“You’re the one?!” A grand noble, caked in mud, rushed over, excitement flickering like torchlight. The stink of manure rolled in like a swamp.

Disgust first, then motion—Lance pinched his nose and stepped back, voice cool as winter water. “If it’s important, Marquis, wash the road off first.”

“Such polished manners—so you are the famed Blazing Fire Knight.” Joy flashed like sunrise, then soured; he shot Count George a sideways glare. “Shame you’ve no decent employer.”

George pretended not to hear, eyes sailing into the sky. Dusk spread like spilled paint, grand and bruised.

Impatience bit like frost—Lance pointed at the city gate. “Move it. The inn’s hot water doesn’t flow all night.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Knight.” The noble hustled into the city, like a dog scenting shelter.

After food and a scrub, the hour chimed seven. In the castle’s grand hall, he stood beneath lamp-glow and introduced himself. “Fulton Shazo, head of Maple City’s Feng Wolf Clan, one of five families serving the crown—Feng Wolf Marquis.”

His pedigree hit like thunder. On the high seat, Count George’s lips twitched, words gathered like clouds; Lance’s hand cut the air—wait.

Lance stepped forward, smile like a steady lantern. “Welcome, Feng Wolf Marquis.”

“You crossed half the kingdom to reach us. You must carry heavy news.” Lance’s palm opened: please speak.

“Then I’ll be blunt.” The Marquis coughed, manners tossed like a cape. Arms spread wide, bold as a banner. “I, Fulton Shazo, head of the Feng Wolf Clan, earnestly—wish to hire you as my retainer.”

The turn slammed like a door. Lance and the others traded looks, eyes bouncing like startled birds.

Lance tested the ground first. “You mean to swear me in as your fealty-bound knight?”

The Marquis bowed, reverent as a pilgrim. “Exactly—knight under the Iron Duke’s seal.”

Lance worked for Count George, but his knighthood was conferred by the Iron Duke. One pays the wage, the other stamps the seal—like a university granting the diploma that sets your worth in stone.

For a knight, the conferring lord fixes his social height. No one swaps seals lightly—especially down from a duke to a marquis.

“So, Feng Wolf Marquis, do you understand what you just said?” Lance’s tone settled like a blade laid flat.

“Of course.” Confidence strutted like a peacock.

Then straight to the jugular—Lance’s words were a scalpel. “Is the Feng Wolf Clan strong in Maple City?”

“In the Doran Kingdom’s five ducal lands, Maple City’s tract is the smallest—less than ten thousand square kilometers.”

“And that tiny map-square still holds over twenty royals and five marquises sworn to them.”

“So, I’ll ask again—are you strong?”

Bluster guttered like a candle. Sweat beaded on his brow like dew. “Strong. O-of course strong. I—I am a marquis!”

“What marquis? You look like a village head.” Scholar Fleming loosed a clean headshot, words sharp as flint.

The Marquis took the hit and crumpled, then clawed at the floor like a drowning man.

He rallied, voice hoarse and grand. “Scholar, do you even know the Feng Wolf Clan? My ancestor was the Feng Wolf Knight, a founder of the restoration! Our line was forged in iron and blood, and rose to carry a thousand flowers and praise!”

“What Feng Wolf Clan? A pack of house curs too dim to know they’re fallen.” Knight Osborne’s strike boomed like a hammer.

“Ah—ah!” The Marquis went down, theatrically dead where he fell.

After a long breath, he crawled back from a resurrection spring no one could see, life dripping like water from stone. “I—I’m a marquis. At least I can pay.”

“Five hundred years ago, the Feng Wolf Knight invested heavily in the Heavenly Spirit Empire,” Yuna said, sliding in beside Lance. Her rimless glasses caught lamplight like a silver thread. “It exploded in success. Principal plus returns equal the combined wealth of five dukes.”

“See? Our ancestor was brilliant!” The Marquis brightened, like he’d grabbed a power-up.

“But the Feng Wolf heirs never produced strong knights.” Yuna’s voice rose, clean as a bell. “Per the will set four hundred years ago—Feng Wolf descendants have no right to reclaim the investment.”

“Ugh—aaah!” The Marquis died again, sprawled in moral ruin.

…

He revived once more, aged by sorrow, voice thin as smoke. “There… there is a way to get the money back.”

“Only if my sworn knight wins the kingdom’s ten-year Knight Festival.” His eyes burned, desert-dry with thirst. Lance stood in them like the last oasis. “Then, per the will, I reclaim a fortune big enough to buy the entire Doran Kingdom.”

The winter air boiled like a kettle.

Steel in his gaze, Lance turned slightly. “Yuna. Is this true?”

“Everyone knows it. It’s rock-solid. But—” She searched memory with shut eyes, then opened them, cold as glass. “It’s nebulous.”

Fleming flicked his feathered fan—more Zhuge than scribe—and picked up the thread. “Yes. Nebulous.”

The room held dry air, yet his fan pushed warm breath like spring.

“‘Out of reach’ is more honest,” he said. “The Feng Wolf heirs tried at first, but luck wasn’t theirs.”

The Knight Festival happens once every decade, a national bout where giants gather like stormfront. Against freakish talent and hidden gods, the Feng Wolf heirs had no odds at all.

“What kind of person wins it clean?” Lance asked.

“Either a Sky Knight,” Fleming said, a star hung just out of reach. “Or—a knight-mage, trained in both blade and spell.”

“That doesn’t sound hard.” Lance shrugged; he did have spellcasting at Level 1.

Fleming shook his head, warning like a raised sign. “It sounds easy. First requirement—be an Earth Knight.”

“Second—be a mid-tier mage.”

“Mid-tier…?” Lance’s ease slid off like rain.

“Yes. Mid-tier.” Fleming used himself like a diagram. A flick—his fan teased a bright ember into being. “I’ve mastered Level 1 Elemental—Ember. I’m junior tier.”

Levels 1–2 are junior. 3–5 are mid-tier.

“So if I learn any Level 3 spell, I’m fine?” Lance reached for the simplest bridge.

“True, but—”

Fleming waved again; warm, luminous fire mist softened the room like a hearth. “I can cast Level 4 Elemental—Fire Mist. But the Mage Association forbids mid-tier or above from being street mages.”

The block wasn’t strength; it was paper and stamp. Lance exhaled. “So I need a mage license?”

Fleming’s eyes popped like kernels. “A license? That imported term is perfect.”

“So yes—get certified by a formal mage institute.” He adapted the phrase with a grin.

Then his smile tightened like a belt. “It’s not easy. That’s why our roads teem with street mages.”

Silence pooled, cold and shallow.

In the Marquis’s eyes, the oasis shrank, sand swallowing green.

But a dying oasis doesn’t end hope; a buried desert still blooms camellias after a thousand years.

“I’ll take the job,” Lance said, voice steady as an iron bar. “Mage certification won’t stump me.”

“Are you insane, Lance?!” Count George finally roared, a thunderclap inside stone walls.

He leapt down from the high seat, words hot as sparks. “Forget mage or not. This isn’t a local show. It’s the Doran Kingdom’s ten-year Knight Festival!”

He was a good noble, steeped in custom and dusted with history. “Why call it a ‘festival’?” His voice went solemn, slow as a funerary drum. “Because it’s true steel and blood. Knights die in the clash. Their flesh and blood—formally—become offerings to ancestors.”

He sighed, the memory dragging like a chain. He’d seen the festival ten years past. Not the crowd’s fire, not the grand pageantry. He remembered screams carving the sky, blades drinking, and the cold corpses that followed victory like shadows.

It isn’t a deathmatch on paper—yielding counts as defeat. But the last rounds are brutal Earth Knight battles. To George, Lance, a mere Charge Knight, had no path.

“So what?” Lance said, tone clear as a bell on frost.

Inside him, Fulin’s mind moved like a quiet river. She never gambled impossible odds. To her, this was a plan, like before—map the steps, trim the risks.

And the fortune loomed like a golden mountain. Fulin needed coin.

Lance cut to price. “If we succeed, how much?”

“Th-th…” The Marquis stammered, hope blowing up like a balloon. Under Lance’s gravity, he almost believed they’d take it.

The nearer money gets, the greedier it looks. “One thirtieth,” he said, pinching copper like a miser.

“One third. Or no deal.”

Outside, winter wind howled like wolves. Inside, tension rose like steam.

In the Marquis’s eyes, Lance shed his savior’s halo and grew horns—an elegant devil, greed sharper than his own.

But deals with devils carry no freebies; you pay the toll at the gate. “One third it is,” the Marquis said, voice flayed like meat. “By my authority as head of the Feng Wolf Clan—if we succeed, one third of the ancestor’s assets transfers to the Blazing Fire Knight.”

Lance shook his head, soft as falling ash. “One sixth will do.”

“Meaning?” The Marquis had clawed up to resolve; resentment pricked like thorns.

“I was testing your sincerity.” Lance clasped his hands over the Marquis’s, fingers counting up to six, a gesture like closing a fan. “They say Doran nobles are cunning. You’re different—you speak clean. That boosts our odds.”

The Marquis was touched, and puzzled. “Even if I meant deceit, it wouldn’t make you lose. You’re the one fighting.”

Lance didn’t explain. He veered like a sparrow, light and quick. “I want some news.”

“Ask.” The Marquis braced for festival details.

Lance asked something else. “You came from Maple City. How’s the Rose Knight?”

“The Rose Knight—” The Marquis began, but his guard sprang forward and clamped his mouth, eyes pleading like a dog not to be kicked.

The Marquis froze, then comprehension dawned like sunrise. Apology filled his gaze. “I’m sorry, Blazing Fire Knight. I can’t say.”

The air hardened, still as glass.

“Why not?”

“This…” He hesitated, no malice in sight, only tangled strings.

Fulin understood at once, office instincts clicking like keys. Lance shifted his wording, voice smooth as polished stone. “Don’t overthink it. The Rose Knight and I met in passing. Half a year ago in Golden Bay City, we fought shoulder to shoulder. She took a spell wound. I just want to know if she’s living well.”

“But boss—” Jeremy started. Fleming, startled, pressed him down like a lid on a boiling pot.

The Marquis felt the knot loosen, relief flowing like warm tea. “Just a comrade? Then I can speak.”

Fulin’s heart tightened, a dark thread drawn by instinct. She didn’t want to hear.

But words had already leapt the edge. The Marquis spoke, voice complicated as smoke. “Miss Reina—no, Lady Valz—is doing very well. Half a year ago, she married the Silkworm Clan’s eldest son.”

“They’ve likely been living as husband and wife for six months now,” he added, soft as a pin through silk.