“Human, do you know what you’ve done?” Odon bent to pick up the longsword, and an unseen stormfront pressed the hall flat.

Lance didn’t flinch. His lips curved, his tone light. “Of course. Returning a fallen comrade’s effects to his brothers—that’s virtue.”

The Daemon Knight Odon stared at Lance, a heavy cloud in his eyes. His gaze dipped to the black blade. “Who did it?”

Lance raised his thumb to himself, chin high like a banner. “Me, the Blazing Fire Knight.”

The room burst like a hive struck—“Impossible,” “No way”—a tide of voices surging, yet no one dared step out and challenge.

Their whispering scratched the air raw, like grit in a wound.

The Vanilla Duke’s temper snapped. He shouted left and right, “Quiet! All of you, quiet!”

Voices died. No one spoke. The second-floor dining hall sank into stillness, so quiet you could hear armored breath quiver.

The Vanilla Duke breathed deep and drew out his words, calm as lacquer. “Mr. Odon, that longsword—real?”

A number of knights blinked awake, hoping for a bluff. If not for the Duke’s broad learning, they might have been fooled.

But Odon’s answer killed their hope. “It’s real. I wouldn’t mistake those runes.”

The words fell like a judge’s gavel. The knights had nothing to say.

“So,” the white-robed elder chuckled, a faint sheen of schadenfreude in his smile, “a powerful Daemon Knight died in this city. What a pity.”

Odon didn’t respond to the Archmage. He just locked his stare on Lance like a hawk pinning prey.

“Human.”

“Address me as the Blazing Fire Knight.”

“In the Gaia Empire, the weak aren’t fit to be knights. Your Battle Aura flickers like a candle in the wind. You’re weak. Weilick didn’t die by your hand.”

“Then what’s that in your grip? Did I steal it?”

“Perhaps.” Odon’s tone wavered; deep down he knew the fit didn’t add up.

“Then prove your charge with strength!” Lance raised his voice, flames coiling the blade like serpents. “In the name of the God of Victory!”

“Wait.” Odon thought hard, then stepped back, shadow loosening. “Isn’t this your duel with the Vanilla Duke?”

Knights stirred like reeds in a gust.

The white-robed elder spoke plain. “Mighty Daemon Knight, are you afraid?”

Odon’s voice tilted with irony, words like knives wrapped in silk. “Afraid, yes—afraid there’s a coward among us, and worried the Doran Kingdom will one day break from the Celestial Spirit. This battle would be a stain.”

“You call yourself a knight, yet squeak like a mouse.”

“And I’ve never met an Archmage so ill-mannered.”

The Vanilla Duke raised a hand. “Enough.” He turned to Lance and smiled. “Knight of the Iron Duke, you’re interesting. Not that strong, but full of tricks—stalling us with a duel, aren’t you?”

“Worthy of your title, Vanilla Duke.”

“Think they can escape?”

“What do you mean?”

“Golden Bay City is mine. Barring miracles, my battle units should have intercepted them by now.”

Lance turned his head. Down the night-cloaked street, unnatural spell-lights bloomed like cold flowers. A soft wind carried the iron-scent of blood.

“So what,” he said, voice still level as a blade.

The Vanilla Duke’s presence swelled, mountain-large. Sitting on a knight’s back, he laughed. “Your plan is ash, your effort dust, and everything dances in my palm.”

Lance didn’t care. “Oh? So Your Grace won’t answer my challenge?”

The Vanilla Duke’s face darkened. “In the name of the God of Victory…” He called to the Mountain Wind Knight lounging against the wall. “Yuri.”

Mountain Wind stepped in at once. “Here.”

“Go duel the Blazing Fire Knight.”

“Thank you, Duke.” The sword-bearing knight’s dull gaze flashed with cold steel.

He slanted his eyes at Lance and walked forward, step by step, like the tide coming in. “Be honored. With me, death will be merciful.”

Lance shrugged, careless as drifting leaves. “Come try me.”

“Heh, courting death!” The wind howled in a breath. Mountain Wind spoke, and a Gale Slash answered like thunder.

He moved so fast that the afterimage painted Lance drowning in a pool of blood.

But truth cut that vision clean.

Two cold gleams crossed and vanished. The fighters appeared behind each other, backs almost touching, still as statues.

Knights stared wide-eyed, confusion clouding their faces. No one had seen the exchange.

Mountain Wind turned slowly. In eyes that rarely changed, a flicker of surprise. “You caught Gale Slash…”

“Yeah.” Lance turned too, then raised his chopper. As it reached level, the blade snapped in two. “If that counts as catching it…”

The Mountain Wind Knight sneered. “Heh. Pauper knight.”

“Then I’ll use your kind of weapon.” Lance dropped the chopper and drew a tachi from his back, the curve flashing like moonlight. “I’ll handle you with this.”

“Heh,” Mountain Wind answered, voice cold as frost.

The wind’s flow shifted, grass bending to new hands.

It was Lance’s turn. He wrapped Battle Aura flames around the blade and swung hard. A boiling whip of fire lashed forward.

“Heh.” Mountain Wind took a single step back, just enough, and slipped past Lance’s Secret Sword Blazing Fire.

The knights gaped, stupefied. His evasive footwork had crossed into the uncanny.

But Fulin saw different currents.

Mountain Wind did step back, yet in that breath-long pocket he wasn’t set. He couldn’t evade again this instant.

Which meant, before Lance—played by Fulin—the Mountain Wind Knight had shown a flaw.

Lance seized it. Sheath and draw in one breath—Secret Sword Swallow’s Return!

Two cold lights nearly overlapped. The vicious cut tore a corner clean off his armor, metal shrieking like a gull.

The knights reeled in shock.

Mountain Wind glanced down at the ripped seam. His gaze on Lance sharpened, and killing intent spread like ink in water.

“Sorry. I can’t give you a quick death.”

“It’ll be slow, and it will hurt.” He roused his Battle Aura, wind coiling the blade like a living thing.

Under wind’s wrap, the blade looked bandaged in phantom gauze, a candle chased by drafts—now seen, now not. Steel slipped past sight, a mirage drifting.

Lance named the trick. “Dense wind pressure changing the refractive index. Right?”

“You’re right. One of wind’s secrets,” Mountain Wind said, approval like chill dew.

“But…” He drew the blade; its shadow wavered like cattails in a squall. “If I use this, your life is already a candle in a storm.”

He attacked.

He didn’t rush in like before. He planted himself, both hands firm, and from four meters away, he cut.

The stroke was eerie.

The motion lost its lightness and grace. It turned slow and heavy, like swinging a giant palm fan that drove summer suns.

The Mountain Wind Knight fanned the storm. One stroke kicked up an exploding gale, a white wall rolling in.

Lance thought to dodge, but there’s no shelter from a living storm. Wind-borne edges scored him again and again, like knives riding rain.

“Aaah—!” Pain dug a howl out of him, raw as torn bark.

Bleeding head to heel, Lance propped his blade, barely holding himself upright, a sapling in a gale.

Is it over? The knights thought so. Covered in wounds, Lance shouldn’t be standing.

In their eyes, he was finished.

But half-dead, Lance lifted his chin, pride rigid as a spear. He smirked through blood. “A candle in the wind? That all?”

Killing intent thickened in Mountain Wind’s eyes. “In this world, for many, living is extra. They won’t die cleanly. I learned the knights’ killing sword to correct the world.”

“This is my chivalry,” the sword-bearing knight said, voice grave as stone.

“Before I die, what’s yours?”

“Let me fix you first. I won’t die,” Lance said, stubborn fire beating in his chest. “Second, I have no chivalry.”

“But I can guard chivalry. Guard those who believe in the right code. Guard their quiet dreamlands,” Lance said, smiling like dawn after rain.

The hope wasn’t shared. Mountain Wind’s face twisted. His words crushed her like a boot. “Utterly boring!”

“Enough. I think I get it. Blazing Fire Knight, you’re one whose living is extra.”

“Die.” He swung, merciless. His fickle blade called another killing gale, a reaper in wind.

Knights sucked in cold breaths. Many closed their eyes, unwilling to watch hope drowned by a ruthless wave.

Yet the spark belonged to Fulin, playing Lance.

She yearned for a quiet life. Beneath toughness stood a clean, high core. She wouldn’t let hope be trampled.

With that will, Lance’s flame surged into blinding blaze, light like a noon sun.

“Damn!” The heavy heat and searing glare made Mountain Wind flinch his eyes shut for a heartbeat.

Lance struck in that heartbeat.

He stepped like lightning to Mountain Wind’s face. The latter’s eyes snapped open, pupils tight as pinpricks.

Pressed close, Mountain Wind didn’t panic. Experience trained the right choice—and the worst one.

He chose Wind-guard defense, raising air like shields.

“You fell for it!” Lance laughed. He didn’t swing. He tossed a fistful of impact crackers, silver seeds in the air.

These weren’t toys. They were special micro-charges mixed from mercury fulminate and picric acid, thunder bottled in dust.

Fulin knew Lance couldn’t jump ranks and beat an Earth Knight head-on.

But an Earth Knight is human. Humans have weak points—eyes, or eardrums.

Yes. Lance would assault Mountain Wind’s ears. Nothing rattles eardrums like slapping TNT in your face.

As the charges flew, Lance followed with Secret Sword Blazing Fire, flame snapping like a dragon’s tongue.

Boom!

“Aaaah—!” Mountain Wind screamed, voice torn to rags. Blood spilled from both ears, red threads on pale skin.

The building shuddered, then stilled. The Mountain Wind Knight tottered, then collapsed like a felled tree.

The knights couldn’t believe their eyes, awe sitting like frost on their tongues.

Even the Daemon Knight Odon watched long. After a pause, confusion drained away. He nodded, impressed. “I think I understand how Weilick lost.”

“Hm. Blazing Fire Knight… a knight who grasps the essence of mage combat. Splendid,” the white-robed elder said, stroking his beard like combing rain.

“I won. I’m the victor of this duel!” Lance raised his hand, trembling, a flame guttering but unquenched.

“Yes, you won the fight. But you forgot one thing.” The Vanilla Duke folded away respect. His clouded eyes grew sly, full of counting. “A duke holds legislative power.”

“Only a duke or higher may challenge another duke to a duel. I added that line to Golden Bay City’s Code a second ago.”

“So—sorry, Lance Morrison. This game’s winner isn’t you. It’s me—the Vanilla Duke who rules this place.”

At his command, knights pressed the half-dead Lance to the floor like pinning a wounded wolf.

The Duke strolled closer, smiling. “As the loser, how do you feel?”

“Humans have limits,” Lance said, voice steady as cooling steel.