After the intel came in, Fulin didn’t spur the horse; she let the dust settle like silt and chose to rest a week in Horseback Town.

Morning poured like pale milk, and Lance led a knot of townsfolk to clear the Charles brothers’ den, combing their seized warehouse like gulls picking a tideline.

A young man, counting by habit like an abacus clicking in rain, reported, “Weapons, armor, rations, silver crowns, raw gemstones… Sir, total value, sixty-seven silver crowns.”

It wasn’t much; disappointment pricked like a thorn under silk, even as Lance’s face smoothed like calm water. “Mm. Good. Check the other side.”

“Yes, Blazing Fire Knight, sir.” The youth, the mayor’s son, had numbers in his bones like grain lines in wood.

Half an hour drifted by like a slow cloud, and the mercenaries’ leftovers were tallied to the last nail like beads on a rosary. “That’s all of it,” the youth said, voice steady as a plowline. “One gold crown and six silver crowns. Your decision, sir?”

Playing Lance, Fulin sat at the peak of their hopes like a hawk on a post, and every gaze clung like dew to a blade of grass. She could keep it, or she could scatter it like seed.

“All of it stays with you,” Lance said, each word falling like a stake, then added, “But split it into three equal shares, like three furrows in one field. One, buy seed for the summer harvest and autumn plowing. Two, hire carpenters and masons to raise signboards at the gate and fix up the fronts inside town. Three, hire a mercenary company. That last share won’t be enough, so plan for the long haul, like stacking firewood before winter.”

“Understood, sir!” Awe rose from them like warmth from sun-baked stones.

With that done, the next few days slid by like lazy water, and Fulin basked in the quiet.

Life wasn’t as cushy as in Mubay City, yet peace lay over each dawn like a soft shawl, and worry kept its distance like mist burned off a lake.

Morning, she trained her Battle Aura in the inn’s back lot, breath steady as a bellows and strikes crisp as frost cracking. Noon, she took a cat-drawn cart into the nearby beastlands, harvesting life essence like dew gathered from thorn tips.

She made sure to be back by afternoon, slipping into Horseback Town like a swallow to its eave. With the mayor’s lounge chair in hand, she stretched under tree shade like a cat in a sunpatch, watching leaf-shadows dance and wheat roll in green waves, and dozed in that half-dream state like a lake under light wind—nothing felt happier than ending a day that way.

“Sir Knight, please help us.” On the morning before the planned departure, the mayor came with two young men, their faces pinched like paper in rain.

Playing Lance, Fulin clocked their dress first—silk cloth saved for holy days, rustling like reeds—and the tension next, tight as a full bow. One youth hugged a thick sheaf of parchments to his side like a bundle of firewood, the edges frayed but tied with hemp and wrapped in oilcloth like a precious scroll—legal papers, vital as a well in dry season.

“What happened?” Lance rose from the lounge chair with a sigh like a leaf leaving a branch; Fulin had meant to do nothing today, like a stone warming in sunlight.

The mayor and the youths bowed, their apology falling like rain on dust. “We have a legal dispute with the town to the west—Ramhorn Town. We hope you’ll stand with us.”

“I’ll say it up front. It won’t be free.”

“No problem.”

Their plea spilled out like grain from a slit sack, and Fulin pieced it together like stitching a torn seam. Years back, the Vanilla Duke had pressed tenant farmers like wind pressing grass, and people thinned like a field after locusts. Land along the border between the two towns lay fallow and wild, and it should’ve been settled by Carl Margrave like a judge laying down a gavel. He never showed, and the matter curdled into a legal fight between towns.

The mayor already had his lines set like stakes in a field, but he needed Lance to lend weight like an anchor in a storm. A sworn knight at the table meant their voices carried like drums. The meeting time was noon today, bright as a blade.

“I understand. Fine.” It sounded easy, and relief softened Fulin’s chest like warm bread, so Lance agreed without fuss.

The three bowed deep as bending wheat. “Thank you, Sir Knight!”

At noon, they climbed to a low hill with a horizon wide as a lake, the chosen ground for words to cross like arrows.

Fulin saw at a glance why they needed a pillar. Ramhorn Town came bristling with mercenaries, spears like thorns and grins like knives.

“Look, look, who’d they bring?” the other mayor jeered, his escort puffing him up like wind inflating a sail. “A red-haired brat?”

Fulin didn’t bother letting the barbs bite; playing Lance, she leaned against a wooden post like a resting wolf, voice lazy as drifting smoke. “Talk it through. I hope I don’t have to raise a hand.”

The arrogance pricked them like nettles. They already felt slighted by the numbers—one knight against their crowd—and Lance’s tone fanned it like a bellows to coal.

“You punk!” The mayors hadn’t even opened their mouths when a hot-headed merc swung a fist, ugly as a storm cloud.

Lance slipped aside like a reed in wind, then stepped in tight and kicked the side of the man’s knee like tapping a hinge. The punch went nowhere, and the merc tottered like a barrel on a ledge.

“Whoa there, slick ground,” Lance said, catching him with one hand like a shepherd snagging a lamb. He pressed on the word “accident” like a thumb on a bruise, and his eyes flashed cold as knife-light, hinting how easy bad luck could be made.

“You… you little—” The merc jolted as if doused with well water, flung Lance’s hand off, and fell back a few steps like a crab. He raised his fists again by reflex, but a comrade rushed in, head shaking like a rattle, whispering in his ear. The hothead finally spotted the small knight’s badge on Lance’s left shoulder, tucked quiet as a thorn in cloth, and his face drained like sand from an hourglass. “Fine, kid. Lucky break.”

The fact of a sworn knight settled over the talk like a millstone, heavy and inevitable.

What Horseback Town said stood like posts in frost, while Ramhorn Town smelled nobles behind them like smoke behind a door. They dropped demands that had seemed reasonable, retreating like tide from rock, and advantage piled up for Horseback Town like snow on a roof. They won, plain and full.

Afternoon light slanted like a blade as they headed back. Lance asked, almost idly, “Satisfied?”

The victory came too easy, and their hearts felt hollow as gourds; the mayor rushed thanks like water from a tap. “Thank you, Sir Knight!”

This can’t be a habit, Fulin thought, the worry a pebble in her shoe, and Lance asked, “Did you find a proper company willing to take a contract?”

“We did. Bill said he’ll bring them back this afternoon,” the mayor said, voice popping like dry twigs.

“Good.”

Back in Horseback Town, the youth named Bill returned from Carl City as promised, with a well-matched mercenary band like a trimmed spearline. Twenty in all, a solid regular company, and their captain was a face Lance knew like a mark on a blade.

“Isn’t that… Lord Traveler?” It was the quick-witted merc from before, mouth stumbling like a colt, almost dropping to his knees on sight.

Bill’s glare snapped like a whip. “Mercenary, mark it down. This is the Blazing Fire Knight!”

“So your name is Blazing Fire, sir? I’m Jeremy. An honor!” The quick one went to one knee like a penitent, giving his name bright as a coin.

Fulin grimaced inside, the title chuunibyou as fireworks in daylight, but no one mocked it, so she let the wave pass. Lance raised Jeremy with a hand light as wind. “Our meeting again must be the god of victory’s will. Rise.”

“Yes, sir!” Jeremy’s cheer bubbled like spring water. He noted the town’s respect for Lance like birds turning to the sun, and he whistled. “Sir Knight, you climbed fast!”

“Not really climbing. And you?”

Jeremy sketched his path in broad strokes, words neat as stacked crates. The other two mercs who got gold crowns had hung up their gear and retired like geese finding a lake, while Jeremy poured his single crown into founding a company, bold as a gambler cutting the deck. Money shouldn’t lie dead, he said; it had to be spent where it could grow, like seed in good loam. Besides, if he didn’t, he’d just bleed it away—drink and dice had their hooks in him like burrs.

“I got money, and if I don’t get bigger and stronger on the mercenary road, I’ll rot,” he said, wry as winter sun. “I’ll end up a frozen corpse outside some tavern one winter, like a broken jug by the door.”

Playing Lance, Fulin let respect warm her voice like tea. “That’s some clear-eyed thinking.”

Jeremy scratched his head, sheepish as a dog in rain. “Sir Blazing Fire, small men like me have no kin and no backing, like stray reeds in a flood. In a world like this, doing nothing ain’t an option. Don’t poke fun at a little guy.”

Lance spread his hands like opening a window.

Then a thought snagged in Fulin’s mind like a hook—Jeremy had drifted around the south of Golden Bay City for over a year, wind-borne and keen. There had to be more to learn. Next step was to seek a post with Count George, so Lance asked, “Jeremy, you familiar with Count George’s lands?”

“Familiar, but…” Jeremy’s fingers went to his scalp like a sparrow to straw, and his quick eyes flicked meanings like lantern signals. He caught Lance’s intent fast, and his smile turned crooked as a bent nail. “Sir Blazing Fire, don’t tell me… you plan to try your luck with Count George?”

His tone soured Fulin’s gut like unripe fruit, and Lance pressed, calm as shade. “Why not? Four gold crowns a season means about one point three a month—one gold’s thirty silver. I need money too. Or is there a problem with Count George?”

Jeremy’s smile thinned like ice in noon light.

“Count George is fine,” he said, words careful as feet on glass. “He’s famous for being a good lord. But doesn’t a job that perfect smell like bait in clear water?”

“Fierce competition?”

“No. I think you can handle it, but…” Jeremy’s gaze jumped like a sparrow, and Lance waved others away like a shepherd moving sheep. Only then did Jeremy lean in, voice an ear-breeze, yet still wary as a cat. “Rumor says Carl Margrave has declared a shadow war on Count George, and Count George’s chief knight isn’t sick at all. The truth is, his numbers are low across the board, and he doesn’t dare give battle.”

Noble infighting, Fulin thought, a sigh rising like smoke—pure medieval flavor.

But a second thought cut through like a clean wind. Count George wasn’t weak; by coin, men, and steel, he sat above the middle in the Golden Bay City region. With a castle to hold, defense should be unbreakable stone. How could he be short on troops? What hidden piece was moving under the table?

“Carl Margrave picked up two champions,” Jeremy said, breath hitching like a snagged thread, nerves tightening like a drawn bow. “One’s a high-tier mage, hired from the city’s Mages’ Guild. The other is—” He swallowed, and the word came like a thorn. “The ‘Rose’ Knight of the Golden Flower House from Maple City. Damn Maple City for sending their prodigy knight into Golden Bay City. Against a high-tier mage and a prodigy knight together, Count George stands no chance. If that good count loses, there’ll be no peace here, like a winter that never thaws.”

A life in Golden Bay City, not yet begun, already cracking like thin ice? Fulin’s mind went blank as white paper, and she stood there a long beat like a stone in rain.