The appointed hour tolled like a bell through dusk.

The night the tournament ended lay over the town like frost on tiles.

Lance and his people requested to go out, like birds seeking the maple wind.

They would meet at Maple Manor with the Feng Wolf Marquis and others, like ships nosing into a lantern-lit harbor—confirm safety and trade intel.

At the horizon, the last streak of crimson clung like a silk thread.

Lance had barely reached the town hall when Jeremy rushed out, a gust shouldering the door.

He almost cried, voice trembling like rain on a drum, “Boss, we missed you!”

Seeing the Mountain Wind Knight, he edged back, wary as a cat at a new shadow.

“Boss, why is he here?”

“Because of some reasons, he’s with us now,” Lance said, laying a bridge over old thorns.

“Yep, we’re in the same boat now!” the newcomer laughed, sails catching fresh wind.

Former foes became partners, frost thawing into water.

Jeremy and the others wore faces clouded like a sky before rain.

They’d need time to swallow it, like chewing bitter leaves.

Feng Wolf Marquis staggered out, a candle guttering then flaring.

He lit up at Lance’s sight, joy blooming like a lantern. “Blazing Fire Knight, you’re safe!”

“Mountain Wind Knight, you came too?” he added, surprise like a spark.

Lance sketched the academy incident, ink brushed in broad strokes, edges left in shadow.

After listening, everyone’s faces hardened like stone under frost. “So that’s how it is…”

The Marquis shot an unwilling look at Yuna, a hawk eyeing a wounded wing. “Miss, I didn’t expect they’d stoop to strike at you.”

Her eyes stayed clear as lakewater. “All of me belongs to my master; no outside wind can shake that bond.”

“That’s not so certain.” The private mage stepped out, worry curling like winter smoke.

He held a collar, a silk-snare hiding iron, and handed it to Lance. “For example, if I fasten it on the lady’s head—by any method—she may recognize me as ‘master.’”

Cold sweat beaded around the room like dew on steel.

Lance weighed the collar, thunder muffled in cloud. “Is this ‘toy’ expensive?”

“Expensive. Carved from magic stone, priced at seven gold spell-coins,” the mage said, a brick of ice in the ledger.

“Why can it command a person?” Lance asked, a hook cast into the mind.

The mage pointed to a deep-red gem where none would look, a blood drop in ash.

“Elven alchemy can fix a spell’s casting into runes on magic stone,” he said. “Which means—”

Lance finished, a guess sharpening like a blade. “Puppetcraft?”

The mage shook his head, leaves denying the wind. “This mental spell is too peculiar. If it were Puppetcraft, this wouldn’t be a ‘toy.’”

“Then what?” Lance asked, a door waiting to open.

“Mind-Seizing,” he answered, the word dropped like a pebble into a still pond.

A Level-4 mental spell, Mind-Seizing makes the subject fiercely believe a statement, a brand pressed on fire-hard clay.

It began as therapy for mental illness, but hearts twist like paths in a forest; on the Nordland Continent it’s banned, same as death-curse.

Many such arts were wicked in use and harsh to cast, thorns behind a silk screen, shunned until they met elven alchemy.

Lance studied the collar, thoughts circling like crows. “Can it be made into a ring or an earring?”

“That’s exactly it,” the mage said, a lock finding its key.

He took out a ring, silver glint like moonlight—the token given by the elven girl Vivian.

For various reasons, Lance treated it with caution, holding a coal with tongs; he’d entrusted it to the Marquis’s private mage.

When the investigation finished, the mage brought back the collar as well, two shadows bound by one thread. Both used the same alchemical craft.

Lance thanked him, solemn as a bell. “Mage, thank you for the intel.”

“No need, Blazing Fire Knight,” the mage replied, voice warm as tea. “My lord and I both wish for your victory. Helping you is our honor.”

The door closed; the sound fell like a stone settling in a well.

Lance held the ring and looked up at the stars, cold fires pricking velvet. “One less thing I don’t understand.”

“But—”

Yuna slipped her arm through his, ivy clinging to a pillar. She watched the faint burn in his eyes.

“It’s only the beginning, isn’t it?” she said, a first ember on dry grass.

“Yeah. Only the beginning,” Lance answered, spark ready to leap.

Winter nights fell early, shutters drawn by frost.

To celebrate their safe reunion, the Marquis hosted a banquet for Lance, steam rising from dishes like clouds.

After the meal, Jeremy shared what he’d dug up in three days, secrets sifted like sand.

“The Golden Flower Family controls the local beau—” he began, the word snagging like thread.

“Media,” Lance corrected, a quick knife trimming the yarn.

Jeremy scratched his head like a bear puzzled by a hive. “Right, right—media. My brain’s a bit slow.”

He went on. “Maple City’s citizens can’t see any news about you,” roads snowed in and blocked. “Aside from well-informed mages and high nobles, many don’t know a thing.”

He pulled a newspaper from his grimy backpack, a relic dredged from a river.

The paper was old and wrinkled like dried leaves. The date was half a year ago.

It reported unrest in Golden Bay City, waves breaking on a black shoreline, with not a single mention of the Blazing Fire Knight.

For those who rely on newspapers, Lance barely existed, a name erased like chalk in rain.

Lance sighed, wind helpless against stone. “Jeremy, this was hard work. Well done.”

Jeremy thumped his chest like a war drum. “Serving the Boss is my duty!”

Yuna’s tone went cold as ice. “A mere mercenary, yet you’re competent?”

Jeremy snapped back, sparks dancing. “Woman, zip it. If Boss falls, you’d be first to run!”

Yuna bristled like a cat hearing a dog. “What did you say?”

Mountain Wind slid in as peacemaker, a breeze smoothing ripples. “Alright, alright—don’t spill the wine.”

His bright ease stunned the Marquis, sun through fog. “Mr. Klein, did you meet your beloved?” he guessed.

Mountain Wind leaned on the wall and closed his eyes, a pine resting on rock. “A man needs not a sweetheart, but a soulmate.”

He grinned and offered a fist, knuckles like iron. “Right, Blazing Fire Knight?”

Lance glanced and bumped his fist atop, two stones knocking once. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“A friendship to envy,” the Marquis sighed, wind over old banners. “In ancient iron and blood, honor wasn’t only the Feng Wolf Knight’s. Yet in the end…”

His face suddenly tightened like a drum drawn taut. “Blazing Fire Knight, I almost forgot to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“A friend told me foreign guests will join this Knight Festival,” strangers stepping over the snowline.

At the word “foreign,” Fulin knew at once, eyes flicking like a sparrow. Lance probed, “The republic in the north, or the agrarian south?”

“The Heavenly Spirit Empire,” he said, a thunderclap in clear sky.

Jeremy reacted most, sprung like a cat from a couch. “What, even the Empire’s here to meddle?!”

While Fulin searched her memory, Lance nodded, counting old scars. “Imperials never deign to join a vassal’s folk festival.”

“And the Knight Festival’s theme is the kingdom’s restoration,” torches raised in night. “Isn’t that disrespectful to them?”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Lance, needles on a compass, and silence thickened like fog filling a vale.

Lance spread his hands and shook his head, shrugging off rain. “Alright, maybe they came because I decided to take this seriously.”

“No, the Empire wouldn’t target us for that.”

Lance mused, thoughts drifting like smoke. “Then they’re outside support?”

A heavy mood dropped like a lid on a pot. The Marquis wiped cold sweat, dew on his brow. “Forgive me; I can’t say.”

“In short, you may face powerful Titan-blooded knights,” mountains walking in armor. “Please be cautious.”

In raw strength, Titan-blooded knights and Daemon Knights are equals, hammer facing anvil.

With qi‑forging arts, even their skin can harden like rock, granite under winter sun.

Lance sighed, troubled yet wry, steam from a cracked kettle. “Alright, alright—Blazing Fire Knight will fix it.”

The second mock confrontation arrived like a tide at the ninth hour.

9:00 a.m. that morning, light spilled like milk over tiles.

Basement Level One, Experimental Wing of the academy, concrete bowels humming.

The venue was still a bright hall, a nave lit like day.

But many zones were screened off and forbidden, curtains like cliffs and signs like thorns.

The air carried a sharp chlorine sting, bleaching snow in the nose.

Pre-fight exchange began, words drawn like swords.

Knight Stephen bowed deep, spine bent like a willow. “Lance Morrison, I got a letter from the duke. I misjudged you.”

Lance motioned him up, a lifting breeze in his hand. “Don’t. You’re the lead. If you bow to me, what about your team’s feelings?”

Stephen straightened, a spear set upright. “Guardian Class One feels the same.”

“We don’t want to drag your maid into this,” a noose cut before it tightens. “The Frost Knight acted poorly; he should appeal to the Tribunal.”

“Enough. I’ll prove everything with results,” answers carved like runes.

“Then forgive the offense to come.”

As if on cue, the judges raised hands and blew the whistle, a shrill bird slicing air. “Exchange ends. Now deciding the format…”

The judges huddled for a quick meeting, heads like stones in a ring.

The audience trickled in, a stream turning to a tide.

The upset in the first bout still tasted sweet, honey on the tongue.

They were fired up, chatter rolling like waves, surf beating a shore.

The format wasn’t set yet, but they were hungry for a result, wolves pacing the fence.

“Hey, senior, well?” voices flicked like sparrows.

“Well what?” The senior stayed cool, ice in a cup.

“Ah, don’t front. Tell me—who you favor this time?” a hook cast into a pond.

“Green side, Unyielding Knight’s Guardian Class One,” a flag planted on a hill; he still didn’t back Lance.

“Why? The Unyielding Knight hasn’t awakened Battle Aura, no fire in the forge. How can he beat the Blazing Fire Knight?”

“You’re wrong.” The senior tapped his thick frames, light glinting like frost. “The academy’s format isn’t a brawl.”

“It’s about gambits and teamwork, strings woven into a net. Knight strength won’t decide it.”

The junior frowned, brow rippling. “If starts are equal, why favor green?”

“War Arts Class One worships the Blazing Fire Knight too much, moths to a flame. They may obey him and neglect each other.”

“Guardian Class One, with a weaker knight, must sweat over coordination, gears greased and set. If the project leans on teamwork, War Arts shows its weak seam.”

Right then, the judges finished their huddle, the circle breaking like dawn.

The referee signaled for quiet and announced, voice ringing like bronze, “Blue vs. Green format—Gate-run Knowledge Relay!”

As the words fell, the curtains drew aside like clouds, panels sliding to reveal blue.

The hall unveiled a vast sheet of clear azure, a lake sleeping under lamps.

It was a super-sized water park, floating bones of bridges and platforms.

The park split left and right into two separate zones, twin bays under one roof.

The referee held the room and read the rules, each point a drumbeat.

“Each side selects a four-person team,” four oars in one boat. “They leap across floating platforms and bridges.”

“Reach the endpoint to receive a question and return, swallows carrying silk. Only at the start may you view and answer.”

“Questions differ for each side,” two riddles in two jars. “First side to solve wins!”