The fight ended with the Carl Margrave’s forces snuffed out like a bonfire under rain; Carl and Angus were taken to George City for a public trial.

As a licensed mage under the Golden Bay City Mage Association, Angus chose to pay Count George a fine before judgment. He handed over four gold mage coins, chains falling away like straw, and was released that day to return to Golden Bay City.

Carl, the noble who stirred a private feud and the defeated commander, bore the brunt. Under the open sky of George City’s plaza, Count George—at Lance’s suggestion—convicted him of rebellion, with sentence of land cession and reparations.

He was forced to fold Horseback Town and other tracts into George’s domain, vowed to pay two hundred gold mage coins, and slunk from George City the next day like a dog with its tail down.

The outcome rippled across the plains around Golden Bay City; the spark of plunder was stamped out early, and the city’s quiet was ringed like a lantern in night.

After the trial, George City’s streets bloomed with lanterns and color; drums thumped, horns cried, and the crowd swelled like a tide to celebrate the defense.

“We won! We won!!”

“Unbelievable—five hundred against ten thousand, and we won!”

“Yeah, they say the Blazing Fire Knight called floods to drown the enemy host, then dropped heavenly fire to drive off the Rose Knight and the Storm Mage. One man stood against ten thousand—his valor struck like thunder!”

“Wrong, wrong! That makes him a mage. The Blazing Fire Knight is a true knight. His Battle Aura is vast as a storm-front, his power boundless. One slash sundered sky and earth, one stroke split the vault. The omens alone were enough to wipe the foe—you saw the Rose Knight and Storm Mage yield on the spot!”

The citizens didn’t know the truth, so the battle swelled in their telling like a wave fattened by wind.

Wild tales about Lance sprang up one after another, sanctified in the retelling; you could picture the high pillar where they placed him.

At the banquet that night, candles shimmered like small moons as Count George rose from the main seat when Lance arrived late. “Sir Lance! You brought us an impossible victory. As lord of this land and this city, our gratitude is beyond words.”

Guests in the castle’s great hall stood as one, cups flashing like stars as they lifted them to Lance, paying him their highest respect.

Fulin, wearing Lance like a second skin, lifted her cup. “It wasn’t my merit alone.”

The count’s eldest son, Duwei, raised his drink. “Sir Lance, you’re too modest.”

“No, it’s true—the credit’s yours.” Lance set down his cup, smiling gently. “You believed I could bring victory, so I returned that trust with victory. It’s no big thing.”

His tone was light as passing cloud, making that hard-won triumph sound like plucking a peach from a pouch. Faces flickered with surprise; perhaps this was a true prodigy, a true strength honed like steel.

After the formal rounds, Count George circled back to what gnawed at him and asked, casual as a breeze, “Sir Lance, with the hall so lively, shouldn’t Miss Reina join us?”

Fulin thought so too, but Reina had Lance pass along a message: she was on assignment and hadn’t prepared a gown for the banquet.

“A gown? Wouldn’t plain clothes do?” George asked, as blunt as a hammer.

He wasn’t wrong, awkward though he sounded. The feast wasn’t very formal; many guests weren’t nobles and came in plain wear. Jeremy was already devouring food in a corner like a happy bear. So in George’s eyes, Reina could arrive in her knight’s skirt-and-mail, and as a hired knight, no one would mind.

Clearly, her absence wore a different veil than wardrobe.

Scholar Fleming, seeing George reach for another question, set down his plate and leaned in. “Don’t make it hard for a marquis’s sheltered daughter. By the kingdom’s custom, Miss Reina attends only socials and ducal-level banquets. As a count, you aren’t entitled to invite her.”

“Oh dear—my memory.” Without doubt, George was the kind of middling noble who couldn’t steer the cart without a hand on the reins.

That lack of tact seemed to run in the blood. “Sir Lance, may I ask about your relationship with Miss Reina?” Duwei blurted.

“Duwei, how rude!” Count George snapped, voice sharp as a snapped bowstring.

Reina was both a powerful knight and noble-born, and as a maiden of age she was striking; men’s talk drifted toward her like moths to a lamp.

But in George City, most avoided the topic out of respect for the Blazing Fire Knight. Who didn’t see how close they were? If not siblings, then lovers.

Yet the two didn’t live together, and housing in this mountain city was tight as a drum. Their separate lodgings squeezed space like stones in a jar.

Hence Duwei’s complaint: “Uh, Father, you lent my winter townhouse in the city to Miss Reina, and gave my tower room in the castle to Lord Lance… so where do I live? In a castle cubby or an inn, I’m suffering.”

“This…” Count George winced, smile crooked. “How about you hurry back to your academy in Golden Bay City?”

“Father, that’s too much.”

The scene drew exasperated looks, then laughter rolled through the hall like peals of bells.

The banquet ended in waves of mirth, a fresh tableau of peace sketched across the fields around Golden Bay City.

The long night drifted past in calm, and dawn laid pale gold across stone.

In the tower room, Fulin read by morning light, a crinkled parchment titled “Long-Term & Short-Term Plans” rustling like dry leaves. It listed what she’d set to do a month ago when she left Mubay City.

She perched on a chair and picked up a quill that was nearly dry. After confirming Lance Morrison’s footing in this city, she ticked the box for “Long-Term Housing.”

She did the sums—Count George’s quarterly pay, and what could be saved from reparations and budgets—and ticked “Stable Income.”

She glanced out at the big cat sunning itself on the castle roof, recalled its steady ways, and ticked “Reliable Partner.”

Basically, those were the stones she’d set so far in her path.

Though less than a third of the page bore ticks, each mark was a step closer to a “quiet life,” like lanterns lit one by one through dusk.

Bittersweet pooled in her chest. She was a Chaos Vampire, yet aimed to live quietly on human ground. She had to wear Lance Morrison as a mask, and cage the Blood Clan hunger like a beast behind bars. The taste of it was complex as tea left to steep too long.

Her heart fogged with doubt. The Doran Kingdom lay under the Heavenly Spirit Empire; on the Nordland front they faced the Shadowspirit Legion. Under war’s long shadow, the future was shifting sand. Could she truly win a quiet life?

She sighed inside; sorrow rose like mist from water. She changed dresses and looked out. The sun had barely climbed before cloud swallowed it, and the day felt like that—light hidden, hope thin.

Fear pricked, small and sharp. She couldn’t banish it alone. It felt like a little girl left on an empty street, no hand to grasp, no lantern to follow.

She didn’t know when her heart-sea had filled with feelings not her own. She was growing ever more sensitive, ever more like the Fulin Belit of the game—imperious on the surface, a lonely Blood Clan princess within.

The change unsettled her like cold wind through a crack. Where would it lean? Would it stop? Would she one day drift and lose herself? Anxiety pooled, heavy as rainwater in a cistern.

Yet she didn’t panic. Fog and fear were temporary. They would lift—the day she truly set down roots in a quiet life.

Hurried steps and a pounding knock shattered her thoughts. “Lance! How long are you sleeping in? Out and train!”

A jolt of alarm snapped through her. She’d sunk too deep inside and almost forgot what she’d asked Reina last night—to teach “Lance” the Aura Refinement arts. Fifteen minutes past the meeting time already.

She pictured Reina booting in the door—like she did, last night. Heart sinking, she sparked her Dual Incarnation and burst out as Lance.

“Coming, coming!”

“So slow.” Reina stood at the tower door, patience worn thin. “Your hair’s a mess. Don’t tell me you just rolled out of bed?”

“Hah—no way.”

Reina pinched her brow, exasperation like a wrinkle on still water. “How’d you awaken Battle Aura being this lazy? Honestly. Listen—if you want to be a proper knight, you hold yourself to standards, and then—”

Amusement warmed Fulin like sun through cloud. Why the lecture now? Whether in District 11 or in another world, childhood friends loved preaching at the main lead. She watched Reina nag, yet glow doing it, and felt the thread of it tug at her heart.

Curiosity pricked her like a pin.

If Reina learned this Lance was a disguise, how would she treat her? As a little sister leaning on her? As the boy who shared her childhood? Or as a Blood Clan fiend wearing human skin? Fulin didn’t dare imagine; the thought felt like walking a knife’s edge.

She folded her thoughts away and answered as Lance. “All right, all right, I’m getting bored. Let’s start.”

“You, always in a rush. Fine—come.” Reina had no cure for him. They went downstairs, out of the castle, into the empty back yard where wind combed the grass. “Before we begin, answer one question.”

“Ask.”

“Lance Morrison, when did you awaken your Battle Aura?” Reina asked, serious as a drawn blade.

Doubt flickered like a moth in Fulin’s chest. Did that matter? But as Lance she answered. “Two months—no, three months ago. It should be three now.”

“What were you doing then?” Reina pressed, gaze steady.

“As crisis hit, a band of mercenary brigands seized the Iron Duke’s youngest, Princess Alice. My head went hot, my body moved on its own. I can’t recall the details. When I came back to myself, I’d felled the captors with Battle Aura.” Lance spun the tale without a blush, voice smooth as lacquer.

Reina’s pretty light-violet eyes narrowed to slits, her stare weighing him like a judge sizing up a cad.

“Figures. Lance is the sort who risks his life for other girls. The way you said ‘Princess’ Alice was so earnest—she must mean a lot to you, right?” Reina’s tone darkened like a cloud crossing the sun.