“What do you mean ‘not qualified’?” The question hit like flint on steel; no one expected former Chief Knight Layne to strike first.

The ceremonial officer’s hard tone melted like frost in spring. “Mr. Layne, you might not know. Lance Morrison may be Chief Knight Malt’s child, but he’s nothing like he should be. He’s young and reckless, idle and useless. There are many esteemed guests from elsewhere inside. I don’t know how this brat fooled you, but if we let him in, the Iron Duke’s face will be smeared like soot.”

Layne’s face went stern, his gaze like a spear leveled at Lance. “Is that true?”

Fulin, wearing Lance’s skin, breathed easy like cloud and breeze. “If everyone thinks that way, what can I do?”

Layne barked a laugh, thunder rolling off a cliff. “Ha! Thick-skinned kid.” Then he turned to the officer, his presence pressing down like a rockslide. “Anyway, I’ll vouch for Lance Morrison’s conduct. If that’s still not enough, I’ll have to order you.”

The officer had nowhere to flee, a clerk under a mountain. He yielded like a reed in wind. “Please… proceed.”

His consent didn’t mean the direct knights beside him were happy. To them, it smelled wrong: a Blazing Sun Knight vouching for a street brat—there had to be a hook under the bait.

One direct knight stepped forward, boots clicking like flint. “Mr. Layne, we can’t let a suspicious person through. That’s the order we received. Please understand.”

Layne’s question cut like a clean blade. “And how is he suspicious?”

Under the former chief knight’s stare, the man’s bravado thinned like fog. It was flimsy logic, and they couldn’t just say Layne had gone soft enough to back a brat.

Then a knight in an iron can strode out from the gate, voice rumbling under the helm like a drum. “Yo, kid. What brings you here?”

Despite the metal growl, Lance knew the tone. “Sergeant Major Lawrence?”

The direct knights traded surprised looks, like lanterns flickering in a gust. The kid knew Layne, and even their colleague Lawrence.

“Sergeant Major, you know this kid?”

“Yeah, I do. He’s a good one.”

Lawrence sketched what happened that night. When they heard Lance had saved Alice with his own hands, their hostility cracked like river ice under sun, replaced by a deep, clean respect.

One direct knight came over and bowed, his visor lowering like a curtain. “We misjudged you, Mr. Lance.”

Lance stayed cool, a stone under rain. “Good to know.”

Respect bloomed, then withered a little at that thorn. Lawrence patted a shoulder with a heavy gauntlet, weary as dusk. “Lance is just like that. Don’t mind him.”

They thought it over, traded a glance like birds nodding, and finally waved them in.

The banquet stood in the ducal keep’s rear courtyard, and the two chatted as they walked, turns winding like a mountain path.

Layne still felt a chill at his back. “Kid, didn’t think your reputation was that bad. You were almost pinned at the gate.”

“You said if anyone blocked me, you’d flatten them,” Lance joked, the memory flashing like a spark.

“Mm…” Layne choked on the words, then steadied, his voice firm as a planted flag. “Listen. There are big names inside. You stay right behind me, got it?”

Fulin had faced big stages in a past life; the sense of tides under silk was clear. Lance nodded like a quiet drumbeat. “No problem.”

“Good.” Layne liked the clean answer, satisfaction smoothing out like calm water.

They threaded left and right through the keep, corridors like veins, till they reached the rear courtyard. Alice’s birthday banquet rose there like a sky garden.

The courtyard clung to a sea-facing cliff, an aerial terrace with beauty spilling like a cascade. Beyond the balustrade, the seam of sea and sky stretched straight as a sword’s edge.

After sunset, the sea should have turned to ink, swallowing grandeur like a wave. But tonight was different.

Hundreds of ships lifted pine-oil lanterns on their masts, a scatter of bright constellations fallen onto water. The bay shimmered like a dream embroidered in gold thread.

Lance breathed out. “That’s no small feat.”

Layne shrugged, casual as a kite. “Impressive, sure. But for the folks on those decks, it’s just drills… Our spot’s that corner. Let’s head over.”

It was time for the first segment. Guests sent representatives to greet the duke and wish Alice a happy birthday.

The nobles’ trusted voice was Marquis Beorlandi.

He governed twenty thousand square kilometers south of Mubay City on the Iron Duke’s behalf. Far from city and legion barracks, it was the main grain belt, a field worth more than gold.

By custom, Marquis Beorlandi stepped first onto the gold-embroidered red carpet, facing the center seat. Before a lavish long table, he bowed lightly, hand to chest like a clasped lily. “Marquis Beorlandi, on behalf of all nobles of Mubay City, pays you highest respect.”

He praised the Iron Duke’s governance like a well-tended orchard, his legions’ loyalty iron-true, their courage at distant fronts bright as fire. He briefly mentioned refugees in the southern tracts. The speech cut neat, less than three minutes, and he bowed again.

“Thank you for your service. Thank you for your loyalty, Beorlandi.” The Iron Duke’s reply rang like hammer on anvil.

The marquis turned left and greeted Alice for her birthday. “Miss Alice, you are beautiful, elegant, generous. Gentlemen call you Mubay City’s golden rose. Girls here take you as their model. After today, you’re fifteen. You may meet an excellent gentleman, and he will become our strength. On behalf of all nobles of Mubay City, happy birthday.”

“Thank you for your blessing, Mr. Beorlandi.” Alice was draped in splendor, her manners flowing like silk, answering with a duke’s daughter’s grace.

Watching from the wings, Fulin felt a jolt, like finding jade under dust. Women, they say, are born actresses; she hadn’t expected the rude young lady who snapped at Lance to turn this flawless facet toward the hall.

After the nobles came the officer’s representative, the “Dawn” Knight, commander of the Lionheart Legion and a powerful Earth Knight.

More than that, the boudoir ladies’ eyes warmed toward “Dawn” like sun on spring grass. He was a damned handsome man, Fulin cursed in her heart.

He saluted the duke with a perfectly drilled knight’s salute, movements crisp as marching drums. Then he spoke in a cadence that to Fulin sounded like a report—training and logistics, border defense and supply—sand running through fingers she didn’t care to hold.

But his armor caught her eye. It had a sharp, tech-made feel, yet calling it armor felt wrong. Plates were thin as leaves, nearly not there; a cloak bared its presence like a banner. It looked like advanced mage light armor more than a knight’s plate.

As an Earth Knight, “Dawn” ranked last in that trio by raw force. But he wasn’t just an Earth Knight; he was a combat mage, fluent in battle spells up to level 2. The gear buzzing with quiet intent—did it aid his casting? Fulin turned the thought like a coin in light.

The officers stepped down, and the envoys came up—emissaries from other lands of the Doran Kingdom. Each served a duke elsewhere; no single speaker should stand for them. Tonight was special. One man could.

Gio Robel, the Doran Kingdom’s second prince, could speak for dukes and their messengers together.

“On behalf of the Doran royal house and the other dukes, I thank you for your loyalty, and for your resolve to wage war against the Dark Spirits for all humankind.” Prince Gio’s bearing rose like a straight pine; this wasn’t acting. Even to Fulin’s past-life eye, he looked a solid talent.

After Gio came the Light Church’s bishop in Mubay City. He offered blessings to the duke and Alice with the usual “Light Deity above,” his words drifting like incense smoke, then withdrew quickly.

Fulin frowned slightly, puzzlement rippling like a breeze on water.

Lance asked low, treading like on thin ice. “Mentor Layne, the bishop said almost nothing. Does the Light Church lack influence?”

Layne, armor heavy enough to sink a chair, gave a wry smile, the sound like a muted bell. “No. The Light Church is strong. They just know their place. In front of the suzerain, they keep their heads down.”

He tilted his chin, a subtle point like a shadow. Fulin followed his hint and found the outsiders among the guests—the Celestial Spirit.

She sifted Lance’s memories and the truth clicked like a lock.

The Light Church, which worships the Light Deity and rules the continent, had sprung from the Celestial Spirit’s faith.

Fulin pocketed the intel and, as Lance, stole a sidelong look, eyes like a fox peeking from brush, watching the Celestial Spirit guests.

There were three: one Celestial, one Titan, one Elf. On the Nordland Continent, the three together are called the Celestial Spirit.

Their marks were clear as ink strokes: the Celestial sacred as moonlight, the Titan mighty as a mountain, the Elf quick as a willow in wind. They looked human, but they were high-tier lineages beyond humanity.

Their lifespans outlasted human clocks. Celestials were god-favored, mastering spells swift as rain. Titans stirred Battle Aura as easy as breath. Elves, nature’s children, lived long and beautiful, a tapestry humans couldn’t match.

When these three united and named themselves the Celestial Spirit, they seized rule over the Nordland Continent, built the Heavenly Spirit Empire, and bent human kingdoms into subject states. Subjects owed fealty and taxes to the empire.

To watch for skimming or plots under the table, the Heavenly Spirit Empire placed imperial overseers across the four subject kingdoms.

These three were the overseers in Mubay City.

After the bishop, the trio stepped forward. The one to speak, of course, was the Celestial, the face of the Celestial Spirit.

“It’s good the Doran Kingdom has a human like you, Mr. Wood.” The Celestial’s robe flashed like peacock plumage, his voice smooth and cool.

The duke’s tone stayed modest, like water cupped in hands. “I only hope those Dark Spirits won’t harm my people, Mr. Victor.”

Overseer Victor smiled, words chosen like a velvet-sheathed blade. “You needn’t be so humble. If you’re willing to draw on the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s strength, we’ll send people at once to smoke out that cunning vampire.”

The word “vampire” rippled through the crowd like birds startled from reeds; fear rose like cold fog.

“Mubay City has enough strength to guard itself.” A faint displeasure darkened the duke’s voice like a cloud over the sun.

“Let’s hope so.”

The Celestial’s edge nicked courtesy, but he still followed the program, offered neat greetings, and wished Alice a happy birthday. The outcome was fine; the process left many hearts strung tight like bowstrings.

The Iron Duke’s stance toward the Celestial Spirit was iron-hard. In other lands, a duke might bend low and butter a smile. Here, the Iron Duke met them eye to eye, reminding everyone a grand duke’s strength wasn’t smoke and mirrors.

As the banquet surged and dipped like a tide, Fulin’s heart grew sour, a bitter tea steeping. In her eyes, the night exceeded expectation. She’d thought of nobles and merchants sipping wine; instead, currents writhed under silk, forces locked horns, even greetings were blades hidden in flowers. It wasn’t a birthday feast. It was a Hongmen Banquet with candles.

Lost in thought, wearing Lance’s face, she didn’t notice her gaze had pinned the Elf like a moth to glass, nor that the Elf’s eyes had begun to return the look like a mirror catching light.

Layne stood, palm thumping Lance’s head like a drum. “Kid, quit staring at Celestial Spirit beauties. Our turn.”

Layne led Lance up to the duke, steps ringing like a march.

“Layne Valco, your father’s Chief Knight, on behalf of Mubay City’s excellent citizens—greets the one who has taken up the duke’s mantle!” Layne’s presence, dress, build, even his voice were the largest in the hall. If not for crisp diction, that sheer might would be a roar.

Even the duke blinked, dazed like a man caught in midday glare. “Mm, mm… ah. Yes. Yes. It’s you, Mr. Layne.”

The Iron Duke sobered in a breath, his authority settling like a stone dropped into still water.

Truth be told, this sovereign held Layne in rare regard, like a blade catching noonlight.

“Layne Valco, Mubay City owes you thanks—a standout subject without a noble title, standing like an oak among common folk.”

“Across the whole city, two million souls look to you as their example, like sailors to a lighthouse.”

“Because you shine as a knight, you become a lamp in the dark of their hearts.”

“I’m honored, Your Grace!”

Layne hammered his breastplate; the thud rang like a war drum, making Lance’s ears sting like struck copper.

Then he turned, words offered like a bouquet to Alice.

With a hawk-sharp glance, the Iron Duke asked Layne, “By the way, Layne, any request—and why bring the Morrison boy along?”

The same question rippled through most of the guests, like wind across wheat.

They were lofty folk, living high above the streets like towers; they knew little of common lives and less of Lance Morrison.

So their curiosity stayed simple: why would the Blazing Sun Layne trail a fledgling at his heels like a sparrow?

Yet for those familiar with Lance, the moment was a brewing storm, thunder low at the room’s edge.

Malte Morrison, the Steelheart Knight and the Duke’s chief, had stood silent behind him like an iron statue.

He stepped out now, face dark as a raincloud, voice rough as gravel: “Your Grace, forgive me. I’ve failed to raise my son; the pup may have toyed with Layne—”

Before the Duke could speak, Layne laughed coldly, like frost snapping twigs.

“Malte, you know you failed your son; a child’s faults are the father’s failing—aren’t they?”