The next day, Lance returned to the academy for class as usual, calm as a pale sun behind thin clouds.

In the classroom, he lounged like a cat in warm light, while Yuna prepared for class with dew-bright focus.

It felt like everything was steady—if you ignored the hallway outside, packed like a river jammed with bodies.

The corridor buzzed like startled bees; an apprentice waved a crumpled morning paper like a bruised leaf, shouting.

“Blazing Fire Knight! The paper says you’re an arsonist and murderer. Is that true?”

Voices rose, curious yet uneasy, like sparrows before rain: “Yeah, is it true?”

If Lance were a real arson killer, he wouldn’t stand here, steady as a rock in class.

Last night’s King’s Army mobilization, and the Maple City marquis clashing with certain royals, hung like low stormclouds.

Speculation sprouted like weeds in spring, each rumor a creeping vine.

Someone asked, “Did the Second Prince shield your crimes? Is that true?”

Another pressed, “Did the Second Prince plot payback against the Golden Flower Family?”

Someone went blunt, “Is the Feng Wolf Family backing the Second Prince’s bid?”

The din swelled like a boiling pot, yet no one who could answer stepped forward.

Inside, Lance yawned lazy as smoke; Yuna kept reading her spell text, steady as a millstone.

Unlike their calm, Maple City churned like a typhoon after Lance’s deed; Jasmine and others scrambled like ants.

The class monitor held a Maple City paper; the headline blazed with Lance’s supposed arson and murder.

It buried the ambush on the Feng Wolf Marquis, while parading Lance’s past “sins” like mud on a banner.

It even dragged out his strike against a childhood sweetheart, staining his character like ink spilled on silk.

An apprentice from Battle Magic Class One stared at the shouting corridor and fretted, pointing at the print.

“If this keeps up, Lance might really be branded an arson murderer,” he said, voice thin as brittle glass.

Worse than Lance, they feared the kingdom’s road ahead, dim as dusk over cold fields.

“Look at this.” The monitor flipped to page two, a spread praising the First Prince like morning sun.

His platform screamed that knights should be bound tighter by the Empire, words sharp as frost on iron.

He claimed Lance dodged punishment because our kingdom’s knights aren’t under the Empire’s reins.

With that framing, Lance became a staged proof, held up like a mirror for the Prince’s argument.

In stance, the First Prince tilts toward the Heavenly Spirit Empire, his shadow long over Doran.

If he wins, Doran will be bled dry like a vineyard stripped in winter.

For many reasons, the First Prince might take the crown, even if he sells out for favor like cheap coin.

They clenched the paper like a lifeline, voices weak yet angry, heat trapped like steam under a lid.

“Is there really nothing we can do?” The question fell heavy, like rain on stone.

As discipline monitor, and with the first big lecture coming, Jasmine soothed them like cool water.

“Don’t overthink. Let’s get to class, okay?” Her tone was a soft breeze through leaves.

The apprentices traded glances, then lowered heads with sighs rustling like reeds by a river.

The bell rang; the hallway tide ebbed fast, footprints fading like foam.

Under the lecturer’s steady plowing of words, the academy’s fields looked normal for a moment.

At noon dismissal, Jasmine quickened after Lance, light-footed like a sparrow.

Even with storms brewing, she found a topic like a thread through cloth. “Lance, which mid-tier spell first?”

Back when classes were assigned, Fulin—wearing Lance’s face—had vowed he’d reach mid-tier fast.

Knight-recommended students who finish three mock duels earn Knight-Mage status, a formal first-tier mage license.

With that license, Lance can promote to mid-tier by cleanly casting any level-3+ spell before the Association.

Easy in method, heavy in meaning, like a simple seal deciding a long journey.

By custom, a mage’s first mid-tier spell shapes his mage-name, a banner carried for life.

At her words, nearby apprentices pricked their ears, curious as foxes at dusk.

Lance kept it sealed. “Sorry, I can’t say now.” His tone shut like a fan against wind.

Jasmine pouted at first, then caught hostile glances circling like crows, and bowed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine.” His reply was mild, smooth as water.

They walked and talked, nothing serious, just daily dust glinting like motes in sun.

Jasmine savored that easy rhythm, heart floating like a small boat on a lake.

It was her first time being with a boy like this, awkward and sweet as ripe fruit.

In Lance’s flamboyant talk, flashes of knowledge and boldness broke through, and her eyes lit like stars.

The crowd thinned; her courage opened like a flower. “Lance, you’ve changed a lot compared to before!”

Lance laced his hands behind his head, bored as a drifting cloud. “Have I?”

The past sat heavy; he wasn’t truly “Lance,” but Fulin in his skin, so past talk snagged like thorns.

Jasmine was different; she cherished those calm days, a pond without wind.

“You always laughed at me then, said magical girls were childish.” Her round glasses caught memories like moonlight.

“Sorry.” The word fell soft, like ash.

“No need to apologize. I was naive.” She dipped her head, shy as a willow sprig.

“But I messed with you a lot back then.” His voice carried a rueful smile, thin as smoke.

“Boys are like that,” Jasmine laughed, “and every time, Reina would come scold you, fierce as a hawk.”

“Yeah… Reina.” The name lingered like a bell at dusk.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Jasmine flustered, rabbit-quick, head down.

“I don’t mind.” His calm spread like night over fields.

“Reality pushes some to different roads. I’ve let it go,” Lance said, words drifting like leaves apart in current.

Mid-sentence, Jasmine noticed Lance always alone today. “Where’s Yuna, who’s usually by your side?”

Nordland’s knowledge is precious, rare as amber in river sand.

Yuna cherished studying at the academy; when not serving Fulin, she soaked up learning like a sponge.

She often borrowed from the library, arms full like bundles of reeds, and returned books on time.

“She went to return books,” Lance said, casual as a breeze.

“This is taking too long,” Jasmine murmured, uneasy as a moth near flame; she knew the library’s rhythm.

Lance waved it off. “She’s got a ‘companion’ with her. What’s there to fear?”

His words turned omen; soon, Fulin’s big cat came back like a wounded shadow.

It darted to them, less nimble than before; its body was slashed by burn and frost, scars stark as brands.

On its back lay Yuna, sunk in unnatural sleep, breath thin as frost on glass.

Her clothes were torn, skirt ripped like shredded flags; bruises bloomed across skin, blue and purple like night fruit.

Those marks said she’d been beaten before she went under; the cat’s wounds told the rest like smoke after fire.

Jasmine’s voice trembled, dread rising like black water. “No… could it be?”

“Found them!” A pack of mage apprentices surged in, ten or so, faces hard as stone.

They came like a storm, eyes fierce; then they saw Lance, and bluster thinned like fog.

Swagger returned when another knight arrived, steps crisp as ice across a pond.

The knight was the Frost Knight, face cold and pious, righteousness lacquered like winter glaze.

He spotted Lance and sneered without fear, words sharp as sleet. “So the arson murderer is here, Blazing Fire Knight?”