky. He lowered his gaze, heavy as storm clouds. “Yes. If even they find nothing, they’ll grab anyone to take the fall. Or condemn the Doran Kingdom’s defenses. If they use that to hike our taxes or raise conscription for our duchy among the four vassals, the other dukes will blame us. They wouldn’t mind the kingdom losing an Iron Duke who holds thirty thousand square kilometers of harbor land.”

Fulin’s throat tightened, heart small as a clenched fist. She had done nothing wrong, yet the blame ballooned like a storm cloud. She didn’t dare chase that thought.

She could only play Lance and give a dry laugh, like a straw broom on stone. “Sounds… serious.”

“Yeah.” Layne sighed again, a wave breaking on shale, then lifted his spirit with a laugh bright as sunrise. “Luckily we’re knights. We don’t need to mull over political nonsense.”

Fulin heard the shift in his tone, a wind turning. Lance probed, slow as dusk. “So you mean…”

“Yes. Tomorrow night, at the birthday banquet, I’ll speak out—”

A chill of bad luck flashed through Fulin’s heart, a swallow striking a window. This breezy tone spelled trouble; last time he’d forced “Lance” to learn Secret Sword Blazing Fire.

Lance cut in fast, like a blade through grass. “Sorry, I didn’t receive an invitation. I can’t attend Alice’s banquet.”

Layne’s eyes widened, then he bit down, grin blooming like a dried chrysanthemum suddenly bursting into gold. He laughed louder, thunder in a painted hall. “Fine! I’ll take you in. Whoever tries to stop me, I’ll hit them. Don’t care what those donkeys think. I’ll make them all admit—You, Lance Morrison, are my sole heir in martial arts. Then the Iron Duke, that old brother, even if he hates it, will have to pin a knight’s medal on you. Wa-ha-ha!”

Hearing that wild promise, Fulin almost fainted on the spot, mind spinning like leaves in a gale.