"Uh, it's not that important... but if I didn’t step in, I’d be in trouble. Really, please trust me!" Fulin, wearing Lance like a borrowed coat, rushed her words like rain pelting a window.

Reina’s delicate face tightened, her willow-slim brows stood on end like thorns after frost. "Huh? Is that so? Then what exactly happened?"

"Actually, back then—" Lance began, voice like a timid spark trying to catch.

In Lance’s voice, she sketched a month and a half of dust and thorns in Mubay City: the ostracism that pressed like damp fog, brothers turning on each other like wolves, apprenticing under Layne, inheriting a war art, a duke’s knighthood without trial dropping like a sudden decree, then the cascade of twists that forced his hand like floodwater breaching a dike.

In short, Fulin cast Lance as a man dogged by storm; when a tree longs for stillness, the wind won’t rest, and blame fell from a clear sky like a black pot tossed by fate.

Pity softened Reina’s graceful features, like a lantern cupped from the wind. "Sounds like it hasn’t been easy for you since then."

Lance scratched the back of his head, modest as a pebble in a stream. "It wasn’t that hard. Look, I’m still standing."

Reina smiled, a curve like spring light through gauze, but her eyes held no gleam, a shaded pond under cloud. "Sure. You pulled through. I’m sure Lady Alice at your side gave you plenty of support, mm?"

"Sigh! I told you it’s not like that," Fulin felt her scalp tingle like ants, and as Lance she doubled down. "Besides, I’m just a baron’s son. How many chances do I get with a duke’s daughter?"

"Alright, looks like big sis wronged you." The black lines left Reina’s face like mist burned off by sun. "But if you meet any strange girl later, you better tell me—otherwise..."

Fulin realized she’d underestimated Reina’s jealous streak; or maybe it wasn’t jealousy, just a girl’s fierce heart curling around what she values, like a cat guarding a warm windowsill.

Back then Fulin had often heard it: girls can be possessive, whether in friendship or love, like vines gripping a trellis; now that Reina’s like this, would this half-baked girl she’s become be the same—maybe even worse, a climbing vine turned iron?

Chasing those thoughts was like chasing smoke. She remembered the business at hand.

Fulin packed away the flutter and, as Lance, focused on asking.

"Miss Reina, could you keep teaching me the Qi-refining method?"

"Eh?! Right, where were we?" Reina blinked, as if recalling a book left open in sunlight. "Mm-hmm, Lance, you awakened Battle Aura by accident, right?"

"Yeah. Three months ago, an accidental awakening." Lance stated it flat, like a nail driven clean.

Reina asked again, eyes narrowing like a hawk in clear air. "And not long after awakening, you could use Secret Sword Blazing Fire right away. True?"

"Right. Mr. Layne showed me the move many times and told me the key. Maybe I imagined the feel." Lance kept a straight face, a lake pretending no ripples. "I landed Secret Sword Blazing Fire on my first try."

From the castle’s rear yard, a breeze wandered in, prairie-scented and mild, smoothing the heart like a hand over tall grass.

Reina lowered her head, thoughtful as a stone with lichen. "I see..."

"Yeah."

Reina lifted her gaze, clear eyes widening like ice under sun. "Then it’s odd, Lance. Almost every knight who awakens Battle Aura needs a long stretch for the body to adapt, like saplings thickening bark. Only after the body adapts can they steer the aura. That steering inside you is the Refining Method. On that foundation, you learn and use war skills.

"But you—your path skipped steps. From awakening to war skill, one stride. That’s strange as thunder with no clouds."

Seriously? Awakening Battle Aura’s that much hassle? Fulin thought, a cold bead rolling down her spine.

Layne hadn’t doubted Lance’s awakening back then, nor mentioned an adaptation phase. Did he forget? Fulin judged that perfectly possible, like a craftsman skipping a step he’s done a thousand times.

Fine. Fulin finally saw the pit she’d stepped in: a shortcut dug by the Essence Conversion Method and the role system—so bright it blinded her to the grind of aura training.

In truth, for knights here, awakening Battle Aura is ten years of dew on stone. It’s patience in a jar that never spills.

But for the Lance Fulin plays? He just taps the skill tree on a panel; as much life essence as in hand, that much strength blooms—spring forced in winter.

Maybe Lance had it too easy, like honey poured instead of gathered. The aura came too fast to settle. So every time he used it, it burst outward like sparks, but refused to flow inside and bless the body. For most, the latter is the root; in other words, Lance is a baby who ran before he learned to stand—Essence Conversion flipped the order of aura use.

But Fulin couldn’t lay bare that secret. Not in front of Reina. So she reached for a different branch.

"I awakened, then went straight to using war skills." Lance leaned on the simple truth like a staff. "If you think I’m odd, Miss Reina, then I’m sorry."

Reina’s lush lashes fluttered, her expression steady as a mask, not pleased but accepting like shade at noon. "No wonder you can use so many advanced aura-based skills. I get it. Among humans, your aura talent is unusually special."

"Special among humans?"

"Yeah." Reina tilted her head, thinking like a stream circling a stone. "Titans among the Celestial Spirit, or the fiends of the Dark Spirit—both are born with aura gifts, the kind that make people jealous."

Fulin, as Lance, grinned, pride flaring like a banner in wind. "So I’m the chosen one."

"The gift’s impressive, but—" Reina poured cool water with perfect timing. "Titans and fiends excel in different veins of aura. The former are naturals at Refining Methods; the latter at Aura Arts. In that sense, Lance... you look more like a knight with fiend blood. The Celestial Spirits might be suspicious."

Again with the Celestial Spirits? To be honest, Fulin was tired of that word, like grit in a boot.

She hadn’t seen a single Celestial Spirit in six weeks, yet their shadow stretched everywhere, like a mountain’s shade over a valley: heavy taxes, frequent drafts, common folk ground thin. Under such weight, people seethed in silence.

Only in Lord George’s fief, rich yet far from the whip, could people breathe easy, like birds finding a quiet reedbed.

That’s why Fulin chose to put down roots here, like a boat picking a calm cove.

Because the Heavenly Spirit Empire exists, Fulin can’t bare her true face. She has to wear the mask of Lance Morrison, moving carefully as a cat on a rooftop, no room to sprint.

She didn’t blame them, not out of sainthood, but because in her past life she was a 21st-century office worker, worldly enough to know every world has its rulers, like tides that keep their own time.

Earth has a lighthouse nation; Nordland has the Heavenly Spirit Empire. No surprise there, just a different constellation.

Even without that empire, who’s to say human knights and mages—those with power like ironwood—wouldn’t forge a superstate much the same?

So her choices were simple as a forked path: join, or avoid. She picked the smaller risk, so she chose to be Lance.

But even that isn’t a sure umbrella. If one day they come to persecute even the likes of Lance, scraping by like a mouse, then Fulin will strike first, like lightning jumping before thunder.

Of course, the worst hasn’t happened. It can be steered away, like a boat angling past rocks.

So, to Reina’s earlier point, Fulin, as Lance, chose caution as a cloak. "What would they suspect me of?"

"If you can’t explain your strength in terms they accept," Reina’s eyes slipped from Lance, her gaze drifting to the far view like a swallow looking past rain, "they’ll suspect your parents were human and fiend. They’ll suspect you’re a darkfallen hybrid."

"And after the suspicion?"

"They treat you like a Night Disciple... they might burn you at the stake."

Out on the prairie, tenant farmers were burning straw for summer ploughing. Fulin could almost smell roast meat riding the wind like a memory.

"That doesn’t sound like presumption of innocence, haha..." Lance rubbed his nape and laughed dryly, brittle as twigs.

"Lance, it’s not funny." In countries near the front, Reina said, voice like a bell under a veil, "especially the Mephis Republic north of the Doran Kingdom, many big cities hold burnings some night almost every week. They keep torching those suspected of being Night Disciples. Plenty are poor souls with nothing but a rumor—thrown away by fate like crumpled paper."

So it’s a weekly bonfire party over there? Fulin couldn’t even picture it without a chill.

"Tsk." Lance clicked his tongue, like a flint striking. "That’s... barbaric."

"We in the Doran Kingdom are in the rear. You don’t see many burnings, or much Celestial Spirit interference, but—" Reina’s words faltered like a candle in wind.

Lance picked it up, the thought sharp as a knife. "But it doesn’t mean there’s none, right?" On that point, Fulin felt it in her bones. The Heavenly Spirit Empire’s demands on Golden Bay City were writ large as scars. What they did made the Vanilla Duke choose to watch, and pushed the Carl Margrave to gamble.

"Lance! Your clarity is honestly surprising." Reina’s bright eyes widened like stars cutting fog. "So, choosing to ask me was wise. I, Reina Grandi, will teach you the Refining Method with everything I’ve got, so you’ll look more like a normal knight."

So the Lance I play isn’t normal? Fulin’s thoughts rolled like marbles in a bowl.

At least Reina the knight was serious and responsible, steady as a pine in gale. Having such a childhood friend and coach—Fulin’s heart lit like a brazier.

Her joy didn’t last long. Thud, thud... thud, thud! Reina hauled four massive logs from George’s forest, tied them together with rope, and hitched them to Lance. "Weighted training," she declared, ceremonious as a judge.

Fulin went blank. They were raw pine logs, unseasoned and heavy as rain-soaked earth, each about a ton.

Four together made roughly four tons. Reina’s meaning was clear as noon: Lance would drag those four tons forward, pushing past the limits like a mule on a mountain road.

Lance pulled a bitter face, like chewing green peel. "Miss Reina, you’re giving me way too much credit."

"Am I?" Reina slipped the rope free, then casually shouldered one log. A full ton might as well have been a reed across her back.

"What?!" With shallow experience, Fulin felt the shock flare like lightning behind her eyes.

Fine—she knew she’d been thinking in a rut again. Truth is, she herself could shoulder a ton if she had to, like a crane lifting a beam.

But Lance? He’s just a knightly youth a notch above ordinary, a young oak, not an iron pillar.

Even with Charge Lv.3, that’s a strength spiked by Battle Aura Lv.2—power only when the aura flares like a blaze. He’s not good at Refining, so he’s no natural strongman. With Strength Lv.2, carrying 300 kilos is about the limit, a millstone but not a millhouse.

Maybe dragging lets you pull more, like sled runners on snow, but four tons wouldn’t budge without skids. And with skids, it’s not special training anymore.

Bottom line: Lance couldn’t do it. Forget shouldering a ton like Reina—her strength was like a gorilla girl’s, only more gorilla, a storm in human skin.

“Lance, you don’t think I’m being crude, not like a proper lady, do you?” Reina sounded riled, her eyes flashing like cold spring water.

“No, not at all, absolutely not!” Fulin, afraid Reina could read thoughts, played Lance with solemn airs, then praised, “I only think Miss Reina’s strength is immense,” like a mountain under snow.

The compliment backfired; Reina’s cheeks flushed pink, anger rippling like a heated kettle. “I’m not that strong!”

She huffed and hurled a wooden pile at Lance. “Use your body to remember the feel of aura refinement,” her words like a whip cracking in the air.

The flying stake whooshed in, a dark, heavy shadow. Lance nearly toppled, his breath knocked loose like leaves in wind. “Hey—! Oof!” He caught it with every ounce of strength, like milking stone for water.

He lasted barely three seconds; his muscles screamed like twisted bowstrings. Pure muscle alone couldn’t bear that ton of timber; the weight pressed him down like a sinking moon.

Crushed lower and lower, with death looming like a closing gate, Fulin, in Lance’s skin, followed Reina’s demand. She flared Battle Aura inside, refining it, like kindling taking flame in a sealed brazier.

It wasn’t reluctance; it was the price. The moment she did it, a pain like blazing fire devoured the body, licking bone and nerve like a hungry storm.

To be precise, it wasn’t Fulin being consumed. It was “Lance” bearing agony that relayed to her, like echoing thunder across a canyon.

Fulin feared pain; that fear sat in her chest like a cold stone in a stream.

But there was no choice. Crushed flat or stabbed by fire, she chose pain, teeth clenched, breath steady, will like an iron bell in the rain.

The refined Battle Aura scalded through her, a furnace roaring under skin; it felt as if flesh was burning, parts of her being eaten away and vanishing like ash in wind.

Put simply, “Lance Morrison” was losing HP, his life bar draining red like dusk sinking over rooftops.

At this rate on the status panel, in under a minute Lance would die on the spot, unable to control the aura raging within, like a runaway stallion.

Crisis closed in; Fulin’s long-calm heart-sea boiled like a storm-tossed lake, waves slapping the shore of her resolve.

She vowed, like a lamp lit against night: I, Fulin Belit, came to this world for a quiet life. I won’t fall here.

Anchored by belief, before the life-essence bled dry, Lance kept refining within. The effect finally bloomed, like spring sap rising through old bark.

Cells under Battle Aura woke like sparks in dry tinder. Skin toughened like treated leather; every muscle fiber tightened like drawn silk—power surging in, a thousand-weight in an instant.

The feel wasn’t new. A month and a half ago, when Alice was about to be strangled by mercenaries, the same surge came—the second movement of Piercing Form—body and mind becoming a countercurrent in chaotic waves, all things held to a single line.

Fulin was sure: this was the technique to control aura within, like reigning fire with breath.

Now certainty turned to fact. Lance seized that explosive strength again and heaved the one-ton stake up, like lifting dawn’s gate.

“How is it!?” he asked, breath hot, eyes bright as coals.

“Not bad,” Reina said with approval, her smile like a sunbeam after rain. “Aura Refinement’s trick is your breathing. Remember this feel. Control it with breath.”

Fulin recalled Layne saying the same; back then she didn’t get it. Now things were different. Playing Lance, she controlled her breathing—each inhale and exhale like bellows guiding flame.

The refined aura, savage like flowing fire, eased after every breath, as if bridled. It stopped raging through the body and, like a spring, filled from lungs to limbs in measured streams.

It became a warm current, strong yet calm, like sunlight pouring through shutters—no longer pain, but warmth mending flesh, heat tempering strength.

The sensation was exquisite, passionate, like music swelling in the chest; Fulin rode it, high as a kite in a steady wind.

“Hey! I didn’t tell you to burn the stake—it’s on fire!” Reina’s shout cracked the spell, like a pebble in a still pond.

Fulin snapped back. Playing Lance, she had overflowed. Aura meant for refinement spilled out, unconscious, became a river of flame, and the timber blazed like a torch.

“Quick—put it out!” Her voice fluttered like a startled sparrow.

“Ugh, look at you, all flustered. Water’s over there! Put it out! …Wait, not that way!” Reina waved, her arms chopping air like fans.

Once Fulin-as-Lance lost calm, he was no better than former instructor Layne. He ran with a burning stake on his shoulder, sprinting like a headless chicken. When he came to, the fire on the log died—yet the castle’s rear courtyard burned like a sheet of autumn leaves.

With flames spreading, they grabbed Reina and a squad of soldiers, buckets and shouts like drumbeats, and fought the blaze.

Many hands, messy feet. By the time the fire died, it was afternoon; blackened charcoal soaked the yard like wet ink, and front and back courtyards stank of bitter smoke from spent wood.

“Lance, Lance, how can you be so rash?” Reina scolded, wringing her skirt, water trickling like silver threads. She hadn’t worn her waterproof skirt armor today; instead, a light pleated work dress, which soaked through like paper in rain. “I don’t get how someone this reckless led troops to beat Carl Margrave. I’m drenched, seriously!”

“Haha—just a slip-up. I’m careful—” Fulin, playing Lance, felt her whole body go soft, strength draining like tide from shore. The world tilted; his knees failed, and he collapsed with a thud, unable to move.

“Lance!” Her voice reached him before his eyes shut, like a bell fading into mist.