"Alright. That should do."

Fulin pulled on a red kerchief and slipped in color-shifting contacts, a little red hood hiding a fox among reeds.

Her pretty, refined features still made passersby catch their breath like wind snagging on chimes, but her overall look sank low. Silver hair like spilled moonlight vanished under the hood, and her bloodred pupils turned an everyday emerald by the lenses’ shifting grid.

If she’d prepared better, she’d have turned that silver to gold. Without a magical dye on hand, she kept the moon-sheen tucked like a blade edge under the hood, and moved through the human current like a minnow in a river.

Someone still bumped her. A shabby middle-aged man lurched in, and even though Fulin had sidestepped like a leaf skirting a stone, he barked loud, “You ran into me!”

What kind of cheap crash-for-cash trick is that? Fulin’s mouth curled, but her feet never paused. She didn’t look back. She flowed on with the crowd.

“Hold it right there!” The scrubby man saw the red-hooded little girl ignore him, and the press of bodies pushing him away. Panic snapped his voice. “I’m grabbing you, you little thief!”

It worked. In this city, kids from the slums often nicked things in the commercial district. The crowd parted for him like wheat split by a scythe.

By the time he pushed through, the lone red hood had vanished. He dropped his voice, eyes mean as a rat’s. “Damn. Lost such prime merchandise.”

Maybe someone heard him. A few women pinched their noses and hissed as they passed. “Filthy trafficker.”

He bristled. “Say that again?!”

Then he spotted guards not far off. His face smoothed like wet clay. He blended into the tide of bodies, already hunting his next mark.

Perched atop a streetlamp like a small bird on iron, Fulin watched the scene with cool eyes. The city’s order felt like rotten wood under fresh paint. If she hadn’t mist-shifted the instant he moved on her, she’d be tangled in his stink right now.

She didn’t fear a quarrel. She feared the spectacle that would ripple. She needed low tide, not waves.

Fulin misted back to a corner. She walked out of it like a shadow leaving a wall, merged into the crowd, and kept going.

Her target sat in the Black Street Market. She planned to head straight for a mana-stone workshop there. It’d be safer to turn back into Lance first, but a simple, stubborn limit pinned her: the Dual Incarnation skill’s cooldown.

Each transformation meant roughly twenty minutes on the clock.

She couldn’t see the timer. She felt it, the way a storm knows when to break.

By the time her sense loosened, she’d reached the Black Street Market.

“So this is it…”

A single wall split it from the commercial district, yet it might as well have been a mountain pass. On one side, prosperity and polish. On the other, bleak edges and feral breath.

The Black Street Market was the old quarter left before Golden Bay City’s expansion. Buildings leaned like tired men. Ruins and precarious houses gaped everywhere. A few apparent empty lots were actually collapsed hulks—maybe a theater once—left as broken eaves and bitten walls.

Those who lived here matched the stone. Paupers, city refugees, and Black Street enforcers. Their trades either sprawled like weeds or clung on like moss.

She took in the decay that still kept its fists up. From deeper within, a rich perfume of blood drifted like a red thread. Fulin’s thoughts sank, then stilled.

A drunk swayed past, bottle sloshing like a sluggish tide. He pointed a wavering finger down the busted street. “Little sister, if you wanna see tomorrow’s sun, don’t go in.”

He wobbled away.

“See tomorrow’s sun…” Fulin rolled the phrase on her tongue, then shook her head with a small, wry smile.

In any case, she needed the Black Street Market’s mana-stone workshop. She’d try her luck and see if the Sirius Sword, already showing damage, could be put right.

She mist-slipped all the way, hugging the ring canal and flowing with its outcurrent, until she stood before the place marked on her map—the “Radiance” Sword Shop.

The name puzzled her at first. Then Jeremy’s intel clicked into place. It was called a sword shop partly because it truly sold weapons. From the doorway, rows of blades lay on racks, and armor and short bows hung on the walls like cold fish on hooks.

The other reason was the Vanilla Duke’s iron control over all mana-stone trade. Across the Nordland Continent, it was the same—those in power handled mana stones the way a past life handled firearms. Rules existed, but nets leak. So the shop’s mana-stone dealing was an open secret.

“Radiance” also crafted and sold mana-stone armaments, most of them priced like fine horses. The shop sat where law didn’t reach, so its security felt like winter steel.

Outside, dozens of gang enforcers looped their patrols, netting the area to keep business smooth.

Inside, three Vampire Knights stood like iron statues. Their hulking frames and heavy, bestial breathing alone were enough to scare off small-time schemers.

Anyone who could afford this place was either a face from the Black Street crews or a self-styled knight or rogue mage with real teeth.

Because of those big names, even a feather’s worth of trouble would spread through the Black Street Market like kindling catching flame, then bleed outward.

Fulin couldn’t risk that. She slid into a corner, watched the eyes around her, then triggered Dual Incarnation. She became Lance, stepped out like a different blade from the same sheath, and headed for the door at a stride.

Before he crossed the threshold, a dozen hostile gazes slid onto him like drawn knives.

He stood in that cold light, skin crawling, but he still walked in.

The owner was a sultry, mature woman, idly doing her nails like a cat grooming its claws. She barely looked up. “Welcome—”

“Oh? Isn’t that the famed Blazing Fire Knight?” She raised her eyes, reweighed him, and her tone shifted, silk over steel.

Lance’s gaze flicked over her outfit on reflex. He dipped his head. “Don’t deserve the title.”

“I heard you’re not the modest type. Why play meek with me?” Her voice teased, polish glinting like lacquered petals.

“I’m here to ask a favor.” He kept it straight.

“What kind?”

“I want you to see whether you can repair this mana-stone weapon.” He revealed the Sirius Sword.

The motion set off the wrong signal. The three Vampire Knights surged, boots thudding like drums, ready to pin him.

“Stop!” One word from the owner, and the air froze.

They held there for a few beats like a photograph caught in amber. Then they stirred, turned, and went back to their posts.

Lance exhaled like a man who’d ducked the scythe. “God of Victory above, those bodyguards look mindless. What happened to them?”

“You ask me what happened to them? That’s rich.” She lifted her head, amusement curling her lip. “Didn’t you brawl with their kind an hour ago?”

“They’re strong as oxen and hard as iron.” He felt again the weight of a parried strike, the tingle running his sword arm. “But you still haven’t told me how they turned like that, Boss?”

“I’m Anli.”

He nodded. “Ms. Anli, can you tell me how?”

“Too much vampire powder.”

“That’s as good as saying nothing.” He grimaced.

“Because that’s all I know.” Anli kept on with her nails, unhurried as afternoon sun.

“Alright.” He tapped the Sirius Sword on the counter. “Can you fix this piece?”

Her gaze fell, and her eyes lit. “Let me see.”

She set the file aside. Long fingers traced the crack along the blade. A pale yellow glow gathered at her fingertip like dawn on frost.

Lance’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

“Repair Technique. Low-tier alchemy.” She lifted her hand. The crack hadn’t moved a hair. Only then did she add, “But Repair usually doesn’t fix much.”

“Then what’s the point?” He almost rolled his eyes.

“It tells me what I’m dealing with.”

Fulin’s interest woke like a cat pricking its ears.

“Go on.”

Anli’s tone snapped crisp. “This mana-stone weapon houses a single mana stone—a refined Battle Aura source stone. A source stone is a kind of Battle Aura stone, but it converts absorbed Battle Aura into essence. Inside the blade runs a dense, delicate alchemy array that drinks that essence and turns it into effects. If I’m right, the array is a composite of a dozen scripts—Amplify, Shaping, Fortify, and the like. This short sword is a focus that fires them together. Most mana-stone arms work like that.”

Lance blinked. “Sounds like a high-grade weapon.”

“So it’s named the Sirius Sword?” Anli asked.

“It is. So, can you fix it?”

“No problem. But—” She tore a corner from vellum, dipped a quill, and wrote a number. “Sixteen gold coins.” About 1.12 million yuan.

“Uh…” Lance stalled.

Fulin grumbled inside. Fixing a sword for 1.12 million? Pricier than servicing a Lamborghini. And the Sirius Sword was worth fifteen gold, but the repair cost sixteen. She admitted she wasn’t an expert, yet the old vixen across the counter smelled like a rip-off.

“What, can’t pay?” Anli’s smile turned sharp. “I heard the Blazing Fire Knight is thriving out there. Surely you can afford a paltry sixteen gold?”