“Boss, aren’t we pushing it?” Jeremy carved up two charred corpses like a butcher under moonlight, chopping them into chunks, re-searing them till steam rose like fog, then heaped them on a platter.

The big cat drooled like a small waterfall, pounced, and ate with a sizzling hiss, like rain hitting a hot pan.

Another serving of pet feed gone, Lance rubbed the grease from his fingers like wiping lamp oil from a wick. “Isn’t this how we’ve always done it?”

“No,” Jeremy scratched his head, hair rustling like dry grass. “I mean just now, at noon.”

“I will win the Knight Festival.” He mimicked, words like a flare thrown into a dark street.

Lance answered, sulking like a cloud heavy with snow. “What, you asking if I regret it?”

“Not regret,” Jeremy kept scratching till the grease glued locks together, leaving a weird punk crest like a bird’s crest after rain. “Isn’t it too showy?”

That did clash with Fulin’s usual style, a quiet river under ice. Even playing Lance, she’d never shout just to stir the crowd.

Declaring victory before a Celestial Spirit was like shouting at a cliff and letting the echo reach everyone behind him. Lance’s resolve would either sweep the city like wind, or sink without a ripple.

In short, “We watch how they react, see if they rate us high or low, like weighing metal on a scale.”

“Why?” Jeremy still didn’t get it, eyes blank like a pond at dusk.

“Their reaction shows the tools they’ll use, like cards laid on the table. That decides our next moves.”

“I see. As expected of you, Boss.” Jeremy nodded like a cattail in wind, half-understanding.

“Sir Lance,” the marquis looked worried, gaze flicking like a candle. “You don’t truly plan to buy Maple Manor, do you?”

Lance spread his hands, a soft huff like frost on glass. “How could I really buy it?”

Five thousand gold was a mountain of coin. Even if he won the Knight Festival and recouped the stake, Fulin had no wish to push that boulder.

“Master.” Yuna, waiting like a quiet bell, had something to say.

“Speak.”

She tipped her frameless glasses, voice cool as winter water. “If you don’t buy Maple Manor then, you’ll be committing contract fraud against that Celestial Spirit.”

“Contract fraud?”

Layne’s voice rang in his skull like iron on stone: To Imperials, human deceit is the one sin they never forgive.

Yuna explained, words crisp as icicles. “Contract fraud is the most serious charge in the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s common law. The convicted lose property, status, everything.”

Lance clasped his hands behind his head, feigning distance like a man watching rain from the eaves. “So they become slaves?”

“Yes.” Yuna closed her eyes; the girl’s body trembled like a leaf in cold wind. “They’re sentenced to indefinite labor, branded like cattle, forced into menial toil day after day, without hope. When they break, they’re hanged in public. Even their corpse can be used and defiled at will. Only when nothing remains recognizable do they permit the person to vanish from the world.”

“This is the Celestial Spirit punishment for humans.” She opened her eyes; their clear light burned with anger like a hidden ember.

“I see…”

Another voice echoed: In their eyes, humans are livestock with minds.

Fulin didn’t flinch; Lance shrugged, joking light as ash. “If a man dies like that, he’s worse than cattle.”

Silence pooled for minutes, heavy as wet wool.

“No way around it.” Lance made the call, then turned to the marquis, eyes steady like set stone. “When those five thousand gold land, make sure you pay me back.”

The other nodded fast, like pecking grain. “Of course, of course!”

“Master, that also counts as contract fraud,” Yuna pointed out, voice cool as a blade.

They argued on and on, like needles stitching rough cloth, and finally hammered out a plan that wouldn’t be fraud and would keep Lance from losing five thousand gold.

“Ugh, what a hassle!” Jeremy groaned, like a door hinge in winter.

…

After lunch, they left the town hall and stopped before the guesthouse.

It looked like a church, a ship of stone. Its first-floor windows were all stained glass, and sunlight poured through like liquid gems, blooming into color inside.

“So beautiful,” Yuna breathed, her clear eyes shimmering like a dream caught in a drop of dew.

The marquis looked away, bowing like a reed in wind. “As long as my lady likes it.”

He turned to the others. “This will be your base from now on. Will this do?”

Lance glanced at Yuna bathed in rainbow light, then nodded, calm as a steady flame. “It’ll do.”

“Good. Allow me to show you around.”

The guesthouse was grand because it began as an ancestral hall, a shrine to the Blazewolf Knight and his line, like a hearth kept for one family.

But save for that ancestor, the line birthed no new heroes. So the hall slowly…

“What’s this?” A pane of glass caught Lance’s eye like a hook.

In the painting, a man walked on godfire, each step a thousand meters, like a hawk crossing valleys in one beat.

Fire trailed behind him, a stroke bright enough to cut dawn, a blade of light through fog.

“That’s our ancestor in war,” the marquis said, pride glowing like embers. “He’s fighting the Shadowspirit Legion.”

He pointed at a swath of black mist split to both sides by fire, like storm clouds cut open. “Those are the Shadowspirit Legion. They crumbled before him.”

The glass felt alive. Lance almost saw the Blazewolf Knight carving the battlefield like a plow through earth.

Fulin noticed the hero’s grip—always advancing, always a spear of motion. Lance asked, “What’s that technique?”

The marquis didn’t hide it. “A rush style called the Blazewolf Sword.”

He brushed dust off with a feather duster, the stroke light as falling ash. He pointed at the wake of fire. “But you must first master Blazing Raid to use the Blazewolf Sword.”

“Blazing Raid?”

“Yes…” The marquis sighed, breath thin as smoke. “Blazing Raid was the Blazewolf Knight’s combat art. Its core isn’t hidden—turn your Battle Aura into fire, then use the recoil to shove off the ground.”

He traced from the fire’s origin to its far end, fingertip like a comet. “With that force, you cross a thousand meters in one stride, drop from the air, and smash a distant foe.”

“Sounds simple, but then—” Lance hit the nerve, words like a pin to a bladder. “Wouldn’t its blast wound the user?”

The marquis faltered, tongue knotted like twine.

“Though our fathers made many Earth Knights,” he finally sighed, “no Blazewolf heir has carried that torch.”

The air grew heavy, like dust before rain.

“So no one can learn Blazing Raid?” Lance asked, voice flat as a blade’s spine.

“Some can,” the marquis said to the glass, eyes far away. “But those who can don’t need it.”

“Why?”

“Because a Sky Knight doesn’t need it,” he said, plain as stone. “A Sky Knight’s Battle Aura is dense enough to push off the ground and soar.”

“In other words,” Lance rubbed his chin, thinking like a smith weighing metal, “only a Sky Knight’s dense Battle Aura can keep Blazing Raid from hurting you?”

“Yes. But if it’s just for long travel, why use Blazing Raid?”

“Just fly,” the marquis muttered, bitter as cold tea, like laughing at himself.

But Fulin disagreed. Blazing Raid could be something the hero mastered before becoming a Sky Knight, a way to make Battle Aura explode close without burning yourself.

That trick hummed the same tune as Secret Sword Blazing Fire. The thought clicked in her mind like a gear.

“I’ll master Blazing Raid,” Lance said, voice steady, like staking a banner.

“What?!” The marquis stared, thunderstruck, like a tree hit by lightning.

“Boss, aren’t you afraid you’ll blow your feet off?!” Jeremy flailed, drama loud as cymbals.

“Master, I strongly advise against it! Your body—” Yuna, rarely shaken, blurted out, then slapped a hand over her mouth, panic rippling like a startled koi.

As they blinked, Jeremy pretended not to hear and barged on. “Body’s not the problem. Feet are!”

“If your feet burn or blast open, what then?!” His hands windmilled like flags in a squall.

He’d shifted their attention without knowing, like a pebble that starts a slide.

“I won’t blast my feet,” Lance said, calm as a banked coal.

“How?” The marquis sounded absurd, like a man asking a fish to climb a tree. “What will you do?”

“Use a spell to ward my feet.” Lance mimed a cast, easy as sketching in air. “Then it’s solved.”

A cold wind whistled; timbers creaked like old ships at anchor.

“So that’s your answer…” The marquis sagged back onto a bench, spine melting like wax.

…

With one month left till the deep-winter Knight Festival, Fulin weighed urgency like stones in a scale and chose to report to the Royal Academy of Magic first.

Next morning, the sky hung gray as wet wool. Before the Academy’s Consulate, Yuna stopped, light as a cat.

“We’re here, my master.”

“This is it?” Lance eyed the sign. From the main gate drifted a richer scent of flowers, like a garden after rain.

“Let’s go in.” Lance followed his nose like a bee to blossom.

“Yes, my master.”

At the threshold, Lance paused, a heartbeat snagged on a thorn.

By plan, Jeremy wouldn’t join them. He’d guard the marquis with the vassals, like a wall of shields.

“Master?” Yuna asked, puzzled, her voice soft as a bell.

“It’s nothing.” Lance shook his head, the motion slight as falling ash. “Thinking won’t change it. Let’s go.”

“Yes.”

The Royal Academy of Magic Consulate was the Academy’s public office, a river mouth for paperwork. Routine spell business, Academy affairs—admission could be handled here.

At a counter, he showed the invitation, the card flashing like a fish’s side. “I’m the Blazing Fire Knight.”

The clerk blinked, puzzled, then her face bloomed into awe like sunrise. “You are?!”

As if drawn by a magnet, other clerks lifted their heads, eyes hooking over like sparrows to seed.

No matter how long Fulin wore Lance’s face, the gaze of a crowd felt like cold rain on skin.

“Hurry it up,” Lance urged, voice tight, a bowstring under strain.

“Right away!” The clerk stood straighter than a spear.

Soon, an old mage stepped out from the back, surrounded by apprentices like stars around a moon.

He measured Lance for a few seconds, a craftsman’s glance. “Welcome, Sir Blazing Fire Knight.”

His voice was calm, but the apprentices burst like firecrackers.

“That’s him?!”

“Not a fake—he’s real?!”

“He’s that young? Gods…”

They were apprentice mages, about Lance’s age, yet their eyes shone with reverence like lanterns at dusk.

“Thank you for saving Golden Bay City!”

“My home’s in the George Fief!”

“Your mercy and greatness won our hearts!”

Curious stares rippled over like wind across wheat.

Knowing they were loud, the apprentices reined themselves in, like horses checked at the curb.

The old mage noticed the onlookers gathering like drizzle turning to rain. He said to Lance, “Let’s talk inside.”

“You go in through the main gate,” he added, and snapped a thread of light that fell as a glowing arrow on the floor. “Follow this. We’ll meet ahead.”

“Alright.”

Lance didn’t ask more. He followed the arrow, step by step, through the Academy’s grand gate, until an office building rose before him like a keep.

The office building stood inside the Academy, yet was the same structure as the Consulate outside. The old mage stepped out just then, timing neat as a drumbeat.

“They’re all nobles’ sons from Golden Bay City. Please forgive them,” he said, tone gentle as warm tea.

“I see.” Lance scratched his head, feigning awkwardness, like a fox playing shy. “I’m not that great, honestly.”

The old mage stroked his beard, eyes kind, a smile flickering like a wick.

“You beat the Vanilla Duke in a duel, and bought time for the Heavenly Spirit Empire’s special knight unit to arrive…”

“If that’s not greatness,” he patted Lance’s back, hand solid as oak, “then you’re very humble.”

“Yet, by rumor, the Blazing Fire Knight isn’t humble.”

Sensing the shift, Lance hurried to steady the boat. “I’m not lying to you.”

The old mage chuckled, warmth like coals. “I’m not blaming you. It’s just…”

He glanced up at the gray sky, a lid of cloud. “If people were more honest with each other, would the world fight less?”

Lance didn’t know why he said it, but his answer fell like a straight stroke. “Not necessarily. For many, once desire stands naked, it makes things worse than any lie.”

Inside the Academy, the flower-scent thinned to a clean fragrance, like tea after the first pour.

“Good, Lance Morrison…” The old mage’s gaze shifted, a lens refocusing. “You see the world’s knots.”

“That means you’d make a fine mage,” he added, voice light as mist.

“But I’m a knight.”

“And what of it?”

The old mage’s pragmatism startled Fulin, like a sparrow jolted by a sudden gust. Lance blinked, confused. “But the invitation said the vibe here—”

He didn’t confirm or deny; he eyed the sky, dull as ashen wool, and sighed deep. “Sigh… lately, the younger crowd’s attitude is a real problem.”

After a few sighs, he introduced himself, voice steady like an old stone wall: “I’m Bordeaux. I specialize in warding and body-hardening. Mage-name: Ward Barrier. Pleased to meet you.”

“By the way, I serve as head of instruction at the Academy,” he added, the words pressing down like a seal on warm wax.

“Before we decide your discipline, let me show you our facilities.” He walked ahead, a lantern cutting a path through mist.

The Magic Academy brimmed with spellborn wonders, miracles sprouting like rare blossoms.

He pointed at a spire hanging in the air, floating like a leaf on a lake of sky. “See—Light Skiff magic pushed to its limit!”

Then at little waterlings leaping into the flowerbeds, drops given shape and mischief. “Look—elemental art honed to exquisite precision!”

Ahead, a mass of apprentices protested before the teaching hall, a tide of bodies rolling loud. Seeing their banners, the old mage’s face iced over.

Spotting Lance, the protesters spat curses, each word hurled like a stone: “Brat from Mubay City! Scum who sullied a noble’s daughter! A thug who laid hands on another man’s wife! Filthy lecher! Cast-off of the Light Deity—”

“Lance Morrison, get out!” they screamed, voices sharp as rusted saws.