“Morrison’s eldest son, do you even hear yourself? Lance Morrison, a molester? That’s absurd,” the Duke said, his voice like iron scraping stone.

“Your Grace, I know exactly what I’m doing,” Duncan said, a hard edge on the word so-called, like a thorn under the tongue. “You must keep order, even if the man is a so‑called genius.” He drew a scroll from his inner lapel, the parchment whispering like a shed snakeskin. “This is a Memory Scribing scroll, Level‑2. The image is taken from a passing bartender’s recollection. That poor soul saw Lance commit something vile.”

Silence fell over the courtyard like frost over night grass, choking breath and sound.

A Celestial Spirit man, Viktor, watched the farce with amused eyes, like a cat watching a staged hunt. He didn’t mind pushing it stranger. “Doran folk, my name is Viktor. Before I became an Inspector, I was a mid‑tier mage, a battle mage as well. May I see that scroll?”

A Celestial Spirit battle mage was rare as phoenix feathers in ash. Guests traded looks, stunned; proper mages were sparse to begin with, and battle mages who fought alone were almost myth.

In the Doran Kingdom’s twenty thousand mages, fewer than a hundred were mid‑tier battle mages, a number barely above Earth Knights. And this one hailed from the Heavenly Spirit Empire and was an Inspector. In Doran, his power and authority stood like a mountain.

“With pleasure, noble Celestial,” Duncan said after a pause, handing over the scroll as if it weighed like lead.

Viktor took it and glanced. “Oh? Interesting,” he said, the word curling like smoke.

“People of Doran,” Viktor called, voice clear as a bell in cold air. “As the young man said, it is indeed a Level‑2 Memory Scribing. Because it’s scribed from memory, the scroll is still a spell. Only after activation will the image show. I assume you don’t mind me using it here?”

Hesitation rippled like wind across tall grain. No one felt sure; not even Fulin, who wore Lance’s face like a mask of jade.

At Duncan’s accusation—no, slander—her anger had sparked like flint. Yet cooling thought set in like rain after summer heat. She couldn’t be certain she could shake suspicion.

First, Lance chased skirts with a hungry heart but a timid hand, and his memory was a moth‑eaten cloth. He could have done something that looked like a break‑in molestation, then forgotten like smoke at dawn. Second, Lance had no memory from a month ago—Fulin’s day of crossing—like a page torn clean. He didn’t remember what he did, nor why he died and got turned into a BBQ skewer.

One thing stood rigid as a gallows: before its abolition, impalement had been Doran’s special punishment for rapists, a spike like a black tower through the gut.

Even now, an enraged crowd might still use it, waves of wrath pounding until a man was nailed like driftwood. That included molesters.

The thought hollowed Fulin’s chest like winter gnawing a reed. Had Lance Morrison truly stained the sky with a cruel sin?

Seeing them waver, Viktor raised the scroll high, like a lantern over a fogged pier. “Since no one objects, I’ll begin.”

He poured mana in; blue flame licked the parchment, eating it slow like tide gnawing a sandbar.

Everyone stared, hawk‑sharp, at the parchment being swallowed by that pale fire.

Soon the scribed memory unfurled, a moving image like a dream trapped in glass.

High noon. West district of Mubay City. A noble youth whose face, clothes, and build matched Lance Morrison like a mirror’s echo, slinking behind a comely young matron, shadow glued to shadow. He tailed her into a deep alley, to her door. She sensed him and cried out, voice like a bird startling from a branch. His mask cracked; malice showed like a blade pulled from a sleeve. He lunged, claws out, slammed her down, and dragged her inside. The view didn’t follow past the threshold—Memory Scribing ended like a candle snuffed at the door.

They watched, and their minds went blank, like snow covering tracks.

Silence sank again, heavier than before, a stone falling into a still lake.

Eyes turned to Lance like leaves turning toward a storm. Confusion, doubt, suspicion pooled there like mixed ink.

Most of all, raw revulsion rose like bile—what ordinary folk feel for a molester. Ten thousand blades seemed to pierce his chest. Lance stood besieged on all sides, like a lone boat in a black tide.

It’s over… Fulin’s heart crumbled like paper in rain. If it had been a still image, she could argue it was faked. But this was a moving memory—HD and uncensored, every detail sharp as ice, no marks of tampering.

Unless they were filming a play, or some spell cast a phantom. Otherwise, the youth who matched Lance like twin echoes had indeed molested an innocent woman.

The Iron Duke looked stunned, disbelief pale as ash on his face. “Lance Morrison, I’m… surprised. Do you have anything to say?”

“I…” Lance couldn’t find words, his throat dry as sand. Fulin felt the stares sting like nettles. Wearing Lance’s skin, she faltered, then spoke the plain truth. “I… don’t remember what happened that day. That’s real.”

Duncan’s delight rose like a vulture catching an updraft. “So you followed a poor woman without knowing, then assaulted her without knowing? Foolish, pitiful brother, do you grasp how absurd you sound?”

People thought the same: the genius who shone moments ago looked now like a molester, babbling weak lies like smoke from a dying fire.

Fulin knew if the Lance she played showed no resistance, his brand would sear like a hot iron. Branded a molester, forget a simple life; she’d have to shed this disguise, and a month’s work would vanish like bubbles on the sea.

But she refused to yield. Her past life’s knowledge kept her mind still as a winter pond. Even if Duncan’s scroll truly recorded Lance at the scene, it couldn’t convict on the spot like a thunderbolt.

Without instant conviction, a path remained, a narrow ledge along the cliff, where a reversal might bloom like a stubborn flower.

Yet alone, it was steep as a sheer wall.

So, Lance—Fulin—cast a look for help, like a swimmer seeking a rope: old butler Brook, Sergeant‑Major Lawrence, Earth Knight Layne.

They were steady as oaks. She believed if Lance asked, they would stand with him, as they always had, shields raised like sunrise.

But in that heartbeat she shrank back, fear yawning like a crack in glazed porcelain.

She didn’t know why. Only that the world in her eyes split, a fissure deep as an abyss, cleaving two distant shores. Lance stood on one edge, the nobles on the other.

Maybe that fissure had always been there, widening like a dry riverbed. Before, she could leap it lightly. Now, her feet felt heavy as lead.

She lacked the courage to keep lying to such kind people, the words sticking like thorns.

Quietly, she walked to the cliff rail of the sky‑borne courtyard, the wind cold as a blade at dawn.

Below, a dark, calm sea stretched like a vast blanket, a mothering water that swallowed all. For the already‑dead Lance, the sea seemed a gentle grave.

Lance, I don’t know you. Maybe you were a rascal. But that’s not my burden. Your name gave me a month of silk and warm lamps. I’ll grant you the cleanest end. Sea burial beats being roasted like a kebab, doesn’t it? Then I owe you nothing. I was too tired before; here, I only want a quiet life. Farewell.

He reached the rail, footsteps light as drifting leaves. Fulin had measured the fall like a surveyor. Mid‑drop, she could shed the Dual Incarnation, skim as mist along the waves, and flee like fog at dawn. Then live nameless, at peace, beyond the world’s clamor.

“Lance!” Alice shouted, voice like a bell struck hard. “What are you doing? Get back here!”

No one expected Miss Alice to dash from the main seat, a blaze of motion like a crimson ribbon. Fulin hadn’t expected it either; she hadn’t imagined the first to reach for Lance would be Alice.

Resolve, however, sets like iron cooled in water. Lance turned, but backed toward the edge, voice steady as winter light. “Why not? Mubay City’s punishment for molesters is nasty, like thorns under the skin. I’d rather die easy. Maybe the fall won’t even kill me.”

A moment ago, their eyes were knives. But the instant he looked ready to die, they remembered he wasn’t just anyone; he was a talent with a future, a sapling who might have grown into an oak. Many felt their hearts twist like ropes.

Alice’s voice cracked, tears bright as dew. “You’re just going to die like a docile lamb?”

Fulin didn’t plan to die at all. She planned to shed Lance’s name like a husk. It was merely another way to live, a road bending through mountains.

Yet she couldn’t grasp why Alice clung to this Lance she wore. Since that night, the girl had seemed thorny toward him, a rose with its prickles out.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Lance’s tone was cool as river stone. “If Father ceases to be legion commander, I’m just a baron’s lowly son. If I die, you won’t be forced to marry a brat. Isn’t that a happier fate for you?”

Alice shouted denial, fierce as a summer storm. “You idiot! Why do I need you dead to be happy? Come back, Lance! Even if your guilt is proven, I’ll bear the punishment with you. I believe you’re innocent, always!”

“Why do you believe me?” Lance asked cleanly, lost like a child in fog.

Alice froze a heartbeat, then answered without a flicker of doubt, body trembling like a plucked string. She poured everything into the words like wine into a single cup. “Because I like you!”

Gasps rippled like fish breaking water. No guest failed to startle at that confession, sudden as lightning in clear sky.

Fulin’s chest warmed, a tide rolling in. She remembered her past—heavy coursework, grinding jobs, a market loud with desire—until the once‑pure girl became a machine for overtime, forgetting humans still had these unreasonable sparks.

Like.

She couldn’t tell if Alice’s love was true gold or a young girl’s sudden crush, a blossom blown open by wind. But the feeling in Alice’s voice rang true, a bell without crack.

And the fissure in Fulin’s eye mended like ice under sun. Warmth rose with courage and resolve, twin flames kindled in a cold house.

Not all ears heard beauty in Alice’s brave cry. Duncan’s bliss had floated like a kite; now it twisted, he raged like a dog yanked from meat. “Absurd! Absurd! Absurd! Why would my Alice defend a molester—”

“Hold on,” Lance cut in, voice snapping like a drawn bowstring. “How did I become a molester?”

Duncan laughed like gravel spilling. “The scroll showed it clear as noon. Your sly face. Your clumsy steps. Your swagger when you tackled her in daylight. Or is it because the bartender didn’t witness your whole filthy climax, so the Memory Scribing is incomplete evidence? Dear brother, you are truly foolish.”

Lance shook his head, calm as a lake. “The fool is you, dear brother. Do you know your Memory Scribing is illegal evidence?”

At the word illegal, many guests woke as if doused with cold water.

Illegal evidence didn’t mean useless or lawless like a bandit’s knife. Under Doran law, evidence gathered improperly only works if the witness first testifies at the Noble Tribunal, words sworn like seals in wax, and both evidence and witness are present together like two halves of a seal.

In other words, if this scroll were valid, the bartender—Duncan’s common witness—would stand right here among gold cups and velvet chairs. He wasn’t. So the scroll was illegal, a thorny trick. Duncan was smearing Lance like tar.

Duncan knew this, of course. As accuser and learned noble, he was no dull ox. He sneered, lip curling like a dog baring teeth. “Illegal evidence, you say? So what? You’re a molester, and your guilt will stick like pitch. You can’t escape.”

Lance let out a helpless sigh, like an elder watching a brat kick over ink, and said, “Your evidence belongs before a noble tribunal, notarized in daylight, not hidden and sprung now like a cheap trick. Even if you sway our guests or the townsfolk into thinking I’m a lecher, what’s the point?”

“What?!”

“Forget the duke for a moment. Mubay City’s magistrate will question your motives first, like a hawk eyeing a twitching rabbit. If flaws void your evidence, then with what you just said and did, who ends up on the gallows—like a black tree at dusk—gets real uncertain. Understand, impatient brother?”

By the time he finished, the air in the courtyard shifted like wind changing over tall grass.

People stopped seeing the red‑haired kid as a cornered pervert ready to cut his own throat, and started seeing a knight who fought even with the cliff at his heels. Many remembered the title the duke had given him—“Flame of Chaos”—unsettling, yet lit with hope, like embers under ash, and the taste of it lingered.

The elf girl Vivian stepped forward, her voice clear as a silver bell in fog. “Humans of the Doran Kingdom, hear me. That mnemonic scroll shows multiple signs of rewriting, like brushstrokes laid over damp ink. That doesn’t alone prove it false. But mnemonics draw from memory, and pure imagination can carve ‘memory’ too. So in the Heavenly Spirit Empire, a mnemonic must be completed in one pass, with no overwriting, to carry legal force. Otherwise it’s illegal—no, it’s perjury.”

She lifted a napkin on an arm faint with the scent of green leaves, and showed it to the crowd.

The napkin was packed with the common arcane script, dense as ant tracks; in that instant it became a scroll, and then it burned in pale blue flame like ice‑fire. In the air, an absurd scene played, like theater lit on cloud: a boy identical to Lance battling a dragon.

Realization rippled through the crowd like rain across a pond. Among the Celestial Spirits, elves are deft as needlework and rich in mana, masters of alchemy, and skilled at crafting magical tools; this elf girl had made a mnemonic scroll in a few minutes, like a weaver spinning silk on the spot.

Clearly, the dragon fight was conjured from air. A scroll born of fancy always bears many rewrites, like planks patched over rot. The strictness of using mnemonics as evidence spoke for itself, cold as iron.

Celestial mage Victor stripped the farce bare without mercy, like wind ripping canvas. “Human sibling strife, so common it’s dust on the road, almost buried a genius. It seems even the famed Mubay City of the Iron Duke can’t escape wolf‑hearted schemers.”

Duncan broke into a hysteric rasp. “Impossible—why are there signs of rewriting?! This mnemonic scroll is perfect!”

The Iron Duke said nothing; with one gesture, like a knife flick, several of his personal knights surrounded Duncan, who had been a graceful youth a moment ago.

He thrashed like a netted fish, refusing the hook of reality. “Let go of me! I’m Duncan Morrison. I’m studious! Humble! Upright! Honor! My brother’s unlearned, foul‑tempered, a born wastrel! Don’t you idiots get it?! Tie up Lance! Why tie me, why—!”

In the eyes of all, Duncan looked pitiful under the press of the duke’s knights, flailing toward the edge like a moth against glass.

Not just pitiful—something cracked. He suddenly laughed, wild as a jackal under a dead moon. “So that’s it. I get it. Hahahahahahaha!”

People didn’t care what the madman had “gotten.” The laugh was a deep call from a cold well, and pine‑oil lanterns over the distant sea winked out one by one, like stars swallowed by tide. The dreamlike view dimmed; the magestone lamps in the courtyard lost strength like breath in winter, and the light bled away, the dark eating its edges.

Everyone sensed the wrongness like ice under the skin.

The Iron Duke and his knights moved first, clean as steel through silk. They secured the key figures even as they ordered the mages to light the emergency arrays prepared beforehand.

“Hahahahahahaha!” Duncan kept laughing, a rusty saw on bone.

The duke’s patience snapped. “Shut him up.”

The personal knights took the order—but didn’t move. No—those holding Duncan stood frozen on the spot, eyes dull as dead glass, bodies stiff as kiln‑fired clay, breath gone like a snuffed wick. They were dead.

Killing a Charge Knight isn’t simple; a life that strong doesn’t go out like a match. On the Nordland Continent, only the Dark Spirit’s black arts can snuff such candles in the wind—a Level‑4 Soul‑Slay hex.

“Enemy attack! We’re under attack!” a legion knight shouted, voice like a horn at dawn.

Drilled and steady, the legion knights were already braced. Three Earth Knights each took fifteen men. “Dawn” prioritized Prince Gio and the Celestial Spirits and had already exited like birds breaking cloud. While escorting the principals, “Dawn” would call for support; in ten minutes, they’d return as a thousand‑strong tide.

During that window, “Steelheart” shielded the duke and Alice, a wall like iron plates, while “Blazing Sun” guarded the remaining guests, heat at their backs.

When all were set, the emergency array flared. Six blazing orbs bloomed, harsh as noon in winter snow, and white light flooded the sky courtyard without grace.

But within that man‑made day, light thinned around Duncan, unnaturally, like oil slicking off water.

“Steelheart” Malte reeled as if struck by thunder. “Duncan, my boy—why is it you, why!”

“Father, why can’t it be me?” Duncan’s laughter faded to a knife‑edge, and an unnatural darkness poured from him like tar, swallowing more light. “If you all die to a covert incursion by the Shadowspirit Legion, everything in Mubay City becomes mine.”

The words hadn’t finished when thick black sludge leapt from the sea like a whale breaching, dragging a sheet of water that smashed across the courtyard. The sludge spread like a flower opening, and from within stepped a hundred‑strong Shadowspirit Legion.

They formed by Duncan’s side, night to his night, and he gave the order like frost cracking stone: “Kill every human here—except that red‑haired brat. I’ll tear him to pieces myself.”