Morning slipped through the inn’s narrow window like a thin blade, and Fulin studied the line on her plan—Hero Role.

It was a long-game item in her web of travel schemes, a seed named for its fruit: make “Lance Morrison” a good name among common folk, so when every road closed in Golden Bay City, the Lance she played would still have a back door.

A cunning hare keeps three burrows; her heart held that chill wisdom like a pebble in the mouth.

She wasn’t naive enough to think the Lance she played would stroll Golden Bay City and feast at every table.

So she planned for scorn from local nobles like a coming frost; from a prior life’s lessons, flexibility was the fire—if a knight couldn’t earn by blade, then trade on the honor of the blade, become a commoner’s guardian, like those caped saviors from a world of neon.

This world had no superheroes, and free help was a myth; she’d work like a mercenary, take protection money, take what the river of coins would actually give.

Because it wasn’t free, the move was a blade-dance on thin ice; people wouldn’t feed an unknown guardian for nothing, so timing mattered more than muscle.

What brewed in Horseback Town felt like a bell struck at dawn; she wouldn’t root here, but a chance is a ripe fruit, you pluck it first and argue later, and this was that first footstep that echoes.

Ambition rose in her chest like a drumbeat before battle.

When the blood-hunger ebbed like a tide, she triggered Dual Incarnation, became “Lance Morrison,” left the room, and went downstairs; the key clacked onto the counter like a tossed coin.

It should’ve riled the innkeep—the same cook from yesterday—yet he tucked the key away meek as a stable boy and pushed back the deposit with both hands, like a waiter offering a tray. “One silver coin. And I overcharged you twenty copper yesterday. Maybe—”

“Keep it,” Lance said, voice hard as a door barred from within.

The cook had learned “he” was a formal knight; in Golden Bay City, nobles speak with strength, and a knight’s rank burns bright, so the cook didn’t dare meet Lance’s eyes, and the memory of last night’s planned petty bullying ran cold down his spine.

“Truly? Ten copper is a lot. If not the money, then maybe—” the cook ducked his head and peered toward the door like a nervous sparrow, “I can go out and… talk to them for you?”

Lance glanced that way; the doorway, usually a quiet mouth at dawn, had a clutch of dozens, folks who should be plowing fields or hauling goods to the castle, hands empty now, intent to block his path like reeds closing a stream.

The cook hoped a local tongue could blunt them, tell them not to lay hands on a formal knight.

But that was wishful smoke; the cook and his wife were exceptions—innkeepers see the road’s many faces, they’d seen real knight crests, so they recognized the “Flame of Chaos” badge Lance showed last night.

To strangers, distinctive craft still looks like a toy trinket, and no sweet talk would turn a crowd that had already tasted spoils.

Lance shook his head. “Get to the second floor. Guard your wife. The rest is a knight’s work.”

“Understood! Sir Knight, be careful.” The cook shot upstairs like a rabbit.

Lance eyed the mass outside, and inside, Fulin’s resolve flared like flint: Come on, office worker versus mob—show me your tricks.

At first light, the noise outside churned like a pen of geese; dozens jammed the square until the street held no drop of space.

They saw the “fool” in their minds step out, and they drew in tight, a net closing.

A cold gleam split the air; Lance lifted the Sirius Sword, the short blade flowing into a long knife, and he said, voice flat as frost, “Blades don’t see. State your business.”

They’d thought they could rage louder; his presence pressed like a storm front, and they side-eyed one another, feet stuck in mud.

At last one stepped up, pitchfork planted like a stake. “R-Rick’s place was robbed. W-We think it was you, you suspicious traveler!”

A first shout breeds a flock; the crowd pecked in chorus.

“Yeah, had to be this traveler!”

“He came yesterday, ha—Rick’s treasure vanished today!”

“Told you—shifty eyes, shifty soul!”

Fulin’s mood twisted with a helpless smile, and Lance let a small grin show. “All this fuss before breakfast. What did Rick lose?”

A man burst through as if kicked by anger—Rick—voice like a kicked bucket. “You stole my oak pole! Don’t think wrapping it in cloth on your back fools me!”

He kept his bluster like a lantern held high and reached for the oilcloth-wrapped staff at Lance’s back.

“Easy. Don’t.” Lance’s voice was soft as a falling leaf; the edge was already at Rick’s neck, and Rick still didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t courage; it was contempt—he’d branded Lance a fool, and in his mind, a fool with a weapon was still a fool; a fool holding a blade to a throat wouldn’t dare press.

“Unfortunate. I warned you.” Lance’s wrist flicked, a hiss like tearing silk, and a red fountain spurted from Rick’s neck; he folded like wet rope.

On the Nordland Continent, a knight under unreasonable provocation—even violation—may strike to kill, especially after a clear warning; this was lawful steel, not excess.

The townsfolk didn’t know the youth before them was a knight; blood hit dirt, and their voices flew like startled crows: “Murder! A thieving traveler killed to silence us!”

They were loud as drums, yet no one stepped forward; fear froze their feet.

Noise swelled at the inn’s front, and right on cue—as if the play demanded it—the “patrol” arrived in the first beat.

“What’s the racket, what’s the racket, what’s all this racket?!” a coarse bellow ripped the air, and the ring around Lance opened like wheat before a scythe.

Even with space given, they swaggered through, snatching a few who moved too slow just to strut their peacock tails, milking awe before they faced Lance.

“So it’s you, traveler. Look at you—spawn of a dog and a whore,” the three in front spat filth, and fifteen behind slung menace like cheap cloaks.

Their bodies were average, their gear dull, but their swagger was a sharpened thorn; it made Fulin’s temples throb.

Lance, in her hands, didn’t yield an inch; he smiled like a blade’s reflection. “Fine entrance. You must be the Charles Brothers?”

“That’s right.” The tallest of the three strutted closer and sneered. “And you—who are you supposed to be?”

“Blazing Fire Knight,” Lance said, name like a match struck.

They burst out laughing, a barn full of braying.

But they’d already lost the moment the laugh left their throats; Lance had the Sirius Sword in hand, the already keen edge now coiled in roaring flame, Battle Aura burning like a tethered sun, and against Secret Sword Blazing Fire, a gang of swaggering sell-swords had only the fate of straw before a kiln.

“Count your sins.”

With a shout like a bell, Lance drove his Battle Aura, borrowed the Sirius Sword’s hunger, and sent Secret Sword Blazing Fire sweeping over every mercenary at once.

“Ahhh—”

The jeering a moment ago turned to screams; the fire took them whole, and though range dulled the killing bite, none stood through it—Battle Aura slammed them down, and fire-serpents chewed their flesh, the air turning to burnt hair and char as they writhed.

Ugly to watch, but none died on the spot; Fulin, as Lance, had kept a hand on the reins.

Lance walked forward, step by slow step, and the crowd peeled back like a tide.

He reached the leader of the Charles Brothers, planted a boot between his shoulders, looked over the people, and raised his voice like a banner. “I am a Blazing Fire Knight. A traveler reported this town is steeped in sin. You live here. By the kingdom’s law, you must answer—do you admit your guilt?”

Eyes dropped like fallen leaves; fear cooled the square.

“It was those mercs who forced us!” the cook shouted from an upstairs window, voice like a thrown rope.

It was the right cue at the right beat; fear seeks a lead, and the townsfolk confessed in a rolling wave.

“Guilty… we’re guilty… but I didn’t mean it!”

“I’m a farmer! They seized my iron tools—they forced me!”

“If not for my new bride taken on the road, and when we returned they… in front of me—else I’d never have joined! Sir Knight, forgive me!”

The pleas braided together, and the mayor came—a thin elder in silk cloth—he led them to kneel like wheat bending in wind. “Honored Sir Knight, we are guilty, but spare us; this town can’t lose more young men… if punishment must fall, let it fall on these mercenaries!”

“Old rat, you dare lead them to expose me!” One of the brothers forced himself up through the pain and lunged for the mayor, rage like a kicked hornet’s nest.

“Sinner, who allowed you to stand?” Lance’s voice stayed level; Battle Aura sparked, a hand-axe jumped like a hawk and smashed his left knee, dropping him flat.

They had seen fire, and now they saw the air obey; strength like that cleared hesitation, and to lighten their sins, the townsfolk surged in knots and swarmed the downed mercenaries.

In short order, dozens pinned every one of the Charles Brothers’ crew; in the face of a town that finally moved as one, the bravos lasted less than a minute.

“Very good,” Lance said, approval like a nodding flame, and then gave orders. “Bind the mercenaries. Mayor, summon the elders. We convene a town court now. No delay.”

“Understood, Sir Knight.” The mayor’s eyes flickered like wary lamps.

The town court convened on the square, justice set on rough planks under open sky.

Accusations and defenses crashed like pots for two hours—more wailing than arguing—and Fulin, as Lance, spent a whole hour wrestling the Kingdom Civil Code until her scalp itched raw. In the end, all eighteen of the Charles Brothers’ men were sentenced to death and executed on the spot; the ropes creaked, the bodies were singed by custom, and then fed to the big cats. The matter, like a swollen boil lanced, finally stilled.

That night, the inn held a feast; Lance sat as guest of honor, cup catching lamplight like amber.

Elder townsfolk offered praise like warm bread. “Ah, the Blazing Fire Knight truly deserves the title. To save Mubay City, you set out alone; your strength is staggering, your aim is high!”

Praise should be drunk warm; Lance made sure it looked like he savored it. “Of course. A knight must be like me—walk a solitary path of tempering, to become strong in truth.”

Respect gathered in their eyes like stars in a clear well.

An old man, wine-soft and beaming, kept on. “Look at that—this is what sets a true knight apart!”

Not like the girl‑knight from half a month back—housekeeper, maid, and trainee squire all in one, hauling a caravan of pots and pans. What kind of knight is that?

Curiosity pricked beneath her calm; she kept Lance’s mask and tested, “A girl‑knight?”

In the Doran Kingdom, knights are a high‑tier mercenary caste—mostly men, for reasons everyone whispers about. Female knights are rare as winter blossoms, so the townsfolk’s tale made curiosity ripple through Fulin.

He sighed, thoughts drifting like mist through fingers. “Can’t recall the particulars—curse this sieve of a memory. But the lass was full‑figured, pretty as a fresh peach.”

He chuckled, mischief sparking like flint. “All you remember are her curves? That’s some cradle‑snatching old‑goat talk. Aren’t you scared the Blazing Fire Knight will string you up and feed you to rare beasts?”

His mood dropped like a curtain. “Then feed me to them. One less mouth at home, the kids would breathe easier. Sigh… Light Deity above.”

Irritation fluttered under her calm, a playful scold in her chest: Why’d the mood turn heavy? Keep it bawdy, keep the girl‑knight gossip—come on, tell me more.

Still, she wouldn’t carve the mood apart like a knife. She wasn’t leaving soon; there’d be time to pry. Wearing Lance’s face, she steered the talk: “I plan to stay a few more days. Would anyone mind?”

The mayor’s drowsy lids snapped open like shutters in a storm. “Mind? Of course not! A full‑fledged knight like you—power that awes, law at your fingertips. In Horseback Town, stay as long as you want. Ask for anything.”

Voices rose like a warm tide, and the sincere swell left Fulin quietly pleased.

The cook came with fresh dishes, steam curling like banners, and cut in, sour as vinegar. “You old fogeys, the knight won’t stay more than a week. You can’t hold him even if you beg. Didn’t you hear? Count George’s chief knight fell ill. They’re hiring a capable replacement. Get picked, and you’ll earn four gold coins a season!”