“Top of the wanted list?” Lance asked, baffled.

“That list rogue mages keep ending up on,” Jeremy said, thinking as he spoke. “In those old geezers’ words, it’s a bounty board for unlicensed spellcasters. Hitting the top’s a fortune—100 gold mage-coins. Your grand master’s something else.”

Fulin felt a chill settle, then a spark of confusion flicker.

Lance asked, “My mage friend never showed her face. How’d she end up on it?”

“Everyone knows that grand mage helped you in battle,” Jeremy said, voice steady as a drumbeat. “But the Mage Association doesn’t go by that. They track rogue mages by the spells they break the rules with, then set the bounty name off that.”

The system sounded seasoned, like old timber that bends but never snaps; even their arcane forensics could trace a caster by the shape of their magic.

Fulin had believed staying unseen meant safety. Realization spread cold as dew—she’d been careless.

Lance asked again, “What does the very top entry say?”

“Wanted codename ‘Breaker Star,’” Jeremy pronounced each word, then continued. “Illegal use of elemental spells. Caused explosions in the Eroded Plains. Terrain drastically altered, river courses shifted… that’s the gist.”

“Just a codename and spell description?” Lance tensed, like a bowstring drawn too far.

Jeremy took another bite of bread, swallowed, then said, “That’s all. I don’t really get it, but to those old geezers, the spell description alone’s enough to guarantee they can catch a rogue mage.”

All right—Fulin pieced the thread. Her true body, not a registered mage, had cast freely, and the Association had issued a warrant.

It sounded absurd at first glance, yet it made sense—chains of law to keep magic from running wild.

If their arcane tracking truly worked, then the Lance she wore like a mask might already be under a lantern’s glare.

“Are we in trouble?” Lance asked.

“Don’t worry. That’s their internal business,” Jeremy said, topping Lance’s empty cup with wine, calm as a lake at dawn. “I’m sure your mage friend’s prepared.”

In truth, she wasn’t. Fulin’s nerves frayed like old silk.

“Let’s hope so, hah.” Lance forced a weak laugh, brittle as frost on glass.

Fulin remembered—Lance had ditched Jeremy to come into the city with a purpose.

He touched the Sirius Sword at his hip, fingers brushing the scar across its surface. “So, Jeremy—any weapon forges in Golden Bay City that can repair magistone gear?”

Jeremy unfolded a tourist map of Golden Bay City, pointing like a guide under lantern light. “Three shops. The first two need a permit from the Vanilla Duke. The last one doesn’t, but it’s in the black market.”

The final magistone shop sat in the lower right corner of the map, tucked away like a shadow.

Fulin recalled Mage Eugene’s words: from her angle, Golden Bay was an otherworld Los Santos.

Opportunity swarmed like gulls over a harbor; danger gnawed like rats under the floorboards. Yet this very place was the trade capital of the Doran Kingdom.

She studied the maze of waterways, rivers glinting like silk ribbons. Beneath those sunny channels, how many bodies sank each year like stones? Her mood tangled like reeds.

She had to go. The Sirius Sword Lance used had cracked, a wound from standing against Reina in the Eroded Plains.

Back then, the blade looked wrecked. Once it reverted, it was just a single fissure on the short sword.

Even shifting forms again, the katana appeared flawless; the short blade’s crack seemed harmless.

But Fulin noticed the wound creeping wider, like drought-split earth spreading across steel.

Keep this up, and Sirius would break. She refused to become some Broken-Blade Sword Saint. She had to repair it before the sword died.

“Here,” Lance said under her breath. Her finger landed on the map’s lower right. Candlelight dimmed there, and her shadow pooled like ink.

At dawn, Reina showed up beneath the tower as always. “Up and at ’em!”

Fulin, deep in thought, nearly snapped. She triggered her Dual Incarnation, leaned out the window. “I’m coming.”

Even with Qi Refinement in hand, Reina kept guiding Lance’s training.

Afternoon arrived hot as a kiln. Sunlight pressed down and burned like a brand.

Under the trees, after a quick wash, they ate packed lunches. Lance asked, “Where are you heading after this?”

“After this…” Reina thought long, then spoke slowly. “Most likely Golden Bay City.”

“A mission?”

“Yes. Depends on what I find.” Her long lashes lowered, eyes drifting to the distance like birds crossing a lake.

If Reina wouldn’t stay long, time felt syrup-thick, each second stretching thin.

A runner came breathless. “Sir Lance, a messenger from the Vanilla Duke has arrived!”

Fulin-as-Lance stood, climbed to the wall, and looked down. Turmoil churned at the mountain city’s gate like ants in a nest.

A lavish carriage squeezed through the narrow gate. A dozen elite guard knights followed, armor inlaid with precious metals that flashed like fish scales. They carved a path up the street, straight to the castle.

By the time Lance and Reina arrived, Count George stood at the carriage door in a posture near kneeling, humility like a blade pressed to his neck.

The door opened. A man descended in splendid attire, every gesture steeped in noble grace—the kind that floats like incense smoke.

When his shoe touched the dirt, his brow creased. He seemed to blame the ground for lacking a carpet.

Cold sweat slipped from Count George’s jaw. A small mountain city couldn’t prepare for this wave. He bent lower, offering apology like a bent willow.

“Fine,” the Celestial Spirit messenger didn’t linger on it, skipped pleasantries, went straight for the vein. “Is Reina Grandi here?”

At his words, Reina stepped from the front courtyard’s crowd. “I am.”

“That battle in the Eroded Plains was a disaster,” he said, voice smooth as marble.

“Apologies for the mess,” Reina answered, neither humble nor arrogant.

“Here.” He drew a letter from his chest. “I’m pleased the royal line of Maple City sent you. I expect results.”

Reina accepted the letter with both hands, nodded. “Yes.”

“This damn place—I don’t want to breathe here another heartbeat… Oh,” the messenger’s mood perked like a cat catching a scent, “is Lance Morrison here?”

Reina’s gaze wavered like water. After a beat, she said, “He is.”

“Good. Bring him to me,” the messenger ordered, chin lifted like a blade.

Reina hesitated, then answered, “Understood.”

Fulin-as-Lance took her time, then arrived like a late shadow. “You called, Lord Messenger?”

The Celestial Spirit’s mouth tightened. “Slow.”

He steadied at once, then looked Lance up and down with a gaze mixing pity and praise. “Not bad. Your body hums with the fine essence of Battle Aura. A knight fit to serve the Heavenly Spirit Empire.”

The moment those words fell, the air quivered like a plucked string. The crowd clenched fists, knuckles white as bone.

“My lord, he’s still my knight,” Count George said, voice trembling like a leaf.

“So what?” The Celestial Spirit spread his arms, eyes sweeping like a hawk. “The Doran Kingdom is a vassal of the Heavenly Spirit Empire. Everything you have is ours. I want a knight to serve me—why not?”

Silence settled heavy. Rage rose like thunderheads, but the dozen guard knights stood like iron statues. Worse, Celestial Spirits excelled at spells; a small wand hung at his hip like a stinger. Who knew what could burn or break?

And he was a Celestial Spirit—if one fell in a vassal state, the revenge would be a storm of knives.

Head by head, the crowd bowed, flames in their eyes, but no one dared meet his gaze.

“Good. Livestock should look like livestock.” He smiled, pleased as a landlord surveying fields. “I love your urge to resist matched by your lack of power. That posture—no matter how often I see it—delights me.”

Teeth ground. Humiliation piled like powder in a keg, needing only a spark.

For a simple life, Fulin-as-Lance stepped up as peacemaker. “My lord, why did you call for me?”

“No special reason,” the messenger said, arrogance like perfume. “I felt like seeing the rumored Blazing Fire Knight.”

He turned, tilting his head. “Reina Grandi, tell the boy about that matter too. The more strong knights we have, the simpler it is to deal with ‘them.’”

He boarded the carriage like a swan to water. The guards formed neat ranks, and the procession rolled out like a river. Tracks and wheel marks scarred the soil. The sullen crowd thinned, voices swallowed like stones.

At dusk in the manor, Lance cut straight to it. “What are ‘they’?”

Fulin had held that question like a hot coal. She wanted to know what the Celestial Spirit meant.

Before a cooled dinner, Reina admitted, “They’re Vampire Knights.”

“Vampire Knights? ‘They’—meaning a whole swarm invaded Golden Bay’s city districts?”

“No. Not exactly. They aren’t true vampires. They’re—”

Reina told it plainly. A year ago, a drug called Blood Powder crawled through Golden Bay’s black market like red mist.

At first, people took it for some new potion. Soon, they found it could grant brute strength in a flash.

Follow the pattern and keep dosing, and your body grows hard as oak, senses sharp as a hawk’s. The stronger formula can even awaken Battle Aura in those who never had it.

The price? You turn into a vampire-like thing. You need blood on a schedule, or your mind snaps like glass.

Reina finished, then asked, serious as a sword tip. “Well? Do you have such monsters in Mubay City too?”

“Hm…” Lance hesitated, words stalled like a cart in mud.

Are you sure you don’t mean the ‘Lance’ who grows by the Law of Essence Conversion? Fulin thought, unease curling like smoke.