Even hauled into the watchhouse, Lance still fought the tide, his voice hammering like hail on tin: “You’ve got it wrong. I’m innocent!”

A direct knight stepped out of the cluster like a spearpoint. He slammed a label on Lance as if nailing a sign to a post: “So young and already that much power. You expect us to believe you’re not one of them? Don’t think I don’t know how your kind gets power!”

“Wait, the Rose Knight can vouch for me! I never took blood powder!” Lance’s words spilled like marbles on stone.

His defense came rushed, like a man bailing a leaking boat; he had no time to waste on this crowd.

The man before him smiled with a hook in it, slow as winter dusk. “See? We never said ‘blood powder’ once. Yet you, an out-of-towner, knew. Don’t talk to me about the Rose Knight. Would someone that high stoop to know a punk like you, Lance Morrison?”

Fulin felt a ripple of wrongness, like cold water seeping into boots; that tone sounded like he knew “him.”

Even in the dim lantern glow, shadows thin as gauze still let “him” read the man’s face.

Lance stared, and his gut dropped like a stone in a well. Dead meat.

The Vanilla Duke’s direct knight was no stranger. He was the “countryman” Lance had once turned the accusation on—Stephen Cronin.

Lance waved a hello like flicking ash. “Yo, it’s you. So you made it to the Vanilla Duke’s retinue. Looks like you’ve done alright.”

“Ha. Thanks to you,” Knight Stephen said, tossing the words like pebbles. “Since then I’ve had it rough. Every petty noble around Count George knew me as that ‘fake knight.’ Doors shut like slammed shutters all the way. I had to try my luck in the city... the ending isn’t bad, but.”

“But what?” Lance asked, casual as smoke.

Stephen’s tone held pity or scorn, thin as frost. “Bold or stupid, you actually dared come to Golden Bay City?”

On the seat of judgment, Lance sprawled into a lazier pose, like a cat in a sun patch. “Why can’t I come to Golden Bay City?”

Stephen turned, then turned back, a cold smile cutting like a knife. “Because you sinned. You sinned with arrogance. The Vanilla Duke decreed no one helps Count George. You knew that, and you still reached out—”

“Wait, Sir Stephen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And didn’t you just say something about accomplices—” Lance blurted, words tripping like loose stones.

“Drop the act,” Stephen snapped, the shout cracking like ice. Then his mouth tucked into a thin, hidden smile. “Anyway, Lance Morrison, you’re under arrest. Sit tight in this special cell for a few days. I’ll find you a proper charge. Look forward to it. Hahaha!”

Stephen left no room to breathe, like a lid slammed on a pot. His squad of direct knights pressed Lance forward. The jailers took the Sirius Sword and the magic staff, then shut him in the watchhouse’s deepest cell.

As Stephen said, the cell was special. The walls and bars were forged with magic stone that dampened Battle Aura like wet sand snuffing coals.

In that box, Lance couldn’t circulate or ignite his Battle Aura. He was as ordinary as a barefoot farmer.

“When they want you guilty, they’ll find words,” Lance fumed, anger rising like a storm front.

The bespoke cell had one door to the corridor, iron-faced and mean. All four sides otherwise were walls, thick as a cliff.

Lance tried a full-force punch. The wall didn’t even scuff, and his knuckles stung like ant bites. No digging out.

That left only the door.

The door was the kind used for truly dangerous men, a thick iron slab ten centimeters fat, heavy as a millstone.

It didn’t swing shut like a normal door. It dropped like a city gate, lowered by gears from above.

Once down, the iron jammed into its seat, tight as a coffin lid. No give to push or pull.

Inside, without brute destruction, there was no way to open it.

This cell was built to cage knights. Lance couldn’t leave on his own strength.

But what Lance couldn’t do didn’t mean Fulin couldn’t. Playing Lance, Fulin saw the door had a viewing slot.

The slot was 13 by 4 centimeters, a slit to peer through or pass a small tray.

Fulin marked the chance like a hunter spotting a gap. Lance grabbed the bedsheet and wrapped up head to toe.

The sheet was heavy with dust and stank of piss, a swampy reek. Lance didn’t care; he checked that no skin showed.

Once she was fully cocooned, Fulin released the Dual Incarnation. To anyone outside, the bedsheet bundle just sagged shorter, like someone crouching.

Hidden, Fulin triggered the Arcane Mage’s map-scan, sending her mind like a kite through stone.

Good. No magic arrays or watchers in the cell. No sorcerous familiars in the corridor either.

Both sides held common cells, and they were packed. Those cages opened to the corridor with iron bars like rib bones.

If Fulin blasted the door, the prisoners would see. If they saw her, the hive would stir. She already had a plan, so she didn’t worry.

Wrapped in the sheet, Fulin misted. Her small figure unraveled into a pale thread of translucent vapor, like breath on winter glass.

The white smoke tugged as if pulled by a draft. It slipped through the viewing slot with a soft sigh.

In mist, Fulin drifted into the corridor. She didn’t take shape; she streamed on toward the far end like fog hugging a river.

The corridor lay one floor underground. The stairs up waited at the end like a dark throat.

As expected, the stair mouth had another iron gate to ground level, locked tight, iron biting iron.

Fulin misted straight through and reached the watchhouse’s first-floor hall at last.

The watchhouse sat in the market district, hemmed by taller buildings like cliffs that stole the light.

The hall was neither wide nor bright. Even by day, the air felt tomb-cool.

Now it was past four, near dusk. Stretched shadows pooled like spilled ink, soaking the hall in quiet dread.

There should’ve been many guards posted. Only two jailers were there, playing cards like boys behind a barn.

“Heard a Vampire Knight showed up on the street today,” the tall one said, tossing a pair like throwing bones.

“Yeah. It even hit the main road,” the fat one said, waving the play off like a fly.

“The Blazing Fire Knight’s not bad, though. Took care of the Vampire Knight alone. Must be that genius people whisper about,” the tall one said, dropping another pair like chips.

“Shame he crossed the Duke... and those two toys on him are worth a pile. Wonder what the black market will pay,” the fat one said, still passing, eyes oily as broth.

“Hey, Joey, you keep passing and those two toys are mine,” the tall one laughed, teeth bright as dice.

“Who says I can’t play? Watch this—boom,” the fat one barked, slapping his whole hand down like a thunderclap.

“You son of a whore. Why would I gamble with scum like you? You stacked the deck, didn’t you?” the tall one snarled, face red as a rooster’s comb.

“Relax. We’ll split the money sixty-forty. You get forty,” the fat one said, patting his shoulder like a salesman.

“That’s more like—wait,” the tall one froze, eyes cutting to the hall’s back corner. “Did that cabinet just move?”

“What cabinet?” The fat one glanced at the corner, then turned back with a grin like a crease. “You’re spooked. Once I sell these two—wait. Where’s the short sword and the staff?!”

In my hands, Fulin crowed inside, glee bright as flint.

She had kicked a little noise into the corner to draw their eyes, then misted past the fat jailer in a blink, lifting the Sirius Sword and the magic staff like plucking fruit.

Their owners reclaimed, both treasures were back where they belonged.

Fulin hid behind the fat jailer’s sofa, small as a folded cat. She didn’t leave yet; she had to wait for the mist’s cooldown.

Five... four... three... two... one...

Right as she counted the moment to go, Reina walked in, voice like a trumpet: “Lance, where are you?!”

Damn, why now? Fulin’s heart jumped like a startled bird.

The scene turned fragile. Reina’s position was tricky. From the front door, the sofa blocked her line of sight like a hedge.

Not seeing didn’t mean not sensing. The stronger a knight’s Battle Aura, the sharper their feel.

A Charge Knight like Reina spread an unconscious net of Battle Aura, a spiderweb and a radar all at once.

Inside that web, the smallest twitch rang like a raindrop on a pond.

That sense wasn’t perfect, but Fulin couldn’t get sloppy. Even a tiny move might ping Reina.

So she had to bet on the two jailers. The louder they blundered, the bigger her window. She could only wait.

“Th-the Rose Knight!” the fat jailer yelped, leaping up like a spring. Fulin slid to the tall jailer’s sofa in the same breath.

Reina’s eyes cut toward the tall one like arrows. “Where are you holding Lance Morrison?” she snapped.

The tall jailer stammered, words clattering like dropped keys: “D-down in the deepest knight-cell on B1.”

“Get him out. Now,” Reina said, voice tight as a drawn bow.

“But Captain Zion told us—”

“His order is void. Inspector Hobbs overruled it. Release Lance Morrison at once,” Reina said, flashing a letter with Hobbs’s personal seal like a brand.

The two jailers went white, panic sweating like rain. They didn’t even think about whether they’d ever seen Hobbs’s seal.

They scrambled and hustled Reina downstairs in a clatter like rolling buckets.

So it seemed Fulin hadn’t needed to work this hard. Lance would’ve been saved.

But she had already started the escape. The arrow had left the string; there was no turning back.

Fulin used the gap while they went below, and misted out of the watchhouse like dawn fog slipping through pines.