Fulin, wearing Lance like a mask, stepped into a corridor wrecked like a storm-battered deck, brows knotted like tight twine. She spotted Assistant Knight Osborne slumped there, bruised and waiting like a wounded hound. He rasped, his warning like a cold draft, “The Rose is mixed in with the envoy group. They don’t play by the rules. Lord Lance, be careful.”

“I’ll be careful,” Lance answered, voice steady like a stone set in a stream.

He pushed into the hall, the air heavy like wet canvas, and saw Count George held on the main seat by drawn steel, while the Rose Knight stood before him like a blossom with thorns. “Are you the master of this city?” her words slid in like a bright blade.

Fulin’s first impression struck like dawn on frost. The Rose was a knight maiden, marked and beautiful, with hair like tulips blushing pale red. Her skirt-armor matched that hue, its lines round and ripe like fruit at harvest. Her eyes were light purple, like early violets after rain, and that gaze pressed down like a mountain shadow. It was the kind of look that sent most hearts skittering like startled sparrows. Yet Fulin loved that pressure, a strange hunger rising like hot wind in her chest. She couldn’t name the feeling—an urge to ravage, or be ravaged—desire and confusion tangling like ivy.

Urgency snapped back like a whip, and Lance’s voice settled like a calm lake. “No, miss. I’m only Count George’s vassal.”

“So, a vassal,” the knight maiden murmured, her smile like a crescent moon, words tasting playful as spiced tea. “Lance Morrison. Seven years gone, and we meet again like this. What a surprise.”

What? This body had childhood ties? Fulin’s surprise flared like sparks. She dug through Lance’s memory, finding nothing but gaps like moth-eaten silk. The tone wasn’t exactly warm; it smelled of distance like winter air. Faced with a stranger acting familiar, Fulin hesitated, the moment hovering like a held breath.

Lance asked, bold and soft as a reed bending, “Miss, have we met?”

The Rose’s fierce gaze flickered, a thread of sadness slipping through like dusk light. “Right… time flies,” she said, voice trailing like smoke. “You’ve almost forgotten me.”

This tone dripped trouble like slow honey. Envoys still pressed steel to George, tension humming like taut strings.

“Miss,” Lance said, resolve steady like a pillar, “I don’t mind catching up. But first, have your men release Count George.”

“Right,” her voice turned cool as porcelain. She pivoted, a motion like a petal turning. “Bill! Release Count George.”

The envoys balked, voices like snapping reeds. “But he deceived you. We should seize this chance and just—”

“I don’t repeat myself,” the Rose cut in, a command like thunder under cloud.

“Y-yes…” The steel eased away like ebbing tide.

“Lance, you’re finally here!” Count George stumbled down from the dais like a man escaping a fire, ducked behind Lance like a shadow, and left under a guard wall of shields.

With obstacles gone, Lance’s tone smoothed like silk over wood. “Alright, miss. Your name?”

She set a fist lightly to the swell of her chestplate, the gesture crisp like a bell tap. “Reina of the Golden Flower family. Reina Grandi… Well? Ring any bells?”

Fulin sifted the name through Lance’s memories, pieces scattering like broken glass. The person existed, but seven years had thinned the thread like worn rope. As a non-original soul, fragments felt like forgetting. Saying “I forgot” would freeze the room like frost.

Lance chose the roundabout path, words flowing like a stream around stone. “I sinned in Mubay City and was exiled by the Iron Duke. Now I’m a cast-off on a penitent road with a mission. You’re Maple City’s genius knight. Not remembering might be the best answer for you.”

“Right… Morrison’s brat,” Reina sighed, loss settling like dusk mist. “I figured you’d end up like this.”

Fulin worried she’d misstepped, the feeling prickling like nettles, when Reina suddenly lifted her sword, fighting spirit rising like a flame. “Let me see if you can still take my blade!”

She moved, a blur like lightning peeling sky, and her swordlight flashed cold as ice.

So fast. Fulin’s heart jolted like a drum. She could track the motion, but Lance’s body lagged like a dull cart. He forced Sirius Sword up like a rising star and shifted it into a longsaber with a liquid flow, parrying to skew the angle like turning a millstone.

Even with the force bled off like water from a gutter, it was Charge 8 smashing into Charge 2, a boulder against a chair. Reina’s strike was heavy as falling timber. Lance was hurled back, slammed to stone like a sack of grain.

He had barely risen when Reina’s blade kissed his throat like a cold breeze. Her command landed like a seal. “Lance, you lost. I order you to come back with me.”

The scene tightened like a knotted rope, yet Lance’s calm held like iron. “I haven’t lost.”

“What?” Her surprise flashed like mirror-light.

“You didn’t think I was alone, did you?”

As his words fell like pebbles, a black shape dropped from the ceiling like a hawk stooping. Reina tried to haul Lance back like a net, but the timing cut perfect as a razor. She sprang away, and the shadow hit like a meteor. The floor shattered, bricks flying like scattered teeth, dust rolling up like surf.

From the dust, Reina felt a presence rise, sharp as a cliff edge. “Who are you?” she warned, voice tight as a bowstring.

“It’s my travel partner,” Lance said, confidence smoothing like oil. “Come say hi, buddy.”

The crosswind swept the dust aside like a curtain. The shadow showed itself—a big cat, but no, a beast revealing its truth like night swallowing noon. It loosed a baleful miasma, a Tier-B beast aura, dimming the hall like clouds choking the sun. In that gloom strode a giant leopard, ferocity writ like claw marks across stone.

The envoys panicked, fear strobing like lightning. A scholar blurted, his duty and terror wrestling like dogs, “A Tier-B beast, and a phantom beast at that! Normal Tier-B would be nothing for Lady Reina, but phantom beasts wield mana. Lady Reina, be careful!”

Sounds like the cat’s strong, Fulin thought, delight rising like smoke. Lance leaned into borrowed power like a man under a great banner. “This phantom beast’s no joke. Show them your strength!”

The leopard answered with deeper darkness, miasma whirling like a black vortex, swallowing space like a hungry tide. Envoys reeled, dizzy and vomiting like seasick sailors. In under a minute, everyone except Reina crumpled like toppled reeds.

Fulin lifted a hand, the signal clean as a snap. The big cat obeyed, its malice folding away like a cloak. The warped air cleared like morning fog.

Lance struck while the iron was hot, voice ringing like a staff on stone. “I don’t know what you’re after, but envoys trying to murder a city lord—there’s no precedent in Golden Bay City. For the Rose Knight’s sake, we’ll let you off. Say your piece and get out.”

One envoy staggered forward, steps wobbling like a broken wheel, and offered a battle letter like a hot coal.

Lance took it, eyes skating the lines like skiffs on water. Surrender the pass near George City, or they’d march. He called Count George back, and the man recited lines like a child before a teacher, voice fluttering like paper. “S-since ancient times, Crescent Pass is Lindber’s property. I have a legal deed acknowledged by the Vanilla Duke. Your demand is illegitimate! The Lindber family never avoids a challenge. Even if you prepared ten thousand men, I, George Lindber, don’t fear! I declare, I accept Carl Margrave’s battle letter!”

“Eh… ten thousand?!” He blinked, reality striking like a hammer, and fainted where he stood like a felled tree.

Silence settled, heavy as snow.

“You’re insane, Lance!” Reina’s voice cracked like a whip. “Accepting their letter will turn George City into a sea of fire!”

Lance shot back, words clean as a blade. “So you’d avoid a meaningless clash by handing over our city and pass?”

The air grew denser, thick as smoke. Reina stared at Lance, speechless, and the meaning hung like a storm sign: Carl Margrave wanted them to yield.

“I’m sorry, Lance,” she said at last, regret sighing like wind in reeds. “You’re as stupid as ever.”

“So what?”

“Looks like you never learn,” her tone rose like a challenge flag. “Fine. If you lose again, you’ll come home with me!”

Her voice kept twisting like ivy, and Fulin’s gut tightened like a drum skin.

Lance blurted, blunt as a cudgel, “Why?”

“Because, because…” Reina’s strength dipped like a setting sun. She lowered her head, shy as a fawn, then snapped up and shouted like a bell, “Because you used to call me sister!”

She marched off with the envoys, leaving Lance alone in the hall, thoughts strewn like leaves in wind.

“Ten thousand men! And a field battle… half a month from now—what do we do?” The trio at the dais spun like anxious tops.

Lance stayed steady, calm pooling like deep water. “Don’t worry. Do as I say. I’ve got a plan. Let me prepare in my chamber.”

He returned to the tower room, thoughts circling like ravens around a lonely keep.

Numbers didn’t scare Fulin; if her plan flowed like a river, any army would be driftwood. The problem was the Rose Knight, and a high-tier mage still hidden like a knife in a sleeve.

Lance had to endure, not fold like wet paper. With the big cat helping, he might stand like a post. But if a high-tier mage joined the fray, the cat would have to pin that mage like claws in prey, leaving Lance alone against the Rose like a sapling facing an axe.

Fulin knew Lance couldn’t last to the plan’s timing; Charge Knights measured by Battle Aura stones, and it was Charge 2 against Charge 8, a candle against a gale. He wouldn’t even reach Secret Sword Blazing Fire; he’d be disarmed and dragged like a fish on a line. Her careful plan had underestimated Reina’s storm.

So she accepted the hard truth like winter: if he couldn’t match aura, Lance’s only chance was Reina’s weak point, a crack to pry like a chisel.

It wasn’t her Battle Aura; to light eight stones, the skill tree “Warrior’s Bloodline” needed the trunk at Lv.5, then follow-ups at Lv.2, Lv.3, and Lv.4, a ladder built from vast life essence like bricks of gold. Crushing her by aura alone was a road closed like a locked gate.

With life essence on hand, converted through the “Essence Conversion Rule” like grain to flour, she saw three builds laid out like forks in a road. One: raise trunk twice and aura twice. Two: trunk once, aura once, plus three branch levels. Three: skip trunk and aura, invest in Strength, Agility, Endurance—lesser roots feeding the tree like hidden springs.

The third wouldn’t boost aura, but if it poked Reina’s weak spot like a needle, letting Lance last longer like a candle shielded by glass, Fulin would try. The terror was simple as a blade: she had no info on Reina, no map to find a weak point hiding like a fox in hedges.

That ignorance felt like the first domino falling, a vicious chain about to run like fire. Without knowing the weak point, she couldn’t tailor growth; Lance wouldn’t hold the line; time wouldn’t stretch to the plan’s hour; the plan would fail like a bridge under flood. Count George would lose, peace in Golden Bay City would shatter like ice, the noble balance would break like snapped reeds, and Golden Bay would become the Doran Kingdom’s first ducal land to blaze in civil war like grass in drought. Quiet days of lazy peace would drift away like smoke.

“Headache, headache!” Fulin’s panic spiked like bees in a jar. Dual Incarnation slipped, her control fraying like thread. She spun in the tower room, circles tight as a trapped hawk. Coarse pillows tore under her teeth like weak bark, one after another. She rolled on the bed like a tossed wave and cracked her head on the headboard.

“Ow!” Her cry popped like a bubble in a still room.

Ding! She jolted upright, a chill rippling through her like wind over cold water. She swayed to the window and almost tumbled off the high tower.

Through the tower’s stone slit, the height laid George City bare—streets like dark ribbons, the far road a thin line, the sunset a bleeding ember. Down there, Fulin spotted the Rose Knight convoy rolling out of the gate.

She caught the last wagon: a cargo box, empty within, its rear gaping open like a waiting mouth.

Her lovely face puckered like biting a raw green onion. Guess I’ve got to risk it all…