Even with soldiers closing from both ends of the gate tunnel like jaws of a trap, Fulin didn’t panic; calm pooled in her chest like still water.

“Will this prove my identity?” The Lance she played raised a Flame of Chaos crest, bright as a star on a winter banner.

“Th-this is—!” The inspector’s eyes flared like struck flint; he’d seen a true knight’s crest, a seal that cut like steel.

Knight crests have tells clear as constellations. Shape first: each duke’s grant has its own outline. This one was a miniature shield—Mubay City’s make, under the Iron Duke’s hand.

Then the relief: a single star, crisp as frost, marking the rank of an official knight, a rule as uniform across the Nordland Continent as tides and moonlight.

But any master smith could fake those, neat as a mirror. What froze the inspector at a glance was the sheen—Arcane Silver, a moon-skin gloss only the Heavenly Spirit Empire could refine.

In the Doran Kingdom, that glow exists in two places only: the anti-forgery wash on a gold mage coin, and precious tokens of identity. A knight’s crest is the latter; if a “crest” wears Arcane Silver, what else could it be but real?

Cold sweat beaded on the inspector’s brow like dew on blades; fatigue had dulled him, and he’d stumbled into offending a knight vouched for by the Iron Duke. Cursed luck, sharp as a thorn.

Seeing the sweat bloom, Lance asked, voice steady as a plumb line, “Can my squire and I pass?”

The inspector heard no anger and grasped for dignity like a man catching his hat in the wind. “Ahem. No problem. I was… nervous, that’s all.”

He hadn’t finished waving them through when a voice cut from the long queue like a thrown stone. “Wait!”

The speaker looked every inch a knight to the crowd: standard light armor snug as a second skin, easy to hide beneath a cloak, the kind one dons with a squire’s help.

He came holding a knight’s crest twin to Lance’s—same shield shape, same Arcane Silver glow like dawn on ice.

“Officer, I’m Stephen Cronin. I apologize for leaving the line,” he said, all politeness like a polished blade. He glanced at Lance’s crest, then told the inspector, “But I must speak. I’m an official knight of Mubay City. Three years ago, I passed the Palace Trial at the Iron Duke’s knee.”

“That Palace Trial a year ago was brutal, remembered like a scar. Only four of us passed, me included. I recall every face like a drill beat—except this redheaded kid. He looks younger than me, and I don’t know him.”

The inspector’s respect for Lance ebbed like tide from sand. He turned to the young knight. “Strange indeed. Yet this boy’s crest is real. Sir Stephen, your view?”

Stephen didn’t hesitate; his words hit like thrown knives. “Theft. Borrowing. Purchase. Coercion. To get a single crest isn’t as hard as people think.”

“So, Sir Stephen, you’re saying—?”

Stephen stepped so close his finger and face were nearly in Lance’s eyes, accusation sharp as a spear point. “Officer, this redheaded brat is absolutely an impostor.”

The long line stalled. The crowd became a tide of whispers and craning necks.

Inside that noise, Fulin’s mood soured like milk in heat: Golden Bay City was said to be simple and honest, yet this “just” knight swung hardest at his own folk.

“Boy, what do you have to say?” The question hung like a bell in fog.

Fury flared first, hot as a coal: Drop dead, the lot of you—crawl. But she swallowed it like a bitter pill; Fulin clutched her temper the way a cat bites its own paw, and kept her head clear as glass.

From his words, this Stephen had been in Golden Bay City for a while. If he didn’t know “Lance” had been admitted without exam recently, Fulin couldn’t blame him. But taking a smear and smiling? She wasn’t that saintly.

So “Lance” answered, unruffled as a lake: “I don’t know this gentleman either. But I’m certain he’s the impostor—and I have proof.”

Stephen’s temper exploded like dry pine in flame. “You Morrison brat! Slandering an official knight? Such nerve, such stink! Your father—”

“Sir, hold,” the inspector cut in, temples throbbing like drums. He raised a hand for silence.

“Fine. Let’s hear him,” Stephen snapped, then fell back to the outer lip of the tunnel with his five retainers. The halted queue settled to watch, eyes bright as lanterns, hungry for a show.

Lance cleared his throat; his voice carried like a bell. “Here’s the truth. That Palace Trial a year ago was called ‘brutal’ not because the Iron Duke made the tests cruel. He set a severe entry standard for anyone who’d step into the hall. So severe that—anyone who met it became a knight on the spot.”

“Lies!”

“Let him finish. What standard?”

Lance stayed even as stone. “Condense Battle Aura. Master a combat art.”

He lifted the Sirius Sword one-handed like a torch, and Battle Aura burned along the blade as a steady flame, quiet as a shrine lamp.

Firelight washed faces; the scene fell into the hush of a dusk forest, one breath away from night.

Stephen, who’d waited to see a farce, broke the silence with a crack in his voice. “Impossible—! Why is it the Morrison brat?”

The queued crowd erupted; gazes shot toward Lance like meteors—envy, respect, worship braided together. For common folk, Battle Aura was like magic: misty, dreamlike, noble as starlight.

“W-welcome, sir knight of the Iron Duke,” the inspector stammered, voice wobbling like a loose wheel. Cold sweat soaked him; fear, reverence, and giddy joy tangled like vines until his knees went soft.

Stephen still couldn’t accept it; he ranted like a storm banging shutters. “No way! I was at that Trial. The Duke was right in front of me. Why didn’t I know this? And you—why could you awaken Battle Aura? Impossible! It’s a trick. You haven’t awakened anything!”

“I challenge you to a duel!” The more he spoke, the more his words tangled like weeds, until he threw the gauntlet.

The crowd smiled with their eyes and leaned closer like sparrows on a line; they loved a spectacle.

Lance refused, cold as frost. “No. You don’t qualify.”

He drew the Sirius Sword down with a flick, and sword-aura ripped the air like torn silk. Stephen’s cloak shredded, and a fierce scar etched his light armor beneath, bright as a claw mark.

Stephen was an official knight. He’d basked in honor for half a year around Golden Bay City, moving like a man above men. He wasn’t built to swallow such public shame. Yet “the Morrison brat’s” aura and art were the real thing—strength of a Charge Knight. Stephen was only an official knight. He knew he’d lose. Rage boiled, but his body locked like a deer before a tiger. “You—you…”

“Officer, there’s something fishy here no matter what!” he finally managed, clinging to pride like driftwood.

But the inspector had made up his mind; annoyance had settled on him like dust. “Men! Arrest this impostor knight!”

“Hold.” Lance’s voice cut, and the inspector and soldiers held like hounds at the whistle. “Let him go. He’s a fellow from home, trying to make a living on the road. That’s hard as winter. The blame lies with Count George. Four gold mage coins a quarter draws the inept like moths. In truth, work beyond their measure will only get them killed—and might bury Golden Bay City’s peace with them. Let Stephen go.”

A short hush fell, then the chatter swelled like rain on tiles.

The inspector looked at the red-haired youth who had seemed reckless, and saw only someone worthy of a bow. “Understood. As the knight wishes… Soldiers! Let him go.”

The matter ended there. Even after they entered the city, Jeremy couldn’t hide his excitement; it sparked off him like summer cicadas. “Sir Lance, you’re something else! I’d have panicked to pieces!”

“Right. Turns out a knight needs more than muscle. He needs mettle,” the other two retainers chimed in, praise clattering like coins.

“Of course. I’m a Flame of Chaos Knight. Mettle’s part of my steel.” Fulin, wearing Lance, took the compliments like a cat takes sun.

But past life taught her: flashing your edge grows shadowed enemies. She rang a bell in their heads at once. “Stay sharp. Jeremy, look around.”

Jeremy and the others scanned the street; their gazes swept like brooms. They caught the stares—envy, wariness, doubt, even hunger. Mixed together, the malice outweighted the goodwill like storm clouds over blue. They shivered as if a cold wind cut their coats.

They were mercenaries, street-bred reeds that bend and survive. Joy had fogged them for a moment; clarity returned like a pulled blade.

“We get it. We’ll keep our heads down and work,” sharp-eyed Jeremy said first, words firm as a knot.

“The same for us!” the other two followed, voices steady as stakes.

The big cat bumped their legs, a silent promise like a warm hearth nudge.

Fulin was satisfied. She hadn’t worried much; she’d handpicked the two from twenty by past-life instinct. Choosing among mercenaries was picking the tallest among the short, but at least they wouldn’t wreck the cart.

“All right. Sir Knight, ahead is Count George’s castle.” George City was a true medieval knot—two thousand souls, streets stitched up the hillside like crooked seams, narrower even than Horseback Town’s lanes. Ten minutes’ walk from the gate, with a soldier guiding, they reached the castle’s shadowed gate like stepping into a cliff’s mouth.

“Thank you for the lead, soldier,” Lance said, polite as spring rain.

The soldier flushed, pleased yet proper under a well-loved Count’s banner. “To enter the castle, there’s a search. You’re honored guests; we won’t search you. But we ask you to surrender weapons for safekeeping.”

His meaning pointed straight at the Sirius Sword hanging at Lance’s right thigh, and the oilcloth-wrapped cudgel on his back. Both were treasures, bright as baited hooks—thirty-nine gold in all, a small fortune. The thought of handing them over tugged Fulin’s heart like a sore tooth.

She found a way.

Lance slung the Sirius Sword and the oilcloth cudgel onto the big cat’s harness. He had Jeremy and the others bag their axes, knives, and bucklers in thick burlap, and hung that on the big beast as well.

“You want us to mind this rare beast and your gear together?” the soldier asked, uneasy as a horse at thunder.

That wasn’t her intent. “No. Let him stay here. He’ll watch the baggage. He won’t cause trouble,” Lance said, voice smooth as a calm road.

The soldiers traded looks. The beast was leopard-shaped yet bigger than a horse by a circle; from afar it seemed gentle, up close it felt like a coiled spell. Fear pricked them like nettles, and consent came easier. “All right. But you bear any loss.”

“No problem.”

Lance finished speaking, Jeremy at his back, and the group followed a soldier into the keep. Their footsteps echoed like pebbles down a dry well.

Compared to Mubay Keep, George Keep was pure fortification—a stone shell built to endure, plain as winter fields. It climbed modestly, as castles do, but its bulk was small—a grade-school block by his former life’s measure, a low hill against the sky.

After winding through one narrow corridor after another, like a snake through reeds, they reached a broad corridor. Beyond it waited a small crowd, maybe a dozen—tenant farmers, merchants, mercenaries, and warriors dressed unmistakably as knights. Each carried a petition like a lantern in the dusk, all waiting for Count George to grant audience.

Marked beforehand as honored guests by the inspector, Lance’s group skipped the queue; the soldier led them straight in. Envy rippled behind them like green smoke along the corridor.

Inside, Count George had been readying himself. Nerves tight as a drawn bow, he had spent ten minutes dressing the part. He changed into a fresh mink coat, added a bright noble’s sash, and had his tie fussed over by his servants. He polished his image until no dust of discourtesy remained. Only after assuring himself no breach of etiquette would show did he tell them to open the door.

But when the door swung wide and Lance’s group stepped in, the count’s brow gathered like a pending storm. The scholar beside him asked bluntly, “Where’s the Iron Duke’s knight? Are these four just his retainers?”

Plain as an unpainted blade, Lance moved a step forward and offered a small bow. “I’m the knight certified by the Iron Duke—Lance Morrison, named the ‘Flame of Chaos’ Knight. It’s an honor, Count George.”