Crap. A chill slid under Fulin’s ribs.

She hadn’t expected it—or maybe the thunder had rumbled in her gut already.

Vivian had stepped up to shield Lance for this very reason, like a willow leaning over a flickering flame.

If it were the real Lance, going back with her might end well, like a river returning to the sea.

But the flaw bit sharp: this “Lance” wasn’t him—Fulin was wearing his face like a mask.

At heart, she was using that false skin to hide her true self, like a fox in tall grass.

Belonging to someone, serving a banner—that wasn’t the life she wanted, no yoke, no tether.

What Fulin wanted was simple, the warmth of a small hearth.

A quiet life, like dew at dawn.

She felt it in her bones: follow Vivian, and the days would grind and tire; a human in the Empire stood low, like dust under boots.

And as Lance, she still carried the task of winning the Knight Festival, a banner to claim in the wind.

A quiet life, and the coin to keep bread and roof…

So this Lance must not follow Vivian into the Silver Moon Forest, no matter how silver the trees.

Lance hedged. “Sorry. My training journey isn’t over yet,” he said, like a road still misted ahead.

“Eh?” Vivian puffed her cheeks like a little cloud. “You just want to get stronger. You can train back in the Silver Moon Forest, right?”

“It’s not just training. I need glory,” he said, like a falcon craving a crest.

“It’s just the Knight Festival,” she grumbled, words pattering like rain on a sill.

“As expected of Miss Vivian,” he said, forcing a smile thin as a leaf.

Vivian sighed. “All Maple City is talking. Some call you a madman, some hail you a hero,” her voice carrying like wind through hanging flags.

Lance had no words; his tongue felt like a stone.

Vivian lifted her head; her clear eyes pooled pure color, lake-still. “I just hope you won’t push yourself…”

That put Lance in a bind, the knot tight. “But you’re a noble Celestial Spirit,” he said, the title shining like a halo.

Vivian didn’t answer. She slipped off her shoes and hopped onto the sofa, light as a sparrow.

“May your sins be redeemed in fire!” she declaimed, mimicking Lance’s grandstanding, ridiculous and adorable, like a flame dancing.

She beamed. “Was that close?” her smile bright as sunlight through leaves.

Lance struggled to judge; his words went dry like ash. “Well…”

For some reason Vivian flushed, cheeks cherry-bright, then pouted. “Is it like you or not?!”

Lance ditched honesty. “Like! Nothing’s more valiant than your pose just now!” he said, like a spear lifted high.

“Hmph, then it’s settled.” She planted her hands on her hips, chest proud like a peacock.

Then softly, serious, her voice drifting like snow. “If you can’t come back to the Silver Moon Forest now, will you promise me one thing?”

“Go on,” he said, the words opening like a door.

“You’re serving the Feng Wolf Marquis now, fighting to reclaim the Feng Wolf Knight’s estate, aren’t you?” Her question rode the wind like a wolf’s howl.

“As you say,” he answered, the pebble dropping without a splash.

“Many won’t stomach that, including the Empire… so promise me—” Clouds gathered in her tone.

Vivian’s sadness dimmed the room like a lantern in rain. “Live. Don’t die. Even if it means abandoning glory… please?”

Thrown so suddenly, Lance felt his compass spin. He drifted. “I…”

“Will you promise?” Her gaze held steady as moonlight.

Fulin had never seen that look on her, like a mask peeled back to bare skin.

She’d thought Vivian a simple elf girl who loved to posture, a swan’s fluff with a little crown.

Maybe it was a performance to mislead “Lance”—women loved that play—but with things said this far, Fulin couldn’t refuse, the hook already set.

Besides, the ask was small, a pebble in the palm.

“I promise. I’ll live.”

“After all, I don’t die,” Lance said lightly, laughter like a breeze.

Vivian burst into laughter, her brows opening like new leaves.

Their reunion ended in laughter, a bell fading at dusk.

About half an hour later, Lance left the consulate by the front gates, calm as a man stepping into night.

The protesters were still there; seeing him untouched, they broke into boos like crows erupting from branches.

Lance took the pointing fingers, the gossip’s arrows thudding harmlessly.

He treated it as a quaint night view and walked homeward, eyes fixed like a blade.

He hadn’t gone far when a squad of knights blocked “him,” steel closing like a gate.

They were formal knights, yet loud and unruly, like sparrows in a market.

“For Maple City’s order, in the name of knighthood, we will strike you down!”

“If we beat you, we get famous!” Their names puffed like smoke.

Lance hadn’t seen them; they had to be from out of town, dust still on their cloaks.

Back when he was at the Royal Magic Academy, many such knights had flocked to Maple City, like migratory hawks.

They came for the Knight Festival, or for other drums and coin.

In short, they were weak—either without Battle Aura, or stuck at beginner awakening—while Lance already had Charge Rank 9, a stag ready to break the line.

With that gap, their challenge was moths to a torch.

“If you want a fight, I’m game!” Lance merely roused a blaze, heat rolling like a desert wind.

Heat surged, whipping a fierce hot wind.

Their bravado crumpled like paper in rain.

“That Battle Aura?!”

“Damn, it’s real!”

“Remember us!”

The knights fled in disarray, leaves before a gust.

Just then a plain carriage rolled in, wheels whispering over stone.

It stopped before Lance; the door swung, and out stepped Gio Robel, the second prince in plain clothes, moon under a hood.

“I’m sorry, Lance. I vowed to help, yet didn’t come when you needed me,” he said, apology cold as frost.

Lance clapped his shoulder, easy as sunlight. “Not your fault. I’m fine, aren’t I?”

A retainer snapped, voice like a lash. “Knight, mind your manners before His Highness!”

“Enough, Lord Lloyd. Weren’t you the one who asked to see him?”

“It was at His Highness’s behest as well.”

“Lance” recognized him. “You’re Mr. Lloyd?”

“I am,” he said, displeasure sour as vinegar.

The second prince scanned the street like a hawk, then urged, “Get in first.”

“Understood,” Lance said, answer crisp as flint.

The carriage headed for Maple Manor, hooves drumming like rain.

On the way, the prince laid out his plan. “This Knight Festival matters. I’ll have Lord Lloyd host a reception ball, cast silk nets, win important guests to your side.”

“Why do that?” The question dropped like a pebble into a pond.

The prince folded his arms, leaned back, closed his eyes. “To make you a hero,” he said, carving a statue from rumor.

“What do you mean?”

He spoke gravely. “We’ll proclaim Tulip Manor—the Golden Flower Marquis’s estate you burned—hid illegal arcane devices, and your fire reduced them to ash,” he said, truths painted like masks.

“That really true?!” Lance blurted, surprise sparking.

The prince shook his head. “No,” the word falling like a stone.

Then his voice dropped, a dangerous shade crossing his face. “But we need it to be,” a shadow like a blade.

Lance exhaled. “No problem,” breath floating like a small cloud.

That surprised the prince; his brows arched like reeds. “Blazing Fire Knight, with your sense of justice, I thought you’d refuse!”

“Why would I refuse?” His tone was clean as steel.

“It seems you’re more dangerous than I imagined,” the prince said, smile thin as a knife.