Outside the Heavenly Spirit Empire Consulate in Maple City.

Winter bit like iron; the wind cut like knives, yet the protest roared on like a storming sea. Rumors of the Blazing Fire Knight—the madman who dared torch the Golden Flower manor—fanned the blaze.

When the crowd learned Lance had been dragged here by inquisitors, the outcry swelled like a white‑night festival, loud enough to chill gawkers like frost on their bones.

Inside, the corridor glittered with overdone splendor, gold spilling like false sunlight. Deeper in, a rust‑stained iron door sat like a scab on the wall.

In the cell, several inquisitors of the Celestial Race stood in a neat line, still as statues under cold rain. Red robes flowed like blood, leather boots planted like stakes. Their hoods hung teal veils over their eyes; only their mouths showed, thin and smiling, like crescent blades. In the damp gloom, their presence felt like carrion birds roosting.

Lance was bound to a torture chair, iron biting like winter teeth. One inquisitor stepped forward, voice slow as a funeral bell: “Lance Morrison, Doran. Active knight. Age fifteen. From Wood Bay of Doran. Exiled by a duke, wandered the realm as a mercenary knight… now enfeoffed by the Feng Wolf Marquis, and a Charge Knight who can ignite nine Battle Aura stones.”

“Truly a prodigy, huh.” His formal tone cracked into a laugh, brittle as ice, mockery shining like a needle.

With their prize caught, the inquisitors’ smiles spread like oil on water.

Lance met their ugly mirth with a crooked grin, wild as a stray flame. “So what?”

The leader’s smile snapped shut; his voice turned sharp as a blade. “Then it’s strange.”

“A year ago, you were a street rat—a useless punk… a human scum with filthy habits.” His words fell like stones in a well.

“A gutter‑bound loser who should’ve died in the rain… How did you become the famed Blazing Fire Knight? Answer me!”

Lance snorted, dry as ash. “Who knows.”

The inquisitor flared, a torch in a draft. “Abandoned child of the Light Deity, thankless wretch!” His fist cracked against Lance’s face, and a bruise bloomed like dark ink.

It was only a stroke in a larger painting. From dusk to now—three long hours—the inquisitors had worked him like a dull blade. He was bruised head to toe, like a map of pain.

A common man would’ve broken, life guttering like a candle in wind. But a knight’s Battle Aura held like an ember under ash. Lance’s life‑signs didn’t flicker.

If he could last the night, his body would knit back fast, like ice sealing over a pond.

But the inquisitors wanted more. A cart squeaked in, wheels chirping like rats. What lay on it was no longer mere tools of pain.

It was a surgeon’s kit for dissecting the dead, steel gleaming like frost.

“Since you won’t confess, we’ll dig the truth out of you,” someone chuckled, low as a cellar draft.

They planned a vivisection.

Lance’s steady mask finally cracked; a shadow of fear crossed like a cloud.

For these three hours, Fulin—wearing Lance like a cloak—had severed sensation, letting pain fall like rain on stone. She didn’t fear the lash. She feared these Celestial Spirits might actually tear her out from inside Lance, like yanking a root from earth.

If it came to that, she’d have to silence them. Killing was easy, clean as a cut. The aftermath would be mud.

First, the walls were lined with aura‑sealing stone, deadening power like snow on fire. If she kept posing as Lance after, “he” couldn’t explain the escape.

Second, these Celestial inquisitors were mid‑tier battle mages, hands quick as hawks. In theory, a lone Charge Knight couldn’t beat a flock.

Worst, the Empire loomed behind them like a mountain. Cross them, and forget the Knight Festival—life would become saddle and road, peace blowing away like leaves.

She had hacked through brambles and crossed a thousand hills to reach this point. Must it all crumble because of these few inquisitors? The thought stabbed like cold iron.

Outside, Lance bared his teeth; his eyes burned like coals, ready to burst.

The inquisitors loved human suffering like gamblers love dice. They laughed, harsh as crow calls: “Good. An abandoned child should look abandoned. A wretch thrown by fate, a slave worth pity.”

Spells slammed down like chains, fixing Lance to a cross, wood biting like old bark.

An inquisitor approached, dark as a thunderhead, scalpel glinting like a sliver of moon. His lips curled, sweet as poison. “No matter how a Night Disciple hides, the entrails are filthy.”

“We’ll start with your liver.”

The blade struck, a flash of cold into flesh. Pain drilled up like lightning through bone.

They watched, faces flat as masks, savoring the spectacle like winter wolves.

In that cold, dark cell, a caged beast couldn’t flee the butcher’s fate. The air smelled of iron, like rain on rust.

“Every Night Disciple, herald of rot, bears impure signs within. Cut them out, and no disguise will save you,” one intoned, ritual‑solemn as a priest at dusk.

Then, from the corridor, noise rose like a sudden flock. It broke their mood like a dropped cup.

The executioner paused, mouth twisting. “What was that?”

At first they imagined angry citizens storming like a flood. Impossible. The consulate’s security was tight as drumskin. Listening closer, they caught a girl’s voice, arguing with the staff, stubborn as a sapling in wind. Thick iron muffled the words into a blur.

“Who is it?”

“I told the guards—no outsiders. Not even Doran’s royals,” another snapped, voice clipped like shears.

Answers didn’t come. They turned back, threat coiling like smoke. “Don’t think anyone can rescue you. Plenty of our nobles enjoy watching human knights get interrogated.”

But the voice drew near like quick steps on stone. Expecting the door to open, they stilled their filth, smoothing faces like fresh lacquer to keep the Empire’s sheen.

The door swung wide. Hallway light poured in like gold, with a scent from the woods, green and clean.

“Lance!” a girl called, urgent as spring rain.

To blunt the pain, Lance had shut himself down, cold as winter glass. At that voice, his dull pupils sparked to life, like stars behind clouds. He lifted his head, breath thin as thread. “Who… is it?”

The glare blinded him; her face was a silhouette, slim as a willow. She wore the garb of another race, a princess dress pared down like travel silk. Leaf motifs traced in luxurious thread, like frost on glass—traditional attire of the Celestial Spirit elves. “Lance” had seen it in the papers, ink‑clean.

The shape was strange. The scent was not—old blood fragrant as aged wine, the breath of long life, moss‑cool.

Fulin’s heart thumped, hunger first, then memory, like a bell rung twice. “Vivian…?” Lance whispered.

Before she could answer, an inquisitor’s boot whipped out, fast as a whip. The kick cracked against Lance’s mouth—thud—almost prying his jaw like a stuck lid.

The Celestial inquisitor barked, sharp as a snapped twig: “She’s a guest of the Silver Moon Forest. Abandoned child of the Light Deity, don’t foul a lady’s name with your cursed mouth.”

By chance, that kick knocked something free from Lance’s inner pocket. Two emergency gold mage‑coins spun out, catching light like suns.

And a ring—Vivian’s gift—etched with curious patterns that danced like vines. He’d meant to sell it if cornered.

Under the bright glare, the pattern showed crisp as frost.

The inquisitors blanched, color draining like spilled milk. “That ring—?!”

Vivian’s shock at Lance’s condition flickered and steadied like a candle cupped by a hand. Her voice flowed soft and proud, a stream under moonlight. “Yes. I gave it to him. This human is my exclusive servant. Release him.”

“Exclusive servant?!” They jolted, like wires struck by lightning. “Do you understand what that implies?”

“Lance Morrison is a knight who’ll keep growing, like fire in dry grass. Why can’t I claim him?” Her tone rang like silver.

“But he’s tied to the Dark Spirit Empire! Our spells smell the breath of a Night Disciple on him!” Their protest rattled like beads.

“He fights Night Disciples. Any hero who faces darkness carries the brand darkness leaves, like soot on a chimney,” she shot back, eyes bright as stars.

The turn of the scene knocked them off balance, like a step missed on stairs.

Truth be told, Lance’s suspicion was heavy as storm clouds. One inquisitor burst out, words tumbling like stones: “But he—!”

Vivian met him head‑on. The quarrel rose like fire on dry reeds.

It began with who owned Lance and swelled into matters within the Empire, shadows crossing like crows.

Finally, Vivian cut clean, voice cold as a north wind. “Do you intend to seize property of the Silver Moon Forest?”

At that, their mouths closed like stitched seams. They tried to speak, but jaws locked like frozen hinges. Only their lips twitched, bitter as raw tea.

After minutes of stalemate, they pulled back like tide. “Lance Morrison, you’re free.”

Attendant mages bathed him in healing light, warmth washing like dawn. Later, in a meeting room, at Vivian’s request, the attendants withdrew, silence settling like soft snow, leaving the two alone.

Long time no see; quiet stretched like silk. The air warmed, sweet as ripe fruit.

Lance broke it, voice steady as a drawn line. “Miss Vivian, thank you. Without you—”

Vivian didn’t let him finish. She dropped the hauteur worn in the hall like a mask, stepped close with no walls between, and wrapped him in a hug, warm as spring sun.

“Lance.” Her voice was honey; her body, soft as down.

Faced with that feast for the eyes, Fulin’s Chaos Vampire nature surged like tide. Hunger hit first, sharp as a fang; saliva almost spilled like a careless cup.

She pinned it down, iron‑firm.

On the surface, Lance held an astounding calm, cool as lake glass. “It’s truly good to see you again.” He met warmth with warmth, gratitude bright as firelight. Then he saluted, a neat knight’s gesture; his fist tapped his chest, solid as oak. He stood upright, bright, and true.

Such proper manners, so far from the street brat of a year ago, made Vivian’s crystal eyes widen like full moons.

Unlike Lance’s three‑day metamorphosis, Vivian had changed little, still a wildflower in sun. “Mmhmm~~ Then remember my kindness,” she chimed, blithe as a bird. She flopped onto the sofa without care, pale legs peeking like white lilies, boots swinging in playful kicks, lively and lovely.

After a few soft lines of catching up, Vivian lifted her head, serious and a touch shy, lashes fluttering like moth wings. “Lance~~ Your knight’s training should be over, right? Can you come back to the Silver Moon Forest with me now~~”