Near dusk, Mubay City bloomed with light—lanterns glowed like warm fireflies, ribbons of color draped across old stone.

Under Layne’s lead, Fulin—wearing Lance’s skin—stepped through the gates after a month away, each step like crossing a threshold of old echoes.

Layne, the former chief knight, turned suddenly. His gaze lingered on the massive gate behind Lance, stone like a sleeping beast. “Kid, know why Mubay built walls this grand?”

Lance answered at once. “To stop nobles from turning their feuds into street wars, right?”

Fulin knew enough history to say that. If it were the real “Lance,” he’d probably say the walls were for monsters. After all, north of Mubay sprawls the Demon Realm Forest, easy bait for that misunderstanding.

Layne nodded. “Mm. Five hundred years ago—Heavenly Calendar 823—the Doran royal house was weak. Nobles carved the kingdom into warlord fiefdoms. People starved; hope dried up. Sun Knight Taylor, the first Iron Duke, stood up alone and ended the civil war. Folks say his greatness was saving unity on the edge of despair. Truth is, I think his real brilliance came after. He drafted a constitution to bind dukes. He ordered major cities in each duchy to raise walls, to avoid infighting, to let trade breathe and fields recover. Because of that, our Doran Kingdom grew into the strongest of the four dependent states.”

Fulin blinked, surprised. She’d braced for a moth-eaten hero’s tale, not a philosophy that would’ve felt advanced even back in her previous life. She looked at Layne with a shade more respect.

They walked and talked. Soldiers along the path gave Layne long, steady looks, like saplings bowing in wind. Fulin felt a tide of reverence for the former chief knight, and that, too, surprised her.

“Not bad,” Lance said offhand. “Didn’t expect you ranked so high in their eyes, mentor.”

Layne heard the barb behind the smile. He frowned. “You really think I just loaf around in inns? I told you—His Grace gave me a real mission. The vampire wouldn’t show. I couldn’t drag it out by the hair.”

Lance spread his hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll admit you’re a diligent knight.”

“Diligent? Try ‘honor and nobility.’” Layne cared about labels. He corrected Lance with a spark in his eye, glanced at the clock on the nearby bell tower, then waved off. “I’ve got orders to pass. You know the way? Meet me at the duchess’s keep gate.”

“Bye.” Lance cut it short. Fulin’s heart didn’t.

It wasn’t Layne she missed. It was Mubay City itself, pressing on her when she stood alone, like a cold draft under a door.

No—fear wasn’t the right word. In her past life she was a 996 office drone, grinding through one hell-week after another. Real fear didn’t register anymore. Even so, her chest felt tight, nerves strung like a bow.

The reason was simple. She could feel the city’s hostility, like grit under the skin.

Don’t be fooled by the lanterns and bunting. Colored magic lamps clung to pillars and walls like coral, but half-torn bounty posters still scabbed the stone—“vampire” in bold ink.

Lance spotted one that had survived whole.

On yellowed parchment, a charcoal portrait stared back—harsh strokes underlined by scrawled notes: “silver hair, red eyes.” The face was a crooked crone, all malice. Fulin felt a stab of disgust. The picture wasn’t her; it was someone’s witch from a campfire tale.

Even so, “silver hair, red eyes” and female—that was enough to stick in anyone’s mind.

Fulin imagined those posters wallpapering the city not long ago. A shiver walked her spine.

The citizens wore celebration like borrowed clothes. They praised the Iron Duke loudly and sent birthday blessings to Alice with bright smiles. Yet pockets of whispers clung like fog. The vampire, the night, the fear—they couldn’t step fully into joy.

Seeing it, Fulin understood. Her appearance had scarred Mubay City more than any physical damage could.

Even if she had done nothing, the people still lived with shadows.

She could only laugh bitterly.

Keeping Lance’s mask on, she moved along and soon reached the duchess’s keep.

They said the keep had once been the inner city, girded by an inner moat. The water was filled in; the wound healed into a garden with an artist’s touch. To enter the keep, you walked through fragrance and sculpture, stone and bloom.

Tonight was Alice’s fifteenth birthday banquet. The garden thrummed like a hive.

Invited guests exchanged greetings with polished smiles, presented their invitations to the master of ceremonies, and filed into the keep in tidy order, rank shining like polished shoes.

Those uninvited but obliged to show face stayed in the garden, speaking loudly to mark their presence like flags. When they mentioned the duke or Miss Alice, the compliments flowed without restraint, a public pledge of loyalty and respect for the Iron Duke.

Lance fell into the latter group. Though “he” was the Golden Eagle Legion commander’s second son, for reasons everyone knew, “he” had no place among these circles. The old butler had entered early with Malte and Duncan as honored guests.

So Fulin, as Lance, chose a spot of shade that wasn’t too hidden—cool as moss—and waited for Layne alone.

She didn’t wait long. Two minutes, a breath in twilight, and a group closed in on Lance.

“Yo, Lance! Haven’t seen you all month. Where’d you vanish to?”

“Yeah, we missed you. While you were gone, Rien of the Ramo family and his scum were flying high!”

They were Lance Morrison’s cronies. Lance’s rotten reputation owed a lot to these friends, forever dragging trouble through the streets like tin cans on a string.

Their deal was simple. Lance wanted swagger and followers. They wanted a shield—Lance’s father was commander of the Golden Eagle Legion. Patrols turned a blind eye.

In short, “Lance” and his cronies were small-time bullies with real bad press.

Fulin didn’t want ties to them. But the role had strings, and she had to play along.

Lance put on his big-brother face. “What did Rien do to you?”

He moved like a villain from an old triad flick—angle, tone, posture all calculated. Solid. Reliable. A boss you could lean on.

Sure enough, a lackey rushed in to complain. “Rien, that bastard, he—” His words ended in a kick. “What about me?”

Speak of the devil—Rien appeared, looming over Lance. He was thick through the chest, heavier than boys his age. Not special in a real fight—but in the scale of street brawls, Rien was a beast.

“Damn, it’s Rien!”

“Boss, we’re counting on you. We’re out!”

The cronies scattered with theatrical loyalty, leaving Lance seated, ringed by Rien and his few.

The original “Lance” was the kind who bullied the weak and folded before the strong.

Normally, he’d go limp, breath thin as thread. Not peeing himself counted as restraint.

But not today. Lance wasn’t the old “Lance.” He was Fulin wearing Lance’s frame—a warrior’s blood tempered by the Essence-Shift Law, combat skill etched into muscle memory. He’d awakened Battle Aura at fifteen and learned Secret Sword Blazing Fire, becoming the sole disciple of Layne—“Blazing Sun”—in that art.

He wasn’t yet a full Charge Knight by rank, but by power he was a true knight, and a strong one.

Before a real knight, a thug remains a thug. Fulin’s Lance rose slowly, calm as a tide.

The thugs hadn’t read the weather. Two rushed in from left and right, barking, “Who told you to stand up?!”

It didn’t matter. Against a knight, numbers were noise. Lance punched left, then right—sharp, fast, clean. Both men folded, clutching their guts, backs scraping the gravel.

Lance set his boot on one’s head and laughed. “That it?”

That lit Rien’s fuse. He never thought Lance would strut like this. Even with a crowd watching, he’d make the Morrison brat pay.

Rien came on like a wild boar, trying to crush him with sheer force. A straight punch drove in, all shoulders and anger.

To Fulin’s eyes, the strike crawled. Lance slipped aside, took a single step back, drew his sword with a hiss, and slammed the hilt into Rien’s throat.

“Urgh!” Rien gagged. Breath caught like a fish in net. He fell, clutching his neck, writhing on the stone.

Seeing the boss drop in one exchange, the thugs didn’t grasp the gap in power, but they knew enough to leave. They scattered quick, and the fair-weather friends who’d been cheering melted away too.

Fulin-as-Lance dusted her hands, as if brushing off the last grain of a chore.

She hadn’t expected the scuffle to pull eyes across the garden like birds to noise.

A few noble ladies didn’t hide their disgust. They whispered behind fans, fingers like arrows.

“Look, the Morrison brat.”

“Ugh. No manners. Filthy.”

“See his brother Duncan—handsome, a gentleman. Beside him, Lance is just a feral child.”

“I doubt that feral brat’s a lady’s son. More like his father and a camp follower. You know—commander, Earth Knight, men, well…”

The gentlemen weren’t so crass. They toyed with the scandal, voices light, eyes bright, and turned noble gossip into commentary.

“Didn’t expect the Golden Eagle Legion’s commander to have a son like that. How has Lance survived this long?”

“Still, fate favors fools. Once the engagement between Duncan and Alice is announced, trash or not, he’s a golden turtle.”

“He’ll only enjoy spring for a few years. Once a child arrives and the kinship is sealed, the lady of the house will toss him out.”

“You’re naive. Tossing him out? Then another house takes him at once… damn, I almost envy this wastrel.”

The words piled up. Fulin’s heart tightened, sourness rippling like rain.

“Brat,” “trash”—those were the kind ones. The worst were wild metaphors, stories spun from nothing. They gawked like theater-goers begging for drama. Even as the actor, Fulin felt the fatigue.

At least there was one mercy. These were upper-class folk or tied to them; their schooling kept their cruelty to words.

Besides, if Lance hadn’t pulled Alice from a kidnapper’s hands, Mubay City might be holding a wake tonight, not a birthday.

That thought eased her mood, like a sip of warm tea.

Layne finally arrived. “Yo, kid.” He swaggered over in a scarlet tin can of armor, sunlight licking the plates.

“New suit?” Lance shot back, eyes raking the full harness.

It wasn’t ordinary plate. The cuirass was thick, its surface scored with ripple patterns. Those lines turned incoming blades or arrows, slanting force rather than stopping it dead. It meant Layne’s armor stood a tier above common steel in defense.

The whole suit burned orange-red. That fire wasn’t paint. Magic stones sat set into the chest, the left waist, and the right leg. Only their crowns showed, like gems peeking from metal. They pulsed, feeding a stream of amber energy. When that flow washed over the armor, the whole suit blazed the color of embers.

Beyond the wave-like ripples and the star-bright inlaid manastones, the armor hid designs far ahead of common steel, a mountain of wealth on his back.

Greed pricked like a thorn; by her back-of-the-abacus math, Layne’s armor was at least a hundred gold coins—about seven million yuan, sunlight stacked into towers.

Temptation bubbled like spring water; could you even get a mortgage for this suit of plate, she wondered, her thoughts scattering like sparrows.

Layne laughed, bright as a struck bell. "This is the Earth Knight dress uniform, treasure-grade—the Blazing Fire Warplate. If I get the chance, I might pass it to you someday."

Lance waved him off, light as a reed. "Pass. It looks heavy as a boulder."

Envy flared like a hidden ember; she wanted it badly, because she’d crossed over empty-handed as winter soil. In truth, she wasn’t sure if she’d come from Legend of Dawn, or if Heaven had kneaded a clay twin named "Fulin" for her at rebirth.

Bottom line, desire coiled like a bowstring; if she had a shot at good gear, she’d reach for it—ideally a blade over a shell.

Practicality cooled her fever like rain; armor’s a hassle, and upkeep bleeds money like a car.

Layne’s suit screamed expense, the kind a duke staffs a whole forge-crew to maintain, she guessed.

Layne rapped his breastplate; the thuds were drum-deep, like a heartbeat behind steel.

He bragged, "If it doesn’t wear heavy, you’re not an Earth Knight. This piece is a treasure, but I only suit up on duty."

Relief settled like cooling wax; his words stamped her guess as true.

Curiosity flickered like a firefly. "So, Mentor, you’re on a mission?" Lance asked, casual as a breeze.

Resolve tightened like a bow.

"Yeah. Enough chatter. Come on, kid."

Layne nodded and clapped Lance’s back, urging him forward like a push from a wave.

The clap landed like a smith’s hammer; Lance almost kissed the ground thanks to Layne’s thick-nerved strength, stumbling like a windblown reed.

Shaken but standing, Lance trailed Layne; the two moved through the garden like two boats along a green river.

In the garden, Layne in the Blazing Fire Warplate blazed like noon sun on armor, a beacon among leaves.

Seeing the former Chief Knight, the Blazing Sun, the crowd’s eyes rose like a tide—astonishment and reverence glittered like dew.

But for the one behind him—Lance—their looks turned chilly, confusion and doubt buzzing like gnats.

They clearly couldn’t fathom why the Blazing Sun favored this brat.

Soon, they reached the garden’s edge, where the path felt like a cliff before a gate.

Truth was, the "edge" wasn’t far; there used to be a bridge here.

After they filled the inner moat, the old name lingered like a ghost.

This was the Duke’s keep entrance, the throat of stone.

A master of ceremonies and several of the duke’s direct knights stood there, spears of protocol, checking entrants.

The duke’s direct knights were all Charge Knights, their posture like lances held level.

They also wore officer rank in the Lionheart Legion or the Golden Eagle Legion, banners in the wind of war.

Seeing their visitor was their former superior, Layne Valko—the Chief Knight commands the direct knights—their spirits tightened like drawn bows.

They snapped to an even crisper attention, heels clicking like flint.

The master of ceremonies warmed like a brazier. "Welcome, Sir Layne!"

They didn’t ask Sir Layne for an invitation, nor did they fuss over his full suit of plate.

Instead, someone brought a greatsword from behind the gate, iron moonlight laid across his palms.

They’d clearly been notified; Layne was here on a mission, and their preparations were neat as stacked shields.

Layne gave it a few cuts; the blade breathed whoosh whoosh like wind through pines.

Satisfaction showed, but a cloud of worry trailed it. "I hope this fine sword is only a decoration tonight."

But when it came to the one behind Layne—Lance—the direct knights looked torn, like reeds in two winds.

He was the child of their current superior, "Steelheart" Malte; should they stop him or not?

The master of ceremonies, though, drew a clean line like a knife and stepped in front of Lance without hesitation.

"You’re Lance Morrison of House Morrison, right?" His tone fell like cold water. "I’m sorry, but you’re not qualified to attend this banquet."