Was this noble the keystone that would keep Golden Bay City from shattering? Doubt rose in Fulin like morning mist, cool and clinging.

Count George looked like every other local lord she’d seen in Mubay City—silk gleaming like a lacquered shell, face oiled to shine, belly round as a gourd—and his words flowed like lukewarm tea, all courtly pleasantries.

After a few minutes of greetings to the Iron Duke, talk of domains and weather drifting like fallen leaves, she heard no blade-sharp talent in him, yet no emptiness either. If she had to judge, one word fit like a quiet stone: ordinary. Count George was a plain local noble.

That very plainness made the two beside him stand out like stars on a moonless ridge.

Scholar Fleming, learned and bright, nodded like a lamp catching flame. “So that’s it. Mr. Lance kept a low profile on the road, so he dressed as a traveling noble. Mm, that’s one way.”

Chief Knight Osborne, seasoned as oak, leaned in with eyes like flints. “I heard you awakened Battle Aura, Mr. Lance, and can wield battle skills… Forgive me, but at your age my son had just taken up the sword. Yet you’re already a powerful Charge Knight, even a named knight, ‘Flame of Chaos.’ Let this old relic see some fire, will you?”

“No problem.” Lance—Fulin in the role—answered as calmly as a still pond. He picked up a table knife, let aura temper it till it glowed like a coal, then flicked it at the wall. The throw cracked like thunder. A solid brick stone burst apart, dust blooming like smoke.

“What is that?!” The three at the high seats widened their eyes, their voices breaking like dry twigs.

“Battle skill. Secret Sword Blazing Fire.” Lance kept his face straight, his tone clear as a blade. “Turn Battle Aura to fire, let it cling to steel, then make it flare again. Even the humblest tool can roar with unmatched force.”

Chief Knight Osborne let out a string of awe like a windchime in a storm. “That’s downright miraculous!”

Scholar Fleming’s analysis cut clean, like chalk on slate. “So if this gentleman used a greatsword instead of a table knife, he could probably knock down a city wall. Well now—our proud battering ram might as well dim its light.”

Fulin had never tried it for real, but the Lance she played didn’t mind boasting till clouds touched the mountain. “Of course. Gentlemen, the strength of Lance Morrison needs no doubt.”

The three shared looks like tossed stones, then all nodded in slow rhythm.

“Lance Morrison,” Count George rose, warmth in his voice like a hearth, then let frost creep into his tone, “as lord of this city and its surrounds, I’m truly glad a reliable partner has arrived. But before you join us, as the plain earl of Golden Bay City, a simple local noble, I want one answer.”

“Ask.”

Count George cleared his throat; worry hung like a taut bowstring. “Lance Morrison, did the Iron Duke send you?”

The room’s air tightened, hot as an oven before the bake.

Fulin had expected the arrow. As Lance, she spoke the line she’d forged like a talisman. “I, Lance Morrison, set out on a harsh pilgrimage for the kingdom’s peace. I heard the spark of war was kindling in Golden Bay City. I can’t watch the tinder catch. This isn’t the Iron Duke’s will—it’s mine. I have to douse the spark before it becomes a wildfire.”

The meaning rang high, like a bell over roofs—guard the peace of Golden Bay City. The three at the high seat stared, stunned like fish in clear water.

“Mr. Lance, your resolve stands tall and clean; I’m truly convinced,” Count George said, then hesitated, a crease like a knife mark. “But why help me? You know war’s at our door. With your strength, you could attach yourself to a stronger earl—like ‘Rose’ did with Carl Margrave. Wouldn’t that be safer? Why not do that?”

Well, damn. Jeremy had nailed it—“Rose” really was standing with Carl Margrave. Fulin sighed inside, the thought sinking like a stone.

But Lance stayed smooth as polished steel. “Carl’s lands are mountains and hazards, rough waters and rougher manners. This place isn’t the same. I see loyal officials who work like steady oxen, and citizens living in peace like fields after rain. So I, Lance Morrison, choose to help you. Why shouldn’t I?”

Breath caught around the high seat; respect settled in their eyes like frost turning to light.

Count George whispered with his chief knight and scholar, words quick as sparrows. Then he stood, came down from the high seat, and clapped Lance’s shoulder, hands shaking like leaves in wind. “Lance Morrison, from now on, you’re my Chief Knight. The peace and future of George Keep rest on your shoulders!”

Hmph—local nobles are local nobles. Fulin had worried he might be too suspicious, too hedged like a thornbush. But lords who lean hard on their men rarely have deep city walls in their hearts; even if they do, their own limits tie them like ropes. She felt the process glide easy as a boat on a calm canal, and joy bubbled up like spring water.

The rest ran by like clockwork. Lance took the chief knight’s plain red, collarless short cloak, draped it across his back like a banner, and received half a quarter’s pay in advance. His party strode out with heads high, pride like a cresting wave, drawing a flush of envy from those waiting in the corridor.

“We made it!” Jeremy and the two others burst outside George Keep, excitement bright as torches.

“Unexpected gains make men prosper; night feed makes horses strong.” Lance—Fulin—tossed a gold coin; it flashed like a falling star. “You earned this. After this… do as I say, and do it right. Clear?”

“Yes, boss!” Jeremy’s trio piped up, then scampered toward the tavern like pups, tails wagging.

What a bunch. Fulin’s laugh stayed in her chest like a warm ember. She looked at the open ground outside George Keep—something was missing, like a frame without its painting. Lance’s hand went to his back and his belt on instinct. Right—where’s the big cat that should be waiting?

Just then, the soldier from before ran up, breath ragged like a torn flag, words tumbling. “Re-report! Chief Knight, sir! Your prized beast got driven up the bell tower by a bunch of hunters!”

Lance’s voice snapped like a whip. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

“They said it was a monster—”

Enough. Fulin had heard enough; annoyance pooled like stormwater.

“Take me,” Lance said, headache pressing like an iron band.

“Understood!”

Led by the soldier, Lance reached the plaza by the street-side bell tower. The street climbed the hillside like a slanted spine; looking down, he saw hunters with all sorts of tools hooting and waving, showing off at the big cat clinging to the bell tower stones like ivy.

A squad of soldiers approached, iron shoes ringing like hammers. The dozen hunters parted like grass. Lance walked up the pass they made, grabbed the loudest one by the collar, and asked, voice cold as dew, “What are you doing?”

The burly old hunter, all muscle like knotted rope, started to bristle, then saw the cloak on the youth’s back and shrank like a shadow at sunset. “Sir, a monster broke in. We’re driving it off.”

That much was true. But Fulin saw the young hunters and a few citizens who weren’t hunters, eyes hooked on the bundle strapped to the big cat. The picture formed in her head like ink spreading—greed, not courage.

“That’s my packbeast,” Lance said.

He lifted a hand; the big cat flowed down the tower like water, padded to his side, and rubbed him fondly like a warm brush.

Seeing the beast had an owner, those with crooked hearts stepped back like tide withdrawing, and the simple-minded hunters drifted off soon after.

Watching citizens whose fingers looked born for bows, Lance asked the soldier beside him, “Are they archers?”

“No, sir. They’re citizens,” the soldier said, voice steady as a drumbeat. “In wartime, they pick up weapons and guard the city.”

Medieval mobilization, Fulin thought, the idea folding neatly like a fan. No wonder the streets weren’t thick with mercenaries. As Chief Knight by face and duty, if something truly broke loose, she’d hold overall command. She needed a firm count of the city’s strength.

“How many like them in the city?” Lance asked.

“About three hundred,” the soldier said, simple as a pebble.

So few. But it fit. Golden Bay City’s local nobles matched this level like boots to feet. Anything beyond that meant hiring from the mercenary guild. Most wars here were hundred-man brawls, storms in a valley. No wonder a Charge Knight—worth a hundred soldiers in strategy—could decide battles like a single hammer blow. Noble in-fighting, all in all; it felt a bit dull to Fulin, like weak tea.

She was about to fish for more local intel when one of Jeremy’s trio sprinted up, lungs burning like bellows. “Bad news!”

Lance’s irritation pricked like thorns. “What now?”

The squire panted and stumbled over words. “Jeremy messed up—Black Street grabbed him!”

Fulin’s temples throbbed. For a small city, trouble bloomed like weeds.

Lance had barely freed the big cat when she had to follow the squire to one of the city’s two taverns, the Red Nose. At the door, spilled liquor gave off a stench like fermenting swamp; from beneath the swinging half-door—thin as a blade—she saw scuffs and boot marks all over the floor, drink and dirty water dripping down the steps like a thin stream.

Trouble felt heavy, like clouds stacking. Fulin didn’t want this mess, but since Jeremy couldn’t handle it, she chose to strike first, like lightning before rain.

Lance kept a surface calm like a still lake. He pushed the door open without ceremony, left the soldiers outside, and went in with only the squire.

“Where’s Jeremy?” Lance called, voice carrying like a clear horn.

Wind slid in behind him; the words rang across the Red Nose. No one answered. Even a big man with blood trickling down his brow kept his head buried in his cup, playing dead like a turtle. Lance looked young; the tavern planned to treat him like a fool.

But the squire, who’d seen it, wouldn’t pretend. “He’s the one! That’s the Black Street boss!”

The mercenary squire pointed to a pale-faced man in the deepest booth. Lance strode to him, steel in his gait like a drawn line. “Hand Jeremy over.”

He spoke as he raised the Sirius Sword. The pale boss curled his lip, cold smile thin as a knife. He flicked a long, bony finger; the blade slipped from Lance’s hand like a fish and flew to his palm.

So the Black Street boss was a rogue mage, shadow and trick.

The tavern’s drinkers stood with grins like wolves; they were the boss’s muscle. Rough weapons came up like weeds, and the door behind Lance closed like a trap.

“Think passing Count George means we’ll bow too?” The boss mocked, words like ice chips. “Naive little knight—naive, laughable! Overreaching brings ruin.”

“Well said,” Lance replied, tone cool as rain on slate. “Let me return that line to you.”

“What?” The boss blinked, doubt flitting like a bat. He thought the youth was bluffing. The next heartbeat, the short sword in his hand bloomed flame. Heat wrapped his hands like fire-serpents; pain struck and he thrashed, voice ripping. “This flame! Ah—what did you do?!”

The thugs froze, stunned like deer at a torch.

“Secret Sword Blazing Fire stored on the blade,” Lance said, calm as winter water. “I chose to trigger it in your hands. Actually, it has a second phase—after the burn—”

“N-no, wait!” The rogue mage begged, words tumbling like stones, but too late. The fire-serpents constricted in a snap, then—boom. “Aaaah!” Battle-aura flame erupted; heat washed the room like a desert wind, and the mage’s hands shattered, charred to ruin.

The rogue mage foamed and collapsed, blackened stumps twitching like dead branches. The Sirius Sword slid back to Lance’s grip like a homing star, then stretched into a long saber, blade cold as moonlight. He leveled it at the room. “Now. Where’s Jeremy?”

The boss’s ruin cracked the thugs’ nerve like thin ice. They tried to bolt, bodies shaking like reeds, but soldiers outside blocked the exit as tight as a dam. Hope died like a guttering candle, and the thugs went down and yielded.

They found Jeremy in a back booth of the tavern, his left-hand tendon cut like a snapped bowstring. Bruises bloomed across him like spilled ink. When they dragged him out, he gave Lance a winter-thin, bitter smile, like frost on glass. "Sorry," he rasped, voice dry as sand. "I botched some things. But it wasn't for nothing, haha."

As it turned out, luck flipped like a coin in that tavern. Jeremy had immediately picked out the agent Carl Margrave planted here years ago—the hedge-wizard Lance had just floored. He'd learned that the spy planned to make trouble the moment "he" entered the city, a shadow moving before the rain. Knowing a strong knight was hard prey, the man went for the knight’s retainer instead. That meant Jeremy, a small fish used as bait in a moonlit stream. They meant to pry out everything about Lance from Jeremy, like knives working a locked chest. So the hunter became the hooked; Jeremy, out fishing for intel, bit the lure and got seized. He clamped his mouth shut like iron doors, and paid for it with a sliced tendon, pain hot as a brand.

Jeremy seemed not the least regretful; his grin was smoke after fire. "Well, Sir Knight, I was useful, yeah? Loyal enough, right?"

They sent Jeremy to be treated, blood staunched like rain under an eave. So the effort wouldn't be wasted, Fulin—wearing Lance’s name—threw herself into war prep, like a loom set humming.

She told Count George to rally the militia, like drums calling geese to flight. She had Scholar Fleming sort local intel, sifting it like grain from chaff. With the retired former chief knight, Osborn, she dug out the city’s spies, weeding at night with a cold blade. She sent word to the Mercenary Guild and the Mages’ Association in Golden Bay City, signals cast like nets on dark water. Stonemasons from nearby towns were rushed in to mend the gaps in the walls, stones locking like teeth. To rebuild the defenses and harden the gates, she and Big Cat paced the night hills, mapping ground like ink on silk. Day to night, Fulin kept moving, breath a lantern in wind. After more than half a month, George City finally looked like a fortress, iron warmed and whole.

"Right now, George City can stand against three of Carl Margrave’s armies at once." That was Fulin’s verdict, spoken in Lance’s voice, steady as an anvil.

From the high tower, they looked down on a city reborn, smoke and stone set in order like ranks. Count George and the other two stood there, mouths open like shutters in a gale.

Count George wept for joy, tears bright as rain on a field. "Giving you this city was the right choice!"

Osborn, the assisting knight, was delighted, yet hollow as a cooled forge. "So this is the strength of the true ducal knight from Mubay City..."

Scholar Fleming was stunned, but he didn’t drown in easy hope; worry pooled like shadow under eaves. "The city is stout, sure. But that only holds off armies. What if they send elite knights to storm us? Or refuse a set-piece siege and call us out elsewhere? Then what?"

Fulin knew all that; the truth sat in her chest like a sheathed blade. All she could do was make the city as hard as stone, to force them to commit elites, or fight us on open ground. She couldn’t show the plan yet; patience was silk laid over steel. For now, she waited for their final challenge to land like thunder.

Days slid by. June came, the rains thick as curtains. Then one morning cleared like a polished mirror, and Carl Margrave’s envoys arrived on cue.

They had come to deliver a challenge. Important, yes, but ceremony, smoke before rain. So Fulin, still playing Lance, stayed away. She holed up to oil her weapons, steel gleaming like water. She checked her plan list, counting how far she was from a quiet life, like steps to a distant lantern. She let herself breathe the calm before the storm.

Footsteps hammered the corridor like hooves. Jeremy burst in and threw the door wide, breath ragged as torn cloth. "Bad news, Lord Lance!" "The 'Rose' Knight was hiding in the envoy! She’s hurt Osborn!" "She says if the true master of this city won’t show his face, she’ll put a blade in Count George!"