Moonless sky, wind high; the candle guttered like a dying firefly.

A breeze slipped from the Victorian gate like a cool ribbon—Fulin caught the iron-sweet perfume of blood.

That scent was the reason she, wearing Lance’s face, raised a hand like a breakwater and halted the group.

“Master, is there danger inside?” Yuna’s voice was brisk, a bowstring trembling as she drew her short gun with clean, practiced motion.

Lance didn’t answer her question; his voice was a still lake. “Yuna, put the gun away.”

He turned to the big cat, a shadow with paws. “Partner, go in and take a look.”

The large feline quadruped phantom beast rumbled low, then flowed like ink up the wall and over into the dark.

Tension stretched time thin like a drumhead—one second, two, three, each heartbeat loud as hoofbeats.

Half a minute later, the big cat ghosted out the front gate like a wisp and stopped before Lance, dipping its head like a reed in wind.

Reading its intent, Lance turned. His tone was stone-steady. “No danger. We’re going in.”

“Oh,” Yuna breathed, a small spark flickering in the night.

“Understood, my master,” she said, voice taut as wire pulled straight.

They entered through the front, four shadows pouring into the main hall like ink into a bowl.

“Don’t move!… Boss?!” Jeremy burst from a hidden door like a startled stag, joy bright as torchlight.

He reached Lance and stumbled, falling hard, strength leaking away like sand through fingers.

Scarlet drops slid from Jeremy’s shirt like petals, and only then did everyone see—Jeremy was wounded.

The way it bent his stride was a storm-bent tree—his injury wasn’t light.

Jeremy had no time for pain; his words came like clashing steel. “Boss, the Marquis was abducted!”

“What, abducted?!” Lance’s shock cracked like thunder under skin.

Yuna and Mountain Wind jerked like flags in a gust; others emerged to speak, faces pale as ash.

Supported by attendants, the private mage shuffled in like a quaking reed.

He saw Lance intact and exhaled a warm puff, then his face iced over like frost at dawn.

He summarized in clipped lines, each word a stone. “The Golden Flower Marquis’s people forced into Maple Manor and took the Feng Wolf Marquis.”

“Where’s the knight?” Lance’s question was a cold blade slicing fog.

“He protected the Marquis. He’s in the infirmary, grievously wounded and unconscious,” the mage said, voice hollow as a cavern.

“I see…” Lance murmured, a low wind over old scars.

He looked at the hall and corridor, wall-scars like clawed bark, and the picture painted itself.

Lance sighed; his breath was surf before a storm. “Alright, alright… they really dared to strike.”

“Why didn’t the Gendarme Knights stop them?” His words were flint seeking spark.

“Sigh—” the mage said, breath a collapsing sail. Golden Flower and Silver Silkworm families grip Maple Manor’s talk and guard like iron vines.

With that control, they cover the sky with one hand and snatch men like hawks in the dark.

“What do they want?” Lance asked, voice flat as a blade; the room’s air felt heavy as rain.

Heads bowed like wheat in a gale; even Jeremy’s shoulders sank, shadow-long.

The private mage’s eyes slid away like fish; he watched the floor, mute as stone, afraid to answer.

Jeremy spoke fast, rough as gravel. “Boss, they want you to withdraw from the Magic Academy.”

“And they want you to swear you won’t join the Deep Winter Knight Festival next month,” he snarled, then grabbed his sword and charged for the door like a wildfire.

With Jeremy, it wasn’t theater—he would cut and die; Lance’s voice snapped like a whip. “Back.”

“Why?!” Jeremy flared, a torch swinging wild.

“Do you want to die?” Lance’s words were an iron bell.

“I’m a mercenary, a throwaway life!” Jeremy’s anger smoked like hot coals.

“Are you a mercenary now?” Lance’s tone stayed calm, a quiet river in night.

“I… now—” Jeremy’s eyes dimmed like embers growing cold. “I… I’m sorry, Boss.”

Lance let the self-reproach pass like rain; his gaze swept the hall, a lighthouse in gathering fog.

He stood like a harbor before a typhoon, calm holding chaos. “Where did they take the Marquis?”

“Sorry. They only left demands,” the private mage said, his voice a damp wick.

Lance said nothing; battle aura flared around him like a sudden flame, then dropped to embers.

“Alright, alright…” He turned into the courtyard and took in the spangled heavens like salt scattered on velvet.

He stared at the stars, knuckles whitening like bone as his fist closed.

He rose and faced the crowd; his eyes were clear iron, unyielding. “Yuna, find Jasmine and our class. Bring a few to Maple Manor.”

“Understood, my master,” she replied, words crisp as falling leaves.

He looked to Jeremy, still bowed under guilt like a bent bow. “Jeremy, you and the mage go to the royal consulate. See if we can inform His Majesty.”

“Got it, Boss!” Jeremy’s spirit sprang up like a spark catching straw.

“And me, Blazing Fire Knight?” Mountain Wind leaned on the wall, lazy as a cat in sun.

“You and Partner Cat move with me,” Lance answered, voice steady as a keel.

“Do what?” Their question drifted like fog, making shoulders prickle like cold rain.

Lance’s back was a dark banner. “No need to ask; the Kingdom Constitution spells it out. I won’t repeat what’s writ in law.”

A heavy unease pooled like mist over the hall; everyone understood the tide pulling beneath.

Lance refused their demands and meant to tear the hostage free like a sword from a knot.

“This is madness!” The mage pitched forward, almost falling, panic like a slip in ice.

Yes… reckless—words like stones.

The Golden Flower Marquis’s power dwarfed that small baron from eight years past, difference like mountain and molehill.

An Earth Knight, a squad of Charge Knights, and a full team of private battle mages—force stacked like thunderheads.

In raw strength, the Marquis’s private arm is a legion’s echo, armor grinding like storm surf.

To the private mage, Lance’s plan was a road lit by funeral lamps—straight to death.

And if they leverage the hostage mid-rescue, the noose tightens like a snake.

“Blazing Fire Knight, please think again!” The mage clung to Lance’s calf like a drowning man to driftwood, voice breaking.

Lance eased his leg free, calm as a hand on a foal. “Easy. I’ll bring the Marquis back safe.”

With that promise hanging like a lantern, Lance, one man, one knight, and one beast left Maple Manor.

On the way, they passed a river strewn with petals like drifting snow; Mountain Wind plucked one between fingers.

He asked, casual as wind through pines, “Forget the how—Blazing Fire, do you know where the Marquis actually is?”

The Golden Flower Marquis’s residence sits in Maple City’s southwest Flower District, a field of color like sunrise.

In this city of flowers, that district is larger than the royal palace, a garden sprawling like a silk quilt.

The sea of blooms Lance watched from class windows was that field, waves rippling in scent.

Not only flowers—the place flaunts wealth, a vast Victorian garden, peacocks of stone and glass.

Inside, counting palaces and varied halls, there are two hundred buildings, peaks in a maze-like forest.

Two hundred roofs and paths align like comb teeth, weaving a labyrinth of beds and hedges.

If Lance didn’t know the exact spot, a blind rush would be waves against granite.

But even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t matter—because Fulin knew, certainty like a needle pointing north.

At the instant dark clouds veiled the stars like a pulled curtain, Fulin released her Dual Incarnation and bared her Blood Clan child-form true body.

Only a heartbeat long; then she ordered the big cat with a flick like a conductor’s baton. “Paint me with the phantom.”

The large feline quadruped phantom beast can foul sight with baleful haze, a mist like night-blooming poison.

It obeyed, smearing the phantom’s blight over Fulin like charcoal over silk.

When the clouds slid and starlight poured back like water, the knight boy’s silhouette still stood true.

But the blight illusion is a fog—step within three meters, and her true body blooms like a hidden flower.

Mountain Wind tested the boundary, his head bobbing in and out like a curious crane. “Not bad. Where’d you find this leopard?”

“In the forest… forget it; we move,” Fulin said, finger pointing forward like an arrow.

“Understood, Blazing Fire Knight.” Mountain Wind squared his shoulders, grip tightening on his blade like frost on steel.

Under night’s cloak, the two and the beast slipped to the Golden Flower Marquis’s residence, the Flower District, like wolves into brush.

At the entrance, carved stone declared “Tulip Manor,” letters like petals cut in rock.

Fulin traced the words with her eyes, and memory rose like a warm wind—the first month after crossing, carefree as a drifting feather.

She felt wistful at first, a soft tide—but then a cold line drew tight.

She remembered Lance’s “brother” Duncan’s dying whisper, breath like a fading ember: “Lance… I envy you… free and easy…”

No hatred, no regret—only pure envy, clear as winter sky.

Fulin’s mood tangled, threads crossing like vines.

Seeing her stop at the gate, Mountain Wind asked, alert as a fox, “What is it, enemies?”

“Nothing—just thought of home,” she said, voice a low river.

“Home… huh.” Mountain Wind lifted his gaze to starfields, constellations like nets.

“Let’s go… time to work.” With those words, Fulin cast map-scrying like a net and fixed the Marquis’s exact place.

“Understood, Blazing Fire Knight.” Mountain Wind pressed his palm to his hilt, pressure like a promise.