"So that's it..." The junior student murmured, thought pooling like dusk in a still pond. "The Blazing Fire Knight burned everything to get here. What does he want?"
"Who knows?" The senior shook his head, like a branch shedding frost.
The sky turned slate-gray, and fine snow sifted down like ash from a dying fire.
"You should know he was a spoiled heir. His rise was like dead wood blooming in late spring."
"I heard..." The junior shook the snow from his shoulders like dust from an old cloak, then sighed. "The Frost Knight was born under the wrong star."
"Yeah... first he was torn from his fiancée by a riptide of accidents. Then the Blazing Fire Knight’s fame dragged him into mud and rumor."
Out of the crowd’s sight, the Frost Knight stood alone, staring at the gray sky like a frozen lake.
Bile rose first, sharp and cold as sleet, then he spat, "Lance Morrison!"
He was born to a great knightly house, raised in steel and prayer like a pine in snow. His talent shone early, and at eighteen he awakened his Battle Aura, bright as a sword drawn at dawn.
He and his family wore that pride like a crest, until the day he stood before the king.
He went to seek entry into the King's Own Knights, that banner of pure honor, that peak like a sunlit summit his house had always wished for him.
But doubt cut in like a sudden gust.
In the Winter Palace of Doran, in the ancient, resplendent audience hall that glowed like amber, the question fell like a pebble in a well.
"Compared to the Blazing Fire Knight, which of you is more exceptional?"
It was a simple question, clear as ice.
Before he could answer, the jester’s sneer and the court’s breath chilled the room like a draft.
Before 109 vassals and twenty-three robe‑invested nobles, Peter, the Grand Minister of Military Affairs—keeper of the King's Sword and commander of several royal corps—raised his voice like a cold bell.
"Your Majesty, forgive my boldness. I believe the Frost Knight isn’t fit right now."
"Not fit now? Speak."
"Thank you... In my view, the Blazing Fire Knight—another prodigy—now blazes with fame. If the King's Own Knights want young talent, he should be chosen first. The Frost Knight could serve, but the dukes might question Your Majesty’s judgment."
"Hmm."
"For the honor of the Crown, and for Your Majesty’s two heirs, I beg that we set this aside. Wait for the Knight Festival to conclude, then decide."
The Grand Minister spoke freely, words flowing like an oiled blade.
Robert XXI nodded, his crown steady as a mountain in fog.
Ministers nodded like reeds in wind, and among the robe‑invested nobles who feared the Frost Knight’s clan, mean delight flickered like foxfire.
In Doran, the Grand Minister’s power blotted out the sky like thunderclouds at noon.
Facing his counsel, the Frost Knight could do nothing, a sheathed blade in a locked chest.
"I’m sorry, Frost Knight. Until the Blazing Fire Knight in Mubay City gives up his claim to the King's Own, you cannot serve Us."
The king’s words struck like thunder under a clear sky.
Cold sweat streamed, and his mind went white as hoarfrost.
He didn’t remember how he left the Winter Palace; memory shattered like thin ice. He only remembered a paper from Golden Bay City, ink still damp as rain.
On it, a punkish brat hollered like a fishmonger, and that was the Blazing Fire Knight. At his side stood the woman who had once been his betrothed, her shadow falling like a cut line across his heart.
Failure and humiliation hit like twin hammers; jealousy surged in like black water and drowned the shore.
He’d had no chance before. By a twist of fate, a door now stood ajar like a crack of light in a long night.
"Lance Morrison!" he grated, teeth tight as a vise. He stared at Lance in another starting area on Domed Peak, where Lance was hollering, stoking the fire for Battle Arts Class One like a drumbeat before war.
The punk’s swagger was a spark in dry grass. His face twisted, and he cursed under his breath, a snake in the reeds: "You’re finished soon. Struggle in pain."
The referees’ council wrapped quickly, like a tent folded before wind. The chief referee stepped out and announced the format, voice ringing like a brass gong.
"This mock bout is a relay distance run. The circuit is the mountain ring road, total length twenty kilometers. A baton handoff every five kilometers. First to the finish wins. Non-injurious interference is allowed for both sides."
