Candles in the chapel’s wall sconces wavered like winter moths in a draft.

Shadows clung to stone, swaying with the fire like reeds crossing a cold stream.

Unease rose like fog in Fulin’s chest; her thoughts circled Jeremy’s words like crows over a field.

Half a month ago—South Flower Street.

Half a month ago was when Lance’s party first reached Maple City, like travelers stepping onto frost.

Back then, Fulin hadn’t moved a single piece in Maple City, like a board left untouched.

So she could be sure the “vampire” Jeremy mentioned wasn’t tied to her, like two rivers running apart.

Next, South Flower Street—the city’s gateway, like a mouth breathing snow.

Pity gave her a chill; from that one point she couldn’t draw a clean line, yet she caught the odd flicker in Jeremy’s eyes, like fish flashing in dark water.

Maybe the tale had thorns hidden under petals, like roses masking their barbs.

So Fulin, playing Lance, chose to tug that thread first, like a hand testing silk.

“What kind of vampire?” Lance asked, his voice cool as shade.

“I heard it was a beautiful silver‑haired woman,” Jeremy said, his words drifting like pale smoke.

A breath of winter slipped through the stone; the candles went bright, then dim, like stars under rime.

In that unsteady glow, Lance’s silhouette stretched long and strange, like a tall pine twisting in night wind.

The Mountain Wind Knight, slouched against the wall like a sleeping dog, lifted his head; a thin alertness glinted in his lazy eyes like frost on grass.

Yuna didn’t keep as calm; her face stayed still, but her fingers pinched the lace hem of her skirt, like a small bird tightening its claws.

Before the room noticed their shift, Lance cut in, drawing eyes like a bell: “Jeremy, where’d you hear it?”

“Black Rose Tavern,” Jeremy said, the name landing like a dark petal; “four days ago, a pack of drunk men.”

Across the chapel’s glassy murals, candle‑shadows swayed again like waves in shallow light.

“Are their words worth believing?” Lance asked, his tone steady as a stone path.

“Who knows,” Jeremy said, shaking his head like a dog after rain; “if I get drunk, I brag too.”

The Feng Wolf Marquis sighed, the sound long as wind in a canyon: “Mr. Lance, talk of vampires in Maple City isn’t new.”

Lance knew little of Maple City; “So vampires did appear here?” he asked, his question cutting like a clean blade.

The Marquis glanced at the Second Prince, hesitation pooling like ink: “This…”

The Prince nodded, the gesture light as falling snow: “It’s fine. I’ll say it.”

“It happened before my father took the throne,” he said, memory rising like smoke from embers.

On the eve of the current king’s ascension, at a ball hosted by the Silkworm Clan, a silver‑haired girl appeared, like moonlight walking.

Her face could drown hearts like a deep lake; her figure could tempt the world like ripe fruit, yet that beauty carried ill‑omened silver hair and eyes red as a killing dawn.

The girl stepped in and the floor turned to storm; blood rose like a spring smashed open.

Only a few nobles hid in secret rooms, like mice under floorboards, and escaped.

She bathed the ball in blood, yet Maple City barely rippled, like a pond under frozen skin.

People said it was just a purge before the crown—a convenient banner to cut down rivals, like a net cast at dusk.

“Wasn’t it exactly that?” Lance asked, his words crisp as frost.

The Prince’s sapphire eyes—heirlooms from the old Republic’s ‘Jewel’—widened like clear skies after rain: “So even the Blazing Fire Knight thinks that?”

Lance spoke lightly, like ash blown from a coal: “It couldn’t have been the Dark Spirit Empire trying to threaten Doran, right?”

The Prince’s eyes opened wider, then his smile folded warm, like sun on ice: “As expected of the Blazing Fire Knight.”

“All right, let’s set that aside,” he said, voice smoothing like a palm over silk.

He lifted the list Jeremy had handed; paper rustled like leaves, and he spoke with a respectful tone to Lance: “Pardon the interruption, Knight, but I have a question.”

“Please, Your Highness,” Lance said, his courtesy steady as a bow.

“Then I’ll ask—Lance Morrison, how do you plan to pass the Selection Trials?” the Prince said, the challenge hanging like a drawn bowstring.

The problem he threw was the knotted rope before the Knight Festival, like a gate with spears.

The Selection Trials are the free‑for‑all before the Knight Festival, like storms before harvest.

The Knight Festival is the highest dueling rite; only a few knights may stand within, like stars chosen for a crown.

It happens once every ten years; knights flood in from every coast and hill, hundreds across all Doran gathering like migrating birds.

So before the rite begins, many elimination melees must be fought—those are the Selection Trials, like sieves shaking grain.

“This time, at least five hundred knights have come to Maple City for the Festival, yet only around twenty will be chosen,” the Prince said, numbers dropping like stones.

“In other words, Blazing Fire Knight, you may face messy trouble before you even enter the Festival,” he said, his warning spreading like cold dew.

“Your Highness speaks true,” Lance replied, his politeness smooth as lacquer.

The Prince didn’t love that thin answer; dissatisfaction pricked him like nettles.

He looked at Lance, then pointed to a column of names, his finger tapping like rain: “First, these knights from Red Sand.”

Red Sand lies north of Maple City, a ducal land; five hundred years ago it was the heart of the Restoration War, and it forged a special knightly tradition, like iron tempered in red deserts.

“They like to challenge famed strong men to prove themselves, like hawks stooping on brightest prey,” the Prince said, helplessness shown like creases.

“In short, Blazing Fire Knight, the knights of Red Sand are coming for you,” he added, the truth landing like a flint spark.

Lance remembered being stopped on the road by strangers, challenges thrown like stones: “So that’s it.”

The Prince pointed to another column; names gleamed like coins: “And the hired knights of Maple City’s Golden Flower Family and the Silkworm Clan… Remember, the Selection Trials are melee. One trial eliminates at least a hundred knights. If they all take you as target—”

“Facing many foes, how do you break through and win?” he asked, the question pressing like snow on boughs.

As if echoing him, the candle flames lashed and bent like grass in gusts.

Second by second, the light dimmed like dusk, as if Lance’s odds thinned with it, and a sudden fade wouldn’t surprise anyone, like a wick starving in wind.

Lance fell into thought, silence pooling like ink.

He could explain his battle plans, detail preparations coiled like ropes for clean ascent.

But for a victory he already meant to take, Lance never explained; he didn’t need to, like a blade that speaks only when drawn.

The reason was simple as fire: “Because I’m the Blazing Fire Knight,” Lance said, his voice steady and strong, ringing like a bell through the small chapel.

The Prince felt a shock like a struck drum; yet born to a court, he’d heard many words meant to rouse, like banners flapping before dawn.

So after the first beat of awe, confusion and annoyance crept back like mist.

“Just because you’re the Blazing Fire Knight, you’ll win?” the Prince asked, his challenge sharp as sleet.

“That’s right,” Lance answered, with no fog in his gaze, like clear water.

Witnessing that immovable resolve, the Prince fell silent, his tongue held like a knife back in its sheath.

A few seconds later, he laughed free and loud, as if his doubts evaporated like sun on frost: “As the rumors say—Blazing Fire Knight, I’ll look forward to your victory!”

The reports rolled on, like carts changing hands; after Jeremy, it was Yuna’s turn.

Yuna’s task was to track the assets of the Golden Flower Family and the Silkworm Clan, like mapping rivers and mills.

“The Golden Flower Family holds two core assets in Maple City,” Yuna said, her tone neat as stacked papers. “One was Tulip Manor, which the master burned, like a field fired clean. The other is a large flower base outside the city, and that’s where their profits bloom; it brings them at least a thousand gold crowns in net growth each year,” she continued, numbers shining like coins in a tray.

She handed a full list of the Golden Flower Family’s holdings, the sums tallied like ledgers, with legal owners and true controllers laid out like names carved on tablets.

“The Silkworm Clan also holds two core assets,” Yuna said, words smooth as silk. “One is a large textile center outside Maple City; the other is a dock along an upper branch of the Snow River. The textile center feeds the clan’s coffers like a steady mill, but the dock is their true reach; through it, they influence Maple City’s grain, goods, and people, and they send their textiles across the whole kingdom like threads through every loom.”

She produced the Silkworm Clan’s asset list; as old pillars of Maple City, their wealth needed a whole stack of papers to catalog, like sheaves piled high.

Lance read and smiled like fire catching dry wood: “Well done, Yuna. We’re one step closer to victory.”

“Thank you for your praise, master,” Yuna said, lifting her skirt in a precise curtsey, like a swan dipping.

The Second Prince leaned in, curiosity bright as a fox’s eyes: “Blazing Fire Knight, did you plan to break those two families from the start?”

“Yeah,” Lance said, the word short as a spark.

“Can you tell me why?” the Prince asked, the question cutting like thin ice.

Lance closed his eyes; a sigh drifted out like smoke: “To me, their crime can’t be forgiven. I’m just making them pay.”

“To be your enemy is true misfortune,” the Prince said, his sympathy cool as dew.

Next was the Feng Wolf Marquis, his task simple as knocking a gate: “Mr. Lance, I’ve successfully invited a Foundation witness. He’s a Celestial—of high virtue, honest and faithful. If he witnesses your victory on the Knight Festival day, we can reclaim our ancestors’ investment,” he said, joy spilling like bright wine.

“Good. When the money lands, don’t forget your promise,” Lance said, warning laid like a hand on a shoulder.

“Absolutely—absolutely!” the Marquis nodded, his head bobbing like a buoy.

“Heh, boss, we’ll be honored guests wherever we go!” Jeremy said, strutting like a rooster.

“If we succeed, the Blazing Fire Knight will surpass all the kingdom’s knights of old, and become the most renowned knight of the Doran Kingdom,” the Mountain Wind Knight said, his smile warm as late sun.

“No matter what happens to the master, this girl will follow,” Yuna said, devotion firm as a knot.

By then, preparations were tight as drumskin; on every face, ambition shone like steel.

Lance felt the same; yet beneath his bright mask, Fulin’s heart misted with doubt, like a lake before dawn.

After this ends, can I live the quiet life I want? the thought whispered, like a moth at a window.

She brushed the doubt aside and held a decision like a warm stone: I will live a peaceful life.

At dawn the next day, for the final prep before the Knight Festival—getting a mid‑tier mage qualification—Lance returned to the Royal Magic Academy, steps sure as a rider’s hands.

Outside the gate, the biting morning wind drifted calm as pale smoke.

He stepped off the carriage; his boots met the road’s thin ice, cracking like sugar glass, and passers’ voices rose like sparrows.

“Look, the Blazing Fire Knight!” one hissed, eyes bright as beads.

“Wasn’t he already—” another started, words trailing like torn cloth.

“Shh, keep it down…” a third murmured, caution cold as shade.

The Academy’s incident was sealed like a jar, unknown to the crowd; but the Inquisitors had dragged Lance from the gate to the Imperial Consulate in bold display, like a banner swinging down the street.

With that, and the two families’ grip on the presses, Lance’s image among Maple City’s citizens had fallen like a statue pushed from its plinth.

They glanced at him like he was a taboo relic, eyes skirting like fish around a hook.

He was used to it; he strolled through the crowd, slow as drifting ash, and stepped into the Royal Magic Academy.

Inside, the Night Disciple case had emptied the paths; apprentices were scarce as spring swallows, replaced by red‑robed battle mages and imperial special envoys, flying low like swarming bees, searching and guarding in restless circuits.

Lance watched this changed scene, each step measured like stones laid to a door, until he reached the teaching block.

It wasn’t where they certify ranks, yet he went there and walked to War Magic Class One’s room, like a man bringing a surprise to old friends.

He slipped into the doorway, voice light as tossed snow: “Yo, everyone!”

The room sat empty; a chill wind tapped his face like thin fingers.

Air turned awkward, still as a pond; Lance turned, his quiet settling like dusk.

“Right—straight to the admin block,” he muttered, words fading like smoke.

Just as he was leaving, Jasmine appeared at the stairwell corner, her arrival sudden as a bird from cover.

“Lance?!” Round frames gleamed on her nose; her pale, tired face broke into joy like sunlight through cloud.

Surprise pricked Lance’s brow; confusion stirred like leaves: “Jasmine, why are you here?”

"You know Captain Bordeaux and the others... they gave their lives." Jasmine lowered her head like a drooping flower, then lifted it like a reed in wind. "So a combat-path apprentice like me has to step up. If we don’t hold the Academy’s order together, it’ll unravel like wet paper."

Seeing the weary shadows on Jasmine’s face, Lance’s chest tightened like a drawn bow. "Is the Mage Association not sending more people?"

Jasmine turned her face away like a bird avoiding rain. "They’re still investigating what happened yesterday."

"I see..."

"Yeah. A Night Disciple doesn’t fall for no reason." Her words clicked like beads. "Maple City’s had whispers of vampires for years." "They think a scout from the Dark Spirit Empire slipped into the Academy like fog." "They’re checking every apprentice, one by one."

As they walked, Jasmine chattered on like a sparrow under the eaves about the Association’s inquiry.

At the fork where they would part, Jasmine lowered her gaze, voice thin as thread. "Lance, you know this. My father will enter the Knight Festival too."

Worry and unease stirred like leaves in her whisper.

Lance offered comfort, a steady stone set in a stream. "Don’t worry. I’ll show you a battle that’ll blaze across the sky."

Jasmine shook her head, gentle as rain. "I only want you safe."

"That’s all?" Lance looked puzzled, a wave pausing before shore.

"Mhm. That’s all." Jasmine smiled, lips pressed like a sealed letter.

After they parted, Lance headed for the Royal Magic Academy’s administration wing, a building like a stern cliff joined to the Academy’s consulate.

He entered and climbed to the Review Hall on the third floor, steps like measured drumbeats.

The Review Hall decided if a low-tier mage could rise, like a gate in a mountain pass.

The Review Council held the right to judge, and today was the yearly Review Day, a bell on the calendar.

Here, Lance would pass the review and become an intermediate mage, with leave to cast intermediate spells like drawing steel from a scabbard.

Now, elders of the Council sat the review bench, faces like carved wood.

The Dean of the Magic Academy was among them. He spoke slow and long, with a touch of respect like winter sun. "Blazing Fire Knight, young hero, I’m glad you’ve returned."

Unlike the Dean’s fond gaze, the other elders watched Lance with surprise and wariness, like wolves under torchlight. They were high mages from the Maple City Mage Association, or free high-tier professionals.

Lance felt those looks prickle like cold rain. They’d just ended their search into the incident, and suspicion slid toward one of its main figures—him. It wasn’t baseless, like smoke after fire.

In truth, the Dean’s early promise was the wind at his back. Only because of it could he take this review as a mage.

"Thank you for the special permission, Dean." After the greetings, Lance bowed to the Dean at the center, as a blade bows to its whetstone.

"Mmm." The Dean nodded and smoothed his white beard, which hung like a waterfall toward his chest.

Mana lit his eyes like stars in a deep pool. "I’ve heard you chose to become an intermediate mage to win the Knight Festival. Will you tell me which spell you believe will bring you victory?"

Few knights touch magic. Unless he unveiled his true form, a spell would be Lance’s sharpest card, hidden under his sleeve.

Lance was ready. Pride curled at his mouth like a flame. "Level-6 Earthcraft: Plant Domain."

"Hmm. A spell that drives vast plants to surge up fast, then wither just as fast." The Dean’s voice rustled like pages. "Tell me what this means to you, in practice."

"Maple City once wore the title ‘Maple Princess’ like a crown," Lance said, words carrying the scent of red leaves. "But with time and human hearts, the princess fell asleep."

"A romantic legend indeed." The Dean’s approving glance was a warm lantern. Then his question cut clean, like a north wind. "If the princess in people’s hearts has slept, Blazing Fire Knight, what will you do?"

"I’ll wake the Maple Princess," Lance said, sure as sunrise, and thumbed his chest. "She’ll be my goddess of victory."