One brother was burly, the other lithe; mountain and blade, day and night. The Crown Prince clenched his fist, knuckles like hail, and slammed the booth’s lattice.

He swelled his presence with the blow, voice ringing like a bell across cold air. “Brother, why question me? You know I’ve treated Mr. Murphy well. I invited the duke’s daughter to travel with me—what’s wrong with that?”

The Second Prince steadied himself, breath settling like dust after a storm. He knew his brother meant the accountability hearing.

Half a year ago, a mysterious Blood Clan fiend ravaged Mubay City like a midnight tempest. The Imperial Inspectors, joined by dukes and great nobles, moved to dismiss the Iron Duke. The Crown Prince appeared for the royal house and froze the meeting like winter on a river.

In the end, thanks to the Crown Prince’s shelter, the Iron Duke wasn’t removed, a pine that didn’t break under snow.

Even so, the Second Prince, a pillar of the patriot faction, had a tongue like steel. “That wasn’t charity—it was royal duty. Even if you hadn’t gone, once I finished Red Sand’s affairs, I’d voice the crown’s stance, clear as sunrise.”

“Therefore you had no ground to speak in your personal name as the royal house—unless you’re king.”

The fact the Crown Prince wasn’t king hung in the air like frost, exposing ambition and striking a sore spot.

Faced with the words, the Crown Prince stepped back, face dark like a brewing storm.

Then he bared his teeth, refusing to yield. “Gio, when I become king, I’ll purge your faction first, like fire through dry reeds!”

“May the god of victory stand with you,” the reply came, cool as moonlight.

“Hmph! … We’re leaving.” Out-argued, the Crown Prince swept out with two retainer knights, the door slamming like a gust through bare branches.

“What a headache,” the Second Prince sighed, eyes following his brother’s exit like a lone bird watching clouds.

Lance echoed softly, but his heart leaned toward Alice’s state like a lantern tilting in wind.

After the Crown Prince’s threat, Alice seemed frayed as wilted petals. She kept her head down, pale lips bitten, words frozen in her throat.

Seeing that, Lance set a gentle hand on her shoulder, warmth like a hand over embers. “Hey, you okay?”

Under Lance’s steadying voice, the color returned to Alice’s eyes, a spark lifting as if dawn brushed the lake. “Mm… I’m fine,” she said.

The spat had lasted minutes. Vivian and Jasmine, back from ordering, stepped into the mess like travelers into a storm-broken clearing.

Vivian frowned, gaze on the dent in the partition, a bruise in wood. “Tell me what happened,” her tone cool as high air.

“Just another farce,” Lance said, giving the bones of it like a sketch drawn in charcoal.

“Heh~~ Humans are so dull,” Vivian breathed, a Celestial Spirit untouched by mortal squalls. “Whoever wears the crown, Doran’s still an imperial vassal. What’s the difference?”

Alice had been quiet, but her mood flashed like a sudden squall. “How is that the same?!”

Her emerald eyes shone wet, tears like dew flecking a leaf, startling Vivian with their fierce light.

“Oh? Then tell me,” Vivian asked, head tilted, snow-owl calm. “Where is it different?”

“If the Crown Prince becomes king… if he becomes king…” Alice’s voice dwindled like a candle’s last flicker. At last she turned her clear, sorrowed gaze to Lance, a stream finding its bank.

“If Dylan becomes king, I won’t be able to stay by Lance’s side,” she said, and the air grew heavy like a sky before snow.

Vivian folded her arms, her look shifting, as if she both knew and couldn’t quite hold the shape of it. “I figured,” she murmured, dusk in her eyes.

Silence spread, long as a winter river, century-deep and misted.

While faces held their quiet, Lance spoke, breaking the stillness like a pebble into water. “No, Alice.”

“What’s wrong?” Alice asked, confusion and hurt pooling like rain in a hollow.

Lance didn’t bow to the grief; he stepped into it like a rider into rain. “You don’t fear Dylan’s crown just to stay by me, do you?”

“Do you expect…” The word stuck like a thorn; she flicked a glance at those beside Lance—especially Vivian—and choked softly. “Maybe I should leave… is that better?”

In a heartbeat, Alice’s eyes held a maze no girl should carry—confusion, sorrow, fog over the moor.

Lance shook his head. “No. You told me, once—”

“—that you want every one of your people to live in peace, quiet as a lake, bright as morning.”

“—that you want them to smile every day, simple and happy, like sun on bread.”

His voice was steady and strong, hearth-flame calm that warmed the room and eased tight shoulders.

“That’s why you forged that vast ideal, horizon-wide. Isn’t it?”

“I, Lance Morrison, won’t let anyone claim you—not like that.” He lifted his hand in a knight’s vow, steel in his tone and fire behind it. “No—Alice, you belong to your ideal alone. As the Blazing Fire Knight, I’ll guard that wish.”

The hearth crackled, a bright pop, like the scene itself answered.

Eyes widened all around; even the Second Prince stared, disbelief like frost. “Lance, you…”

“Yeah…” Alice gave a smile edged with regret and envy, yet gentle as spring. “That’s Lance, alright.”

Vivian’s eyes shone with a flash of reverence, then she tucked it away, chin up, a touch prickly. “Hmph. Nice. That’s the Blazing Fire Knight~!”

Jasmine eased with the mending mood, and her hand reached for a small cake as if for a warm pebble—only to find it ice-cold, like a scoop of gelato. Her lips went numb. “Ah~~ the tea snacks are cold.”

“Hahaha~~” Alice’s laugh rang like bells over snow, bright and clean.

“Yeah, the pastries are cold. Let’s eat.”

“It’s rare we gather like this; who knows the next time,” someone said, words like a soft cloud.

“Hey, don’t jinx it. Eat.”

“Then I’ll accept,” came the reply, easy as a nod.

The morning passed in brief calm and quiet joy, a patch of sunlight on frost.

At the register, Lance felt a stare from the window, sharp as a hawk’s gaze through glass.

He turned—good grief.

A huge, greasy face was pressed to the pane, smearing breath, sausage lips magnified like a carp’s mouth. Everyone jolted like birds flushed from a hedge.

“Father?!” Jasmine blurted, cheeks pink as berries.

Jasmine’s father—her adoptive father—and Lance’s first knight mentor: Blazing Sun Knight Layne.

To meet like this, in a far city, Lance could only give an awkward smile, a hand through hair.

They followed Jasmine out into the cold, the air biting like mint.

Layne saw his long-missed darling daughter, and his joy blew up like a sudden bonfire. “Oh, oh, oh! My Jasmine!”

He spread his arms like a strutting rooster, wings wide, hands big enough to dwarf her. The hug rushed in like a wave.

“Yaaah!” Jasmine slipped aside, neat as a cat, and Layne dove into nothing but air.

His heat blew out; his face dimmed with a sorrow like a father at a wedding. In the end he went down, lonely as a last leaf—

He sprawled, face-first, into a winter snowbank, a puff of white.

Cold wind moaned down the street, thin as a reed.

But Layne was Layne. He rallied quick, like a bear shaking off frost.

Temples grey, body iron-hard and bright with young vigor, the Earth Knight sprang up from the drift. He brushed dirty snow from face and stains from coat, and strength returned like drums in a parade.

“Jasmine, seeing you safe—this makes me, Layne Blade, glad,” he said, smiling warmly, sun through clouds. “The duke and his lady who once cared for you must be glad, too.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Jasmine answered, as steady as she always was, voice like a small lamp.

Layne studied his daughter’s maturing face, beauty settling like fruit into ripeness. He sighed, a soft breeze, and his gaze slid to Lance.

He meant to speak, but seeing Alice beside Lance shifted his course, river around a stone. “Your Highness, as the former chief knight of the Iron Duke, I’m glad to see the child I watched grow now stand among royal names,” he said. “I heard Maple City had trouble, but your safety is a blessing. Please let me carry the duke’s greetings.”

It held little feeling, a mechanical courtesy like a stamped seal.

“Thank you for the greeting,” Alice replied, bow graceful as a willow.

Then Layne saw Vivian, and in eyes that carried gentle twilight flared a brief distaste, a thorn in velvet. “Respected Celestial Spirit lady, what are you doing here? If you have any designs on my friends—”

“Enough, Father!” Jasmine cut in, sharp but filial, a whistle through snow.

For his daughter’s sake, Layne forced a change, a shift like a cart to a smoother road. “We heard you led by example,” he said stiffly. “With the ancient honor and uprightness of the Celestial Spirits, you vouched for Lance in danger. Permit me, as mentor and friend, to offer sincere thanks.”

“Hmph!” Vivian snorted, not buying it, a spark off ice.

At last, the Blazing Sun Knight’s blazing gaze settled on Lance. “Yo, kid! Long time no see. Got stronger, huh? Hahaha!”

His hand landed too hard, a hammer on Lance’s shoulder, warm and painful as sunlight on ice.

It hurt, but Lance smiled, bowing to old fire. “Not really. It’s thanks to your teaching, sir. I’ll keep getting stronger.”

“Good! Good!” Layne’s laugh rolled down Flower Street like thunder over hills, big and clean.

Their catching up with that iron-boned Earth Knight lasted ten minutes, quick as a kettle’s boil.

It was noon. In the afternoon, Lance faced the selection trials of the Knight Festival. Before parting, Layne had words for Lance and Jasmine, like stones he needed set down.

“That view’s nice,” he said, pointing toward the river, voice softening like tea. “Your Highness won’t mind if I take my girl and this kid to walk and talk?”

“Alright. I’ll head back to the palace,” Alice said, a swan’s nod.

“If anything comes up, you can find me at the consulate,” Vivian added, cool as a veil.

The three walked the riverside side of Maple City’s Flower Street, the air thin and people few, cold keeping them like leaves clinging to branches. Before them lay the Snow River, winter-wide and solemn.

Sheets of floe drifted slow across the surface, white rafts on steel water.

Celestial Spirits’ icebreakers nosed through the floes, cautious as foxes on frozen ponds.

Colliding ice sent up cold mist, steam that bit, a ghost rising from water.

They sank into the scenery, minds quieted, words forgotten like footprints covered by fresh snow.

Lance spoke first, voice steady as a plume. “Mentor, say it. If it’s a task the Blazing Fire Knight can do, I won’t fail.”

Layne looked briefly embarrassed, scratching the back of his head, a bear suddenly shy. “Since when does a mentor ask a disciple?” he said, yet his tone firmed, iron under frost.

“After the accountability hearing, the Iron Duke’s position has worsened,” he continued, eyes on ice like a man reading cracks.

Other dukes, citing poor defense, cut or halted aid to Mubay City, a river dammed while army costs stayed high. The blow was brutal, winter on a field.

Hearing bad news, Lance lowered his head, heavy as a rain-soaked cloak. “I see…”

After a few seconds, the old knight faltered, words catching like twigs. “If possible… if possible—Lance, if you win the Knight Festival, you’ll get a big bounty, right?”

“Yeah,” Lance said, honest as clear water. “What is it?”

Even heroes bend before coin; Layne swallowed pride like bitter tea. “I hope you’ll share some of that bounty, to aid Mubay in its hardship.”

Lance fell silent, a stone in a stream, then asked, “Is this the duke’s wish?”

“No. It’s mine, only mine,” Layne said, shoulders square, spruce in wind.

“What do I get?” Lance asked, practical as a craftsman’s rule.

“Rest easy. You’ll return home in glory,” Layne said, with a smile like sun on iron.

Lance thought, then gave a bitter smile. “How can I refuse that?”

“Mentor, it’s the eve of the selection trials. You didn’t come just to say this, did you?”

“Of course not. One more thing…” Layne’s eyes went back to the floating ice, then, wary, to his treasured daughter. He chose to speak anyway, words like a blade unsheathed. “Kid, you remember the Recitation Scroll, right?”

“The Recitation Scroll?” Lance asked, the name rising like a remembered scent.

Jasmine leaned in, curiosity bright as a cat’s eye, unaware of the storm that had toppled candles and chatter at Alice’s birthday banquet.

“Yeah. Actually…” Layne flicked a glance at Lance, a spark of permission in his eyes, then skimmed the tale like a stone across a dark pond.

“This kid’s elder brother had a wolf’s hunger,” Layne said, voice flat as iron, “and tried to smear him with an uncertified memory‑inscribed scroll.”

“There was something like that?” Jasmine’s eyes went round as twin moons, pity pooling in them like rain on glass as she looked at Lance.

The look had no malice, yet pity stung like cold wind on an old scar, and it needled Lance.

He laced his fingers behind his head, casual as a leaf on a stream. “So it’s just a forged scroll thing, right?”

Layne shook his head, the motion like a judge’s gavel. “Lance, afterward the Iron Duke sent mages to pry into the barkeep who left that memory on the scroll—sad to say, the scroll was real.”

Jasmine’s eyes flew wider, her glasses slipping like a startled bird. “No! Lance would never do that—there has to be a mistake!”

Her storm rose, but Lance stayed smooth as still water. “So? I promised to aid Mubay. Are you planning to dredge up the charge and arrest me as a molester?”

Layne’s eyes widened, confusion hitting like a snapped bowstring. “Kid, how’d you get there?”

“I never doubted you!” The seasoned man’s voice struck like a drum, then softened as a hearth. “But something’s off.”

“What’s off?”

“We dug and dug, but never found the young married woman you ‘tailed’…” Layne paused, words hanging like frost. “In fact, there’s no trace of her in Mubay City at all.”

That pricked Lance’s interest like a thorn, but doubt still shadowed him. “No gaps in the records? You know Mubay’s flow is a river—”

He tossed out the usuals like pebbles in a sack—faked ledgers, bribed guards, blind corners in the search—common flaws born of a hundred past lives’ worth of mess.

“Kid, why’re you always butting the same tree like a stubborn ram?” Layne sighed, then rolled on, voice steady as a plow. “Sure, the mages considered all that…”

He gave up on the weeds. “Anyway, that woman appeared from thin air and vanished into it.”

After so many cuts, Lance finally felt the shape Layne meant. “Don’t tell me—”

“No ‘don’t tell me.’” Layne sliced clean, voice like steel. “The Iron Duke’s Silverwing Mage Corps concluded this—”

“That young woman was very likely the mysterious vampire who wreaked havoc across the district that day.”

“And our half‑year hunt wasn’t for nothing. We’ve pinned her to Maple City.” The Earth Knight’s fist fell like a hammer; the railing stone flowered with spiderweb cracks.

Lance—or rather, Fulin within him—felt her heart splinter like that pillar, the sudden news slamming like hail against stained glass.

“Did ‘Fulin’ start moving before I awoke? No…” Guesses crashed like waves in Fulin’s sea‑tossed mind, flashing and breaking.

She had no proof, yet she clung to it like a lantern in fog. “No. That young woman couldn’t be me. It must be someone else.”

Fulin’s tangle wrote itself across Lance’s face. Layne’s broad palm landed on his shoulder like a steadying stone, heavy yet warm. “What’s wrong, kid? Hear that and get scared?”

Fulin snapped free of the undertow and slipped back into the mask. “Scared? I’m the Blazing Fire Knight.”

“How could I fear a mere Blood Clan leech?” Lance’s posture caught the sun like a blade, the look of a man who doesn’t know fear—or a brave one who steps through it.

Layne’s laugh cracked like thunder. “Ha!”

It chilled a beat later, a north wind over steel. “Kid, the Silverwing follow‑ups say she’s not just good at hiding. She’s strong, and she’s sly.”

His words painted venom like a serpent in reeds, and the sky seemed to lower like lead on a cold river, the world dimming edge to edge.

Then the iron in his gaze gentled, a lantern behind frost. A rare warmth rose.

“Maybe your father should say this,” Layne said, weight in every word like stones in a cairn. “So listen well.”

“The Knight Festival’s result doesn’t matter. I just want you to come out alive.”

“After all, the tribulation flames are meant to birth hope.”

“And there are hands that will try to snuff that hope like fingers pinching a candle.”

“Lance Morrison, beware. Don’t let the Dark God’s claws crush that hope.”

His heavy, earnest charge faded like an echo in a hall. Jasmine stared, eyes bright, a hand over her parted lips, awe like starlight. “Dad, you can say stuff like that?”

Her praise tugged a grin out of Layne, a seam splitting armor. “Hahaha! Brother Murphy says that about the kid all the time.”

“Ehh—?” Jasmine’s dismay wilted like a flower in a draft, her earlier reverence scattered like dry leaves.

The seasoned knight felt his stock drop like a stone and coughed to smooth the waves. “Anyway. Whether it’s you, kid, or you, Jasmine—”

“My comrades and I are bound by orders, and we can’t be everywhere.”

“This Knight Festival—be careful.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Jasmine’s reply was simple and sincere, a bow of bamboo in wind.

“Relax. I’m the Blazing Fire Knight.” Lance’s answer flared with heat, words like a drawn bow, certain and unshakable. “If she shows, in the name of the God of Victory, I’ll put her down myself.”

Of course, that wasn’t his true aim, because—

“I will live a quiet life.” Fulin swore it inwardly, like planting a sapling in calm earth.

But Heaven seldom heeds wishes. In a tower’s sealed chamber, a pair of blood‑red eyes watched the café’s scene as if through winter glass.

Those crimson eyes were a hunter’s and a trickster’s both—yet they didn’t look directly.

They watched through a crystal orb that shed an ominous black light, like ink bleeding through ice.

“Eye of the Reaper. And… Ear of the Underking.”

The owner of the scarlet gaze murmured the spell‑names, each syllable a cold nail.

Such a scrying art slipped past most wards like fog, no common cantrip at all.

In the chamber, bones were stacked like driftwood, and cold, unnatural flames licked them blue, the fire etching the floor.

The burn traced a circle that birthed a six‑pointed star, its lines crawling with blasphemous script like ants on a tomb.

Now the woman with the blood‑red eyes saw what she wanted, and her sigil dimmed like dusk on snow, the eerie aura thinning like smoke.

In its place, those crimson eyes began to gleam—like rubies set in treasure, like the red moon caught in a wolf pack’s gaze.

Entrancing, yet lethal, the eyes flickered with a shocking scarlet, anger sparking like iron struck on iron.

Her tongue passed her lips without thinking, a blade tasting wind.

Her smile bloomed like a flower and curved like a vulture’s beak. “Lance Morrison, this time, I—Shelika, Third Princess of the Dark Blood Clan—have taken your name to heart.”

“Don’t let me see you grovel too soon, now,” she purred, voice like wine and poison both. “Mmm‑heh‑heh.”