The Golden Grape Restaurant sat on a prime patch of feng shui, hugging the broad river like black silk under moonless lamps, and the night still glittered like scattered fireflies.

Its stern security strangled the view like iron stakes in a flowerbed, with knights pacing every ten meters like metronome posts, and two bruisers at the door like stone lions.

Lance’s group watched from afar like shadows under eaves, and he asked, half bitter and half joking, like a man chewing frost, “You think we can get in?”

The Spy Mage glanced back like a fox over its shoulder and said, “We’ll know if we ask.”

“Easy for you to say,” Lance muttered like a pebble skipping and sinking.

Fulin, wearing Lance’s face like a borrowed mask, couldn’t go ask, because “he” had vanished from a special cell like smoke through fingers, and any story would be mud flung at Stephen or the jailers.

“I’ll ask, then,” the Spy Mage offered like a hand extended across a stream.

“No,” Lance said, thoughts turning like millstones, then he looked to Yuna like a lamp finding its wick, “You ask, and say you’re the Rose Knight’s maid.”

“That’s a great idea!” Jeremy blurted like a cork popping.

Yuna bowed her head like a reed in wind. “Understood, master.”

“Wait, miss,” the Spy Mage called, voice soft as moth wings, “take this,” and he tucked a beetle into her skirt pocket like a pebble into a pouch.

“It’s my scouting bug,” he added like a locksmith showing a key, “with it we can see inside, and it’ll guard you if danger hits like rain.”

Yuna went pale like chalk in a storm, fear of insects crawling up her throat like ants.

“Your answer?” Lance’s tone cut like sleet.

She flinched like a hare under hawk-shadow. “I… I’ll carry it, master.”

“Boss, that’s a bit strict for a girl,” Jeremy whispered like a leaf skittering.

The Spy Mage chuckled like dry twigs catching spark. “Now’s the time to be strict, since the waves are high.”

No one answered, and silence pooled like ink.

Yuna only bowed like a willow. “I’ll go at once.”

“Standing in the street’s no good,” the Spy Mage said, eyes flicking to an upscale club like a cat to a windowsill, “I’m a regular there, let’s go in.”

“No problem, but keep the bill light,” Lance said like a coin flipped.

“Don’t worry,” the Spy Mage replied like a calm tide.

Inside the club, they passed neon and wine like fish through lantern-lit water, then took a second-floor private room like a perch above a pond.

“This should do,” the Spy Mage said, eyes circling like a hawk tracing thermals.

Jeremy gaped at the lavish décor like a villager in a palace. “Boss, never thought we’d see a place like this!”

Lance noted the split-level suite with a balcony facing the Golden Grape like two chessboards aligned. “Nice choice, Mage… why isn’t a room with such bright feng shui taken?”

“I reserved it,” the Spy Mage said, clean as a knife on a whetstone.

“…Right,” Lance said, embarrassed like a boy caught staring.

“Good,” the Spy Mage murmured, flipping his scarf back like a banner and dropping to one knee, hand over his eye like a shutter. “Let’s see how our maid’s doing.”

The covered eye glowed a soft dark gold like amber in dusk water, meaning the insect eye had linked like wire to a bell.

At his word, Lance placed his hand on the Mage’s head like a palm on a drum, and a jolt ran through him like lightning kissing a tree.

Sight flowed into his palm like a river into a sluice, and he saw Yuna negotiating at the door like a dove before wolves, while the knights insisted on a search like winter insisting on frost.

Seeing it, Fulin’s mood spread darkly like ink in clear water, swallowing light like a slow tide.

“Control yourself,” the Spy Mage warned like a hand on a reins, “your emotions almost bucked my spell like a startled horse.”

“Sorry,” she breathed like a lantern guttering.

A maid came to search her like a raincloud soft but thorough, and Lance thought that was fair like a weight settling on scales.

When the pocket was checked, the beetle slipped out like a seed under leaf, climbed to Yuna’s thigh like a speck of shadow, and tried to hide under her skirt like a cricket under grass.

Her legs closed by reflex like a trap, and the beetle almost died like a candle under a cup, then it scuttled along the inner line to the outer like a raindrop finding a gutter, and clung to that soft, pale curve like a burr on wool.

Lance clicked his tongue like flint. “What’s Yuna playing at?”

“Don’t blame her,” the Spy Mage teased like a breeze through bells, “or she’ll call you heartless later.”

The search finished without anyone peeking under the skirt like a guard ignoring the rafters, and the beetle slipped back into the pocket like dusk into a sleeve.

Yuna entered the first floor like a quiet swan, where the buffet held tired food like embers, and off-duty knights ate leftovers like wolves gnawing on bones.

A few knights blocked her like rocks in a stream, until Stephen came down the stairs like an eager dog, waved them off, and led her up like a guide with a lantern.

On the stairs his hands grew restless like ivy, and Yuna slipped aside with grace like rain off a lotus.

“Beast in gentleman’s clothes,” Lance said, tongue clicking like a pebble against teeth.

“We men all drift that way,” the Spy Mage said, flat as slate, then tasted the air like a taster, “sounds like you’ve got a grudge.”

“Not a grudge, just trouble,” Lance said, voice like a stone in his boot.

“That’s a grudge,” the Spy Mage said, light as dust.

The second floor was fine dining made empty by a full booking like a stage after curtain, with old women wiping long tables clean like waves polishing stones.

Stephen led Yuna to the third-floor stairs, guarded by two knights like gateposts, and a quick word opened the way like a key turning.

The third floor held private rooms like beehives humming, with patrols in the hall like tides, sentries at corners like statues, and mages peeking out like owls at dusk, the security tighter than expected like winter biting early.

“Why not just hang guards from the ceiling,” Lance joked, voice dry as straw.

“They tried that in the palace,” the Spy Mage replied, serious as frost.

Down the hall came a long-bearded elder in white robes like a pine in snow, crossing their path like a cloud shadow.

“Bad,” the Spy Mage hissed like steam, “the Duke’s archmage.”

He severed the link like a rope cut, waited one slow minute like a monk in prayer, then rejoined like a lock catching, and the elder was now behind them like thunder after lightning.

“Just passed by,” the Spy Mage exhaled like a bell rung once.

“What happened?” Lance asked, bewildered like a deer in reeds.

“The insect eye almost got spotted,” the Spy Mage rasped like a saw, “if it’d been a mouse or a rabbit, we’d be done like ash in rain.”

“Sounds like wizard stuff,” Lance said, lost as fog, “if beetles are best, why don’t all scouts use them?”

“Most mages can’t handle them,” he said, pride warm as a coal, “enough chat, let me focus.”

Stephen finally brought Yuna to Reina’s private room like a courier to a gate.

“Inside, miss,” Stephen said, voice smooth as oil on wood.

“Thank you for the trouble, sir knight,” Yuna answered, cold and clean as winter glass.

The door opened like a lid, and inside were Reina and the others like pieces set for play, plus the Vanilla Duke, the Heavenly Inspector, and the Duke’s chief knight, “Mountain Wind,” a secret meeting tight as a drum.

“Reina’s maid is here,” the doorman said, voice flat as a slate.

Reina peered, then blinked, confusion fluttering like a moth. “You’re not my maid. Who are you?”

Steel whispered free like snakes, and swords came up around Yuna like a thicket, one blade at her neck like a cold line of rain.

“Sir Lance sent me,” Yuna said, voice still winter-calm, “he’s safe.”

The Vanilla Duke frowned like a stormbank. “Sir Lance?”

“Blazing Fire Knight,” “Mountain Wind” murmured at his ear like wind through pines.

“Blazing Fire Knight… Blazing Fire Knight,” the Duke tasted it like bitter tea, then sneered like a knife. “No helping it. Do it.”

“Yes,” “Mountain Wind” answered, eyes sharpening like ice, his bow low like a bough, hand on his hilt like a hunter on string, then his body vanished like a gust.

The Heavenly Inspector sensed danger like a stag scenting smoke, grabbed his staff like a mast, but the wind was already up like a sail.

In a blink, “Mountain Wind” stood a meter behind him like a shadow at noon, hand lifting from the hilt like a leaf, and the wind died like a candle.

The Inspector fell without a sound like a tree in snow.

“That’s Earth Knight ‘Mountain Wind’s’ finisher, the Gale Slash,” the Spy Mage said with a bitter smile like wormwood, then sighed like night settling, “looks like the Vanilla Duke finally made his move.”

“Made his move? What do you mean?” Lance asked, mind lagging like a wheel in mud.

Fulin remembered Robert’s hint from the afternoon like a thorn under skin, and she couldn’t believe it like ice refusing to melt.

Just as Lance tried to watch more like a man clutching smoke, the Spy Mage cut the link and the shared sight like a curtain falling.

“What happened?” Lance demanded, urgency burning like a dry field.

The Spy Mage stood without a word like a post, and a crow flew through the balcony like night with wings, perched on his shoulder like a black blossom, a tiny tube tied to its leg like a bamboo joint.

He slid a small note in like a blade into sheath, and the crow leapt to the dark like a pebble into a well.

The Spy Mage sagged onto the sofa like a puppet with cut strings, voice light on purpose like foam, “Because it’s not our business anymore.”

Lance froze for a few heartbeats like frost on grass, then hauled him up by the collar like a fisherman on a line. “What about Reina and the others? They’re still inside!”

The Spy Mage met his fury like a wall meets a wave, smiled helplessly like rain on stone, and said, “Inside are at least forty full knights, six Charge Knights, two Earth Knights, and six mid-tier or higher mages.”

“Boy, your gift may be rare like a comet, but you’re a Charge Knight,” he went on, each question a hammer like thunder. “How many Battle Aura stones can you ignite?”

“How many Charge Knights can you handle at once, like wolves around you? Have you ever fought mages, like fire against wind? Can you beat Earth Knights, like grass against granite?”

“Boy, do you really think you can save them, like one torch against a storm?”

Lance had no answers, only hands loosening like ropes, and he set the Spy Mage down like cargo, walked to the balcony like a man to a cliff, and looked up at a starless sky like a sealed lid. “What’s their fate?”

“You already know,” the Spy Mage said, voice flat as iron.

Silence pressed down like snow on branches.

After a few seconds, Lance spoke, words slow as stones. “Then I can only choose to save them.”

“I’m curious, Blazing Fire Knight,” the Spy Mage said, head tilting like a raven’s, “what do they mean to you?”

“Nothing,” Lance said, eyes steady like coals, “I just don’t want to watch flowers wither before my eyes.”

They let a few breaths pass like ripples, and then the Spy Mage rose from the sofa like a man lifting anchor. “You leave me no choice, Lance,” he said, almost smiling like dawn behind fog, “consider this a debt you owe me.”