A show felt ready to burst like ripe fruit; the guests watched with lantern-bright eyes.

Malte stood taut like a drawn bow, warning Layne, “Layne, don’t pry into family matters. It’s Alice’s birthday banquet—you know that, right?”

“I know. That’s why I’m bringing good news—no, a surprise.” Layne cut a sharp look at Lance and handed him a dull sword, iron sleeping like a moonless stone. “Lance, do it well.”

Steel hissed like cold rain as several of the duke’s knights drew their blades—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—and ringed Layne and Lance, the air tightened like a drum skin.

“Let him,” the duke said, calm as a deep lake with storm-shadow below, then to Lance, “Morrison boy—no, I hope it’s a real surprise, or trouble will bite you. Clear?”

“Yes!” Lance answered at once, though Fulin’s heart fluttered like a trapped sparrow. Fear pricked, then resolve cooled; a 996 corporate drone doesn’t flinch at hard roads, so if ordered to perform, she would carve perfection like jade.

Lance wrapped both hands around the hilt, set the dull blade before him, and closed his eyes, sealing his gaze like winter over water.

Brows lifted like reeds in wind; the guests didn’t know what this raw-faced kid meant to do.

A sword in hand—were they getting a pretty sword dance? That would be mist over empty hills. But they guessed wrong. This wasn’t a dance; it was a war art, the secret technique called Secret Sword Blazing Fire.

Lance’s eyes snapped open like flint striking steel and a spark leaping dark.

In that breath, a strange force flooded the blade like spring thaw, then turned to fire; heat coiled up the steel like a venomous serpent, then burst into light like sunrise.

A tongue of flame licked the hall, and every eye widened like moons over night water.

Someone gasped, “That’s Battle Aura!”

The words fell like thunder; voices rose like a storm of leaves.

“At fifteen? Impossible,” one scoffed, doubt sharp like frost. “Must be a trick.”

But the highborn were many and worldly, hawk-eyed under velvet. A shared judgment formed like snow settling.

A scholar from Maple City spoke quick and clear, voice like a bell, “It can only be Battle Aura. That fire had no magical ripple, yet shone brighter than any spell, warm and free as sunlight—neither natural flame nor magic flame, but imagined flame. Only refined Battle Aura technique births such fire. This fifteen-year-old truly ignited Battle Aura. The Doran Kingdom, after Maple City, now sees Mubay City birth another prodigy.”

Everyone knew what fifteen with Battle Aura meant: Earth Knight before prime, maybe Sky Knight soaring like an eagle over armies.

The Doran Kingdom hadn’t seen a Sky Knight in a century; a mighty knight turns the tide like a mountain shifting, and one Sky Knight can rival a million-soldier legion in strategic weight.

No one present failed to taste the gold veined inside the boy’s future like ore in rock.

The duke watched until the flame ebbed like tide, then finally spoke, voice warm as embers, “Astounding! Morrison boy… no, Lance Morrison—is that your name?”

“Yes, I am Lance Morrison.” Fulin, wearing Lance’s face, held steady like a blade laid flat.

“Your gift is Mubay City’s greatest surprise in thirty years. You have the right to ask for something. Speak—what do you want?”

Lance glanced at Layne, and Layne understood like old comrades in rain. He stepped forward, voice firm as oak, “Brother, here’s the deal. The kid’s had a rough time in Mubay City; he wants formal knight status. I also want this: he’s my sole designated heir to my war art.”

A hush broke and scattered like flocking birds; “sole heir” meant passing the killing technique, and meant the mentor believed the heir could equal or surpass him when he laid down the sword—more than Earth Knight shadowed that path.

Yet a genius without formal knight rank, petitioning here under silk banners—was he being squeezed in the dark like roots under stone? The guests’ thoughts fanned like secret fans.

The duke’s eyes widened a shade, then narrowed like a blade’s edge. “Granted. But if he’s uncomfortable in Mubay City, is there a bitter secret, or will Lance leave the city?”

“No, I’m sure he won’t,” Layne answered, words smooth as oil over steel in crucial rooms. “To become strong, a knight must walk his necessary road, like I did. Lance must step onto a harsh training journey, not rot in a warm bed.”

Well said, Fulin’s heart leapt like a tossed coin, then cooled with a shadow. Mubay City is no warm bed; enemies of “Lance” cluster like thorns, and lingering might mean the grave like cold earth.

The duke sighed, breath like wind through old pines. “Alright. Lance, come here. Let me see you well.”

“Hmm. Good.” The Iron Duke nodded, gaze deep as iron ore. “I grant you formal knight status.” He had a knight’s medal brought, silver flashing like river light. “Your eyes carry wildness like a horse on the steppe; your strength feels uneasy yet holds hope like dawn. I grant you the knight title ‘Flame of Chaos.’ Bear it as a mirror, refine yourself, and become a powerful knight—honored and noble as a mountain under sky.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!” Lance sank to one knee like a tree rooting, and completed the oath step by step like stones laid in a path.

The investiture ended, but whispering hummed like bees; heat didn’t fade, it climbed, and even the three aloof Celestial Spirits now watched Lance with amused interest like cats eyeing a flicker.

The duke’s mood was bright as polished steel; he teased his chief knight, “Malte, seems you’ve raised sons like a gardener blind to blossoms; talent under your roof, and you didn’t know.”

“No, Your Grace, I—” Malte stood windblown like straw, face tight, words stuck like seeds in dry clay.

The duke carried no blame, voice gentle as rain, “No need to explain. A good general walks roads a good father can’t, and the coming of genius is cloud-born and untraceable.”

Fulin remembered her mask and noticed Alice’s gaze resting on “him” like dew lingering. She realized she hadn’t offered blessing.

“Miss Alice, happy birthday.” Lance squeezed out the words like pressing ink from a stubborn stick.

Fulin could have painted it finer, but “Lance” isn’t a natural flatterer; when it’s not needed, clumsiness is honest like an unvarnished plank.

“Hmph~ I’ll pretend I heard your blessing.” Alice answered with a tiny thundercloud tone, but her eyes held a playful glint like a girl pulling faces behind a fan.

Tsundere? Fulin wondered, thoughts circling like swallows. But if dislike were true, it would cut clean; even a schemer wouldn’t use such blunt tools. Maybe Alice truly wasn’t satisfied with “Lance.”

A small gloom settled in Fulin’s chest like dusk pooling.

Music rose, piano, violin, and organ weaving elegance like silk threads; the second stage, a buffet, was ready to begin, and after bowing to the duke and Alice, guests would savor the banquet like fruit under starlight.

The two couldn’t linger before the main dais; Lance and Layne bowed and turned, stepping toward the courtyard like water flowing.

After that string of events, the guests’ minds weren’t on food; they knew Lance would leave Mubay City soon, and smiles thinned like paper. Soft words cooled, private caution sharpened like knives in sleeves, and plans spread to woo or seize the talent like nets over a river.

“Your name is Lance?” Celestial Spirits move bold as birds over cliffs; an elf girl sat in Lance’s seat and gave his returning self a sweet smile like honey in sunlight.

“Yes, yes! Lance Morrison.” Lance froze like a deer in torchlight, a boy who’d never seen such a woman carved from spring.

It wasn’t Fulin’s fault; the elf was too beautiful, a premium blood source with scent sweet as clover, the aroma of natural blood rich enough to drift through skin like perfume. Without 996-forged will, she’d be drinking elf juice like river wine right now.

“I see~ mm-hmm~” The elf smiled knowingly, emerald eyes pure as lake glass, the neighbor-girl warmth bright as morning. Her delicate lips seemed to breathe petal fragrance. “My name is Vivian. Can we be friends?”

“Uh, gladly!” Lance nodded hard, Fulin’s mind hazed by the scent like mist flooding a vale.

“Then, would you visit our Celestial Spirit lands in the Heavenly Spirit Empire? Stay as long as you wish, like a guest under endless spring.”

“I—” Fulin drifted deeper, caught in the sugar-sweet trap like a moth near flame.

Another step and she’d show herself and drink elf juice, thirst rising like tide; it was only a matter of time.

Damn, these Celestial Spirits grab everything—money, goods, craft—and now talent, like crows plucking bright things. The guests burned silently like coals under ash.

“Hey, kid.” Layne’s manners were rough as rope, but as mentor he was solid as oak. He tapped Lance’s head, a brisk knock like a drum. “Palace chefs have top fish. Let’s go.”

Fulin, playing Lance, snapped awake like ice cracking; clarity returned cool as night air. Lance set his face, solemn as a shrine. “Yeah. I’m starving.”

“I’ll eat first. We’ll talk later, Miss Vivian.” Lance took his leave, and the elf girl’s smile stiffened like paint in cold.

A Celestial Spirit man approached once they were distant, voice mild as a breeze, “What a pity. Your plan failed, Miss Vivian.”

“Unbelievable. A human male not charmed by me!” Vivian’s glare shot like a thorn; she looked wounded as if Lance had cut her.

A Titan monk added, tone steady as a temple bell, “For sapient life, survival comes first; hunger before lust like bread before wine. Next comes need—dignity, being needed, being trusted. Vivian, you’ve been out of the Silver Moon Forest less than eighty years; heed your queen’s teaching like stars to a sailor.”

Vivian’s impatience snapped like a twig. “Shut it, Lashu. You talk more than my sisters. Listen—I came out to prove I’m not like them.”

The Celestial Spirit man smiled, eyes slanted like blades. “Miss Vivian, your plan here means nothing, win or lose. This is the Iron Duke’s domain. I’m not scolding. Learn how to tame them, and take your lessons like flame tempers steel.”

“All human land is human land. What’s different about the Iron Duke’s?” Vivian tilted her head like a curious bird.

“At least he has a way to keep Lance from being snatched right now,” he said, simple as a stone.

The music swelled from elegance to ardor, a soaring crest like wind over banners. Most had finished a plate, and eyes moved to the central dais like compass needles.

The Iron Duke rose, gaze sweeping like a hawk’s wing, and declared, “I’m honored you came to Alice’s birthday banquet. Today she turns fifteen. She shall be a lady.”

Is it coming? The guests’ guesses hovered like birds over grain.

With spell-carried voice ringing like bronze, he continued, “This lady will receive an excellent gentleman. He proved himself just now. That gentleman is Lance Morrison!”

Fulin, playing Lance, was mid-bite on roasted chicken; the words almost made him swallow a bone like a pebble.

“Mentor, what’s happening? Doesn’t that mean I can’t leave?” Lance wiped his mouth, panic flickering like a candle.

“No, it’s Alice who can’t,” Layne answered with a wry smile, the truth laid plain like a map. “To keep you from pledging, in name, to other dukes during your ‘harsh training,’ she’ll keep a vacant room for you for at least two years.”

“So that’s it.” Lance let out a breath like steam sliding off iron.

Fulin thought: fifteen plus two makes seventeen. By her past-life view, that’s still early. Two years felt a small delay for Alice. Yet, for those two years, Alice would be Lance’s wife in name. The idea pricked her like a hidden thorn; worry opened like a dark flower.

Lance said, "Then when Alice marries again, won’t her name be stained, like silk splashed with ink?"

Layne didn’t see a problem. He said, "In the Doran Kingdom, noble marriage is a hinge, not a dawn of love; it binds status and forges ties."

“Is that so?” Lance scratched his head, baffled. Behind his face, Fulin, the actor, admitted she’d been too set in her ways.

Not right; it wasn’t that simple. Fulin felt the thought strike like sudden thunder: a nominal engagement touches more than two, and a larger problem looms.

Lance spoke bluntly: "What about the commonfolk? The honored guests in this courtyard will accept, but they may not. If joy can’t soothe them, doubt and revolt may flare like dry grass."

Alice not marrying the people’s ideal—Duncan—but choosing Lance instead, like a rose planted in muck, would stir their displeasure and even anger.

If a self-styled righteous avenger rose from them, with knives in shadow or attacks in daylight, even hounding Lance to Golden Bay City, it’d be a nightmare, like wolves running long roads.

Layne sighed, the sound like wind through reeds. "It depends on how the Duke explains it to the folk. If nothing goes wrong, we’ll find who smeared you. Mubay City will clear your name soon. When you return from ‘penance,’ the people will welcome you. You won’t need to fear having no harbor."

“Ha... ha...” Lance let out a dry laugh, like dust in his throat. The "Lance" he played truly courted trouble; big sins avoided, small faults piled like ash. His reputation darkened, the shine wearing off like tarnished bronze.

Clearly, for her plan, Fulin had deceived Layne, laying a soft veil over his eyes.

Not just Layne. She’d misled old steward Brooke, sergeant Lawrence, and the Duke’s younger daughter, Alice. Fulin didn’t know if it was right; she only knew she must, to build a quiet hearth against the storm.

She knew that goal still lay far, like a mountain behind mist. At least, after tonight, she’d no longer need a mask.

Thinking that, her spirit eased, like warm tea in winter. Colors of the courtyard flowers burned brighter. The music in the hall flowed sweeter, like brook water. Faces wore soft smiles, lantern-warm. Clouds parted; her heart flew the sky. For a breath, the whole world felt exquisitely right.

Only, out at sea, the beacon’s light faded, and the night that rules the waters rolled back in.

In the courtyard, Duncan, pale and tight-lipped, finally spoke against the Duke’s decree. His voice slid like a blade over silk: “Please wait, Your Grace! This marriage isn’t right!”

Guests turned their eyes to Duncan. Hearing the suave youth was Lance’s elder brother, their looks softened in understanding, then frosted into pity and scorn.

The Iron Duke didn’t erupt at the challenge; his voice rang like tempered steel. “Speak, firstborn of Morrison. I hope your words carry a true surprise.”

Duncan took his time, words cool as evening wind. “Of course, Your Grace. If you change your mind, that would be Alice’s greatest joy.”

“Jealousy isn’t a knight’s virtue,” the Iron Duke said, his tone hard as a gauntlet.

Duncan spoke with righteous fire. “My brother, Lance Morrison, may well have a knight’s talent. That can’t veil his lawless nature. He’s unstudied and overbearing. As his elder brother, I’ve long feared he’d wander off the path. Sadly, a month ago, Lance forced his way into a home and molested a respectable woman. I have proof of his crime. Mubay City’s loveliest Golden Rose must not marry a man so filthy, a violator to the core!”