Outside “Radiance,” Lance clenched his fist till flesh ached, pain grinding like glass under skin.

All for repairing the Sirius Sword, sixteen gold coins bled away, a fortune heavy as an anchor across the Nordland Continent.

For most folk, sixteen gold coins was a lifetime’s hard bread, a tide of dry seasons saved grain by grain.

At George City wages, “he” would work five quarters—one year and three months—seasons turning like pages, just to stack sixteen coins.

That never happens. Half must feed his retainers, loyalty held like reins; without coin, where would Jeremy and the others’ steadfast hearts come from?

Fulin knew this cold as night rain—charm can’t carry a house; most doors open to silver and gold.

Like Ms. Anli at the Radiance sword shop: sixteen coins landed, and her smile lit like a lantern; she promised the fix in three days.

Fulin swallowed the meat-deep ache and steeled herself; if they dared take coin and shirk, she’d storm that sword shop down to the last beam.

“That’s that.” Lance shook his head and walked on, boots brushing dust like whispering reeds.

He hadn’t gone far before stopping, wariness rising like a hawk’s shadow.

“Name yourself. Come out.” He drew his cleaver, and flames climbed the blade like snakes coiling to strike.

On the standard-issue cleaver, Battle Aura flames burned without fading; black iron reddened like a kiln, and embers dripped from the tip, hissing the earth to scorched crust.

“Forgive our discourtesy.” A crisp girl’s voice chimed, bells with a hint of honey yet green as spring shoots.

A maid stepped from the corner ahead, her face fair as porcelain; sea-green hair framed golden eyes like coins in a clear spring.

Yet when those eyes fixed on him, the ‘clarity’ thinned like mist; her gaze weighed him like prey under a hunter’s snow-pale moon.

“Is your name Lance Morrison?” the maid asked.

Lance feigned annoyance. “Ask a name? Start with your own.”

She held her skirt and dipped, a neat bow. “Pardon me. I’m Yuna, a professional maid with the Raven Brotherhood.”

At that lift of silk, metal flashed along the hem—hidden steel strapped to those tempting black-stockinged legs, glimmer quick as fish-scales.

Maybe she wanted him to see.

Lance let his gaze cool. “My name is Lance Morrison.”

“So, what do you people want?” He tipped the quenched cleaver, light skating along its edge like frost.

“Ah-la~ so keen.” Yuna’s hand curved to her lips, a half-smile like a painted fan.

Gang enforcers appeared, armbands all marked with ravens, weapons varied but oiled to a dull glow; their steps came like a rehearsed drumline.

They had lain in wait, jaws closing from every side; within heartbeats they ringed Lance like a tightening trap.

Seeing trouble in their stance, Lance stoked his blade-fire, flames flaring like a brazier in a gale. “How about a brawl hot as wildfire?”

The enforcers tensed like drawn bows.

Yuna did too, but she didn’t flinch. She gestured, voice smooth. “Blazing Fire Knight, our cadre wishes to meet you. Please come with us.”

Curiosity pricked Fulin like moths drawn to a lamp—she needed the story behind this place, blood-powder, and Vampire Knight whispers.

She’d already played Lance through an escape trick, slipping free of a cell no one should break; it wasn’t wise to rush back to Jeremy.

Better to spend this breathing room on information, like sowing seeds before frost.

Lance accepted the invite; he banked the fire, sheathed the cleaver, and opened his hands like a peace offering. “Alright. Since such a cute lady asks, I’ll come.”

A faint, hard-to-catch smile touched Yuna’s mouth, light as a cat’s whisker. “Follow me.”

They walked a good stretch and reached the Raven Brotherhood’s territory, a broad square fenced with broken eaves and shattered walls, ruins stitched into a makeshift boundary.

It sprawled near the size of a soccer field, a bare plain under a gray sky.

“This place’s big,” Lance said, words laid out like flat stones.

“Yes. Among Black Street Market zones, our Raven Brotherhood holds the widest ground.”

His eyes caught the tent rows at the square’s front and the rag-clad people passing through, threads frayed like winter grass.

As they crossed the canvas lanes, their stares pressed on him—hunger hollow as bowls, misery like rain-soaked roofs, pleading palms, envy’s thin glint, and fear’s shadow.

“They’re wretches crushed by the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s levies,” Yuna said, pity soft as warm broth. “We took them in and ladle porridge once, sometimes twice a day.”

“Sounds like someone else wrote their poverty,” Lance said, voice flat as a slate.

“Of course.” Yuna’s tone sparked. “George City can offset dues with timber and tariffs. The other wards of Golden Bay City aren’t so lucky; the load fell on them.”

“Most couldn’t bear it and became driftfolk. They came seeking chances in Golden Bay, but—”

“Most ended as slaves—fates bleak as winter stone. The luckier reached here. They’re weak now, but we hope one day…” She caught herself, and her smile wavered like a loose thread. “Ah-la, I’m rambling.”

“You just noticed?” Lance’s reply was dry as dust.

“Blazing Fire Knight, your luck with women must be terrible.” Her plain face showed a little pique, pink as a cloud at sunset.

They talked as they walked through the tent field into the square’s deep ruin.

A faint blood-sweet scent drew their steps, a rose note that sharpened ahead like a needle.

An old manor sat at the heart, its worn but elegant gate mismatched with the new, plain wall—old bone wrapped in fresh plaster.

Only one entrance, yet a tower rose at each corner; two sentries watched atop each, silhouettes like crows on posts.

Not just the towers—patrols crossed the yard, boots splitting the dust like plows; dozens of wary eyes swept Lance like searchlights.

Buildings crowded the yard: the central mansion and tight ranks of new houses to both sides; tavern, shop, warehouse, all present like organs in a living beast.

If you ignored the fighters drilling on bare ground, this manor was a small walled town—ruins as prairie, and inside the stone a tight-knit hamlet.

“Distinct flair,” Lance murmured, words like a cigarette’s curl of smoke.

“Don’t belittle the Raven Brotherhood.” Yuna’s voice turned solemn. “We’re the most active in rebuilding order.”

“We’re also the strongest. We’ll unite the gangs, feed the Black Street Market, and win citizen status equal to other wards of Golden Bay City.”

“That your creed? Sounds grand.” Lance’s tone skimmed, a pebble on water.

“You’re a beneficiary—easy to sneer,” Yuna snapped, eyes bright as sparks.

“Say what you like.” He kept it loose, like rain on a hood.

They kept at it until the mansion, then up to the second floor’s farthest room.

“Mr. Robert is inside,” Yuna said at the door. “Mind your manners, Blazing Fire Knight.”

The door opened from within. Lance stepped into a spacious conference room with four exits, air brushed by a thin blood-sweet scent.

“You smell blood too?” asked the man in the main seat, voice calm as velvet.

“No.” Lance traced for the source, senses sweeping like a wolf’s nose; the scent lay elsewhere, a thread outside the room. “I don’t smell blood.”

“Then why were you sniffing?” Robert asked, interest like a cat’s tail.

Fulin, long fluent in Lance’s mask, let the lie fall like rain. “Because it’s mealtime.”

Robert sighed, a warm gust. “Ah, a knight with an empty stomach. Shall I, the Raven Brotherhood’s minister of intelligence, cook for you?”

“No need to trouble you, Mr. Robert. Provide ingredients and tools—spices too, if possible.” His smile flicked like a match.

Robert laughed. “Hahaha, you’re refreshingly blunt. Truly the Blazing Fire Knight of rumor.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Lance said, humility smooth as oiled leather.

Robert set four gold coins on the lacquered tabletop, surface gleaming like still water. He flicked them, one by one, like a gambler tossing chips.

He wore fine clothes in this black-street city, and each flick made the coins seem light as leaves.

Lance caught them, brows pulling like knots. “What’s this?”

“Radiance carries our investment. Ms. Anli may have charged more than necessary.”

“You do that?” Surprise lifted Lance’s voice like a step up.

“No offense, hahaha.”

The blood-sweet scent deepened, wine-dark and velvety.

Robert’s face tightened, shadow like a closing lid. “Mr. Lance, before we begin, may I ask something?”

“Go ahead.”

Robert’s tone dropped, a drum in fog. “Young man, how do you view the Heavenly Spirit Empire?”

Fulin nearly cracked a meme—wrong time to joke; she swallowed it like a bitter pill.

Lance kept it even. “It drove me from home. I starved and scraped for it, and found hard-won chances too.”

Robert’s serious look settled heavier, like snow on firs. “So you don’t seem to hate the Heavenly Spirit Empire.”

Lance showed a thin, bitter smile, ash-lipped. “Their inquisitors haven’t targeted me yet.”

Robert’s severity eased like thaw. “Ah, a knight tossed by fate… Alright, to business—”

“Lance Morrison, will you join our Raven Brotherhood?” Robert offered the olive branch, green and weighty.

Lance frowned a shade, a crease like a blade-mark. “Mr. Robert, a reason? You’re a black-street organization, and I’m a sworn knight.”

He added, steady as banked coals, “I’ll say it upfront. I don’t move for justice or grand causes. I need money.”