“Wait—why? No, I refuse!” Vivian almost locked up again, then shook her head like a rattling drum, hair swaying like reeds in wind.

Fulin frowned. Wearing Lance’s skin, she kept hunting for excuses like a fox in fog. “Because I’m a half-baked knight. I need a great journey, or I’ll stall like a dull blade.”

Vivian blinked, then snorted a laugh. “Wow, that’s so dumb. Just come home with me. In the Heavenly Spirit Empire, ways to grow are a river, not a trickle. Hire a top Titanfolk coach. In under twenty years, you’ll be a proper Earth Knight. How’s that?”

Another pebble of dread sank in Fulin’s chest, rings widening like rain on a pond. She’d underestimated the Celestial Spirits’ might. So she curved her words and tried a roundabout path.

“Why me,” Lance asked, voice steady as a held breath, “if you just want a prodigy? That Rose Knight in Maple City sounds like a better pick.”

Vivian shook her head like a bell on a spring. “No! It has to be you. I feel something special on you, like a hidden star. I want that.”

Lance touched his forehead, weariness pooling like dusk. “That’s… troubling, you know? Sounds like even you don’t know what you want. If that’s true, I can’t go with you.”

“Is that… really important?” Vivian’s confusion rose like mist.

“It’s not about important.” Lance sighed, the sound thin as a reed flute. “Say I become your exclusive retainer, bound to guard you. But you don’t know what you want. That means you lack judgment. When danger comes—the kind you could handle—you’ll misjudge it. Then I must handle your extra messes. Do you see?”

“Isn’t it normal for a servant to worry for their master?” Vivian tilted her head like a curious sparrow.

Lance almost barked. “Not the same. Servants get exhausted. The ground rule of serving is not dying on the job, like a beast whipped to collapse.”

Vivian finally got it. Her look turned faintly disdainful, like a cat eyeing stale fish. “So you’re just scared of hardship. Humans really are lazy.”

“So what if I am?” Lance said, shameless as a sunbather. In truth, Fulin simply didn’t want to explain more.

Vivian’s tone softened with pity, like a shawl draped over cold shoulders. “Relax. If you become my one and only exclusive servant, I won’t make you do menial chores.”

“What would you have me do?” Lance asked, voice calm as a lake.

The elf girl bent close, finger raised, her breath sweet as new blossoms. “Simple. I need to prove myself to my sisters. You’ll do the proving as my exclusive servant.”

To avoid traps, Fulin pressed on. “Prove what, and how?”

“Easy. You killed a Night Disciple. He was your brother. That alone screams iron will and decisive action. If my sisters learn a man that steadfast is my servant, they’ll see me in a new light.”

It sounded brainless as a blunt arrow, yet held a kernel of sense. A reliable servant does lend a master thunder.

“And after that?” Lance asked. “What do you plan next?”

Vivian huffed, annoyance fluttering like a moth. “Why are you humans so fussy? It’s always ‘after, after.’”

That breezy tone set Fulin’s nerves on edge, like a deer catching a wolf’s scent. She pushed. “How old are your sisters?”

Vivian tilted her head, counting like beads on a string. “Not that old. Four hundred-something.”

“And you?”

“Me? Elven age is a secret… fine, thirty-seven.” She posed shyly, cheeks tinting like dawn.

Fulin’s mind thundered, clouds breaking on rock. Not that thirty-seven was old, but by elven measure, four hundred meant ‘maiden.’ Thirty-seven meant… not even a toddler, perhaps.

No wonder this elf, in private, didn’t match the solemn, queenly elves in Lance’s memories. She was a thirty-seven-year-old juvenile, bright and raw as spring grass.

Fulin didn’t know elven customs well, but one thing rang like steel. If she played Lance and went back with this child, those elder sisters would peel him first, proof later.

Still, a narrow world is easy to mislead. Fulin let a little smoke curl. Lance’s voice turned earnest as an oath. “Miss Vivian, by Doran tradition, strength alone won’t forge a knight. He needs broad horizons, like seas, and a tempered heart, like tempered steel. Until I can stand on my own, I can’t be your exclusive retainer.”

“That resolve… brilliant!” Stars lit Vivian’s eyes like night lanterns. She drew a ring from her pajama sleeve pocket and held it up. “Take it.”

“What’s this?” Lance accepted the ring, confusion pricking like nettles. He studied the gem and its miniature engravings, fine as frost on glass.

Fulin wasn’t a connoisseur. Beyond its beauty, the patterns spoke a language she didn’t know.

“With that ring, you’re my exclusive servant!”

“I haven’t agreed. And now isn’t the time.”

“So later is fine!”

“Later… might be a long time.” Lance’s answer smudged like charcoal. Inside, Fulin had already planned to drift away on that line.

“Don’t worry! I’ll wait. Grow stronger and come find me. Or I’ll find you. Deal!” Vivian, delighted as a child, hooked pinkies with Lance, then turned and left without a glance back, light as a skipping stone.

Did that really pass? Fulin wiped cold sweat from an invisible brow, like dew off leaves. If the elf had pressed with Celestial Spirit status, Lance might not have refused. Good thing past life as a corporate drone left her with enough social grease to fool a kid.

Still, tricking a pure, outwardly forceful but inwardly clean elf stung a little, like a paper cut.

That guilt was a moth before a bonfire named freedom. Soon she’d flee to Golden Bay City, live steady and quiet like moss on stone. By then, today would be smoke on wind.

Playing Lance, Fulin spread her hands with a wry sigh and returned to the desk. The plan list flowed under her pen like a narrow stream.

“Almost six.” Lance glanced at the dormitory clock, its hands like twin spears. Dawn’s pale wash pressed at the windows.

The Chaos Vampire hunger surged up, a tide of needles beneath the skin. Lance scrambled onto the velvet bed, cocooned in blankets, and let her true self surface like a shadow in water. She bit and mauled the sheets that still held Vivian’s scent, a wild, muffled fuss.

“Ah… that’s better.” Relief unfurled like cool wind.

Maybe it was Vivian’s trace. The craving ebbed faster than usual. In about ten minutes, the ache sank like a stone and vanished.

Fulin triggered Dual Incarnation again, reshaped into Lance, and slid from the bed.

A minute ago, she’d been breathing in that scent and imagining her teeth at the swanlike neck that wore it. In the moment it was bliss, honey warm as sunlight. After, it was shame, hot and crawling, like being caught peeking through a screen.

Am I still a Chaos Vampire at heart? The thought struck like sleet. Alice’s and Vivian’s clear eyes flashed in her mind, clean as mountain springs. The bitterness doubled like rain on rain.

At least there was a sliver of sweetness. Vivian’s scent was lovely, flowers with a wind-swept grassland undernote.

“All right. Time to go.” Fulin shook off the tangle like dust from a cloak, put on Lance, and focused on final preparations.

Lance stepped out. At the end of the stone corridor, someone waited like a statue set in shadow. It was “Steelheart” Malt. “Lance, my child, how did it feel to kill a Night Disciple?”

She’d expected Malt to avoid Lance like a man avoiding a thorn. Yet he’d come to see him off. The surprise fell soft as snow.

No need to maintain the wastrel act now. Fulin had her line ready, a prince’s old script after fratricide, words worn smooth as river stones by a hundred films.

“Many tales open bright and end bleak,” Lance said, voice low as embers. “Maybe he only wanted to rise. Darkness lured him off the path. My brother Duncan, I think, walked to that ending.”

Malt stiffened, a pause like held breath. “Is that so…”

“It is.”

Silence stretched, a century poured into a heartbeat.

“When your mother lived, she loved to say, ‘Parents and children are like bow and arrow,’” Malt murmured, his gaze distant as a rainy horizon. “I never got it. Now, Lance, you look so strange to me, stranger even than Duncan did. I think I finally understand what Susan meant.” He patted Lance’s shoulder, light as a falling leaf.

“My child, Lance, let me watch you ride the wind farther. Good luck. May the God of Victory walk with you… I hope you like this. Farewell.”

He handed Lance a finely wrought dagger, then turned away, his back a quiet mountain.

“This piece is called Sirius Sword,” Layne said, stepping in like fire after dusk. “It’s a named blade, close to a treasured artifact. Worth about fifteen gold coins, but that’s not the point. Let me show you.”

Flame leaped from Layne’s hand like a banner. The short sword swelled and shifted, becoming a greatsword in a breath. “There’s a Battle Aura gem in the hilt. Feed it aura and the blade takes the shape you want. You favor Battle Aura techniques. Sirius Sword is practically tailored for you. Thank your father. Malt hoarded this prize for years. Take it.”

“Understood.” Lance took Sirius Sword. The instant it touched his palm, the greatsword slimmed, becoming a katana-like blade, single-edged and keen as a crescent moon.

Layne’s eyes widened like lanterns. “Oh! A curved blade? The spine stands straight and proud. Looks sharp as sin. You’ve got taste, kid. Hah!”

“Thank you for the praise, Mentor,” Lance said, sheathing Sirius Sword. “We part today. As your heir in the arts, I’ll hold your teachings close, train without slack, and hone my craft.”

Layne’s laugh rang bright, a bell on a clear morning. “Hahaha! Then I can rest easy.”

The laugh faded, leaving apology on his face like rain marks on stone. He bowed and explained last night. “It was our fault. Lance, don’t blame the Iron Duke. If he hadn’t exiled you, the Heavenly Spirit Empire would’ve sent Inquisitors. As the Duke’s liege subject, they’d have legal right to take you. By downgrading you to vagrant status, they can’t touch you directly.”

The Empire’s extraterritorial reach was a steel cage. It had pressed even the Iron Duke to slip through a legal crack. Fulin couldn’t help the chill that moved like a draft.

“But why are the Inquisitors so fixated on me,” Lance asked, “chasing across half the world?”

Layne cleared his throat, like a man swallowing a thorn. “It’s not you, exactly. The Heavenly Spirit Empire was infiltrated by Dark Spirits once. Since then, their Inquisitors are jumpy as hares. Better kill a thousand than let one slip. A prodigy who looks suspicious to outsiders? They’ll torture first, ask later.”

“How are the Celestial Spirit Inquisitors so hateful, yet the Celestial Spirits last night seemed friendly? How does that square?”

“Because Inquisitors are natives of the Empire,” Layne said, voice flat as iron. “Many of them see humans as clever livestock. Overseers, for their duty, try to blend in here and be cordial, whether they like it or not.”

“So those three Celestial Spirits last night were putting on a front?”

“Not a full mask. Just pleasantries. Still, hear me. If you meet other Celestial Spirits, don’t provoke them. Above all, don’t lie to them. For complicated reasons, Celestial Spirits tolerate no human deception—especially from elves. Remember it.”

“Yes, Mentor,” Lance replied, steady as a drawn bow.

On the surface, Fulin looked calm; inside, her heart flapped like startled sparrows. Panic rose first, thoughts tripping over themselves: “Oh no, oh no, oh no—can I still return the ring? Lance, Lance, why are you trouble wrapped in skin? Please let that half-dim elf just forget this!”

“Ah, almost forgot. I’ve got something for you too,” Layne said, as if a lantern lit in his mind.

The burly, early-grey knight had a rod wrapped in oilcloth on his back, about a meter long. He handed it to Lance.

“What is it? Can I open it?”

“N-no problem.” Layne grew inexplicably tense, which only sharpened Fulin’s curiosity like frost on glass.

Lance unwound the oilcloth, two full turns before the wrapping let go. A staff revealed itself, mounted with two magic stones.

Two stones meant a renowned piece, the kind nobles whispered about. Even the Sirius Sword carried just one. A one-stone item fetched 15 gold mage coins. This two-stone staff was at least 24, maybe 40 gold mage coins—a clean fortune.

But… was this a magical girl’s wand? The too-cute, sugar-pink vibe made Fulin queasy, like swallowing honey with iron dust.

No, wrong—this world had no “magical girls,” only many girls who used magic. Was Layne asking Lance to pass the staff to someone? She guessed, clouds of thought drifting.

Just as Lance was about to ask, the straightforward Layne turned awkward, like a bear trying to tiptoe. “If—if you like it, take it. But, but if you could…”

“You know I don’t use magic. And this staff screams expensive. Mentor, tell me—who do you want me to deliver it to?”

“T-then deliver it to… whoever.” Layne got so flustered he used “whoever” for a very specific person.

Lance pressed his fingers to his brow, then guessed, “To your daughter, Jasmine?”

“Yes!…” Layne barked the word, then froze, then boomed a denial. “No, no! I am a ‘Blazing Sun’ Knight, the Iron Duke’s former chief, an absolute powerhouse—an Earth Knight! A man among men, iron-straight! How could I spend half a year’s salary commissioning a birthday gift my daughter might like!!… Ah. I’m doomed.”

Realizing the slip, Layne’s face fell. The light went out like a shuttered window.

Fulin eyed the overly adorable staff, sketched a few scenes in her head, and understood why this old father’s dignity was in knots.

Lance, borrowing Layne’s own forthright tone, patted his chest. “Relax. Before I hand it over, I won’t tell anyone—except your daughter—that it’s from you.”

At that, Layne’s wilted spirit surged back like embers catching wind. “Hahaha! I knew it—you’re my finest heir in combat arts!”

Fulin, playing Lance, didn’t share the cheer. She reminded him gently, mood first, then fact: “Sir Layne, you know I’m headed toward Golden Bay City, right? And your daughter’s birthday…”

“She was entrusted to me by a comrade before he fell,” Layne said, voice rough as old leather. “She was three when I took her in. Lots I don’t know. I never asked the birthday. Anyway, Jasmine will study at Maple City’s Magic Academy for the next four years. Once you’ve got a footing in Golden Bay City, find a time and pass it to her.”

What a careless adoptive father, Fulin thought, a sigh like mist inside her chest.