“Now, the second-round selection rite reaches its end—the coals glow white-hot at last!”

“The knight about to carry the flame to pay respects to our great and honored king—”

“Is it this honored fighter from the Silkworm Clan?!”

The afro-haired host’s voice cracked like thunder, and the crowd beyond the crystal sphere swung their gaze to a brown-haired knight. He stood kitted in steel, still as a cliff rising from mist.

“Bedrock Knight, Grett…” In the VIP box of Maple City’s Knight Square, a noble murmured the name, then dipped his chin like a leaf settling.

“Mm. It’s him.” His friend, also a noble, smiled as smooth as porcelain. In Maple City’s circles, no one failed to know Bedrock.

“He’s a Charge Knight too.” He sipped black tea, then touched a silk kerchief to his lip, calm as a lake at dawn. “The Silkworm Clan prizes honor more than we thought.”

“No doubt.” His friend breathed agreement, and their whispers rustled like grass in wind.

The rest of the titled lords did the same. Their voices stayed low, their eyes solemn, like men discussing a shadow under moonlight.

But another entrance rolled in like surf, and cheers from the common seats washed over the hush like a breaking tide.

“The once-unknown, now the talk of Maple City—”

“Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison!”

Host and townsfolk roared together, a bonfire leaping in one breath.

By rights, Lance Morrison shouldn’t win a city’s favor. Smoke-stained rumors trailed him like ash.

“He” colluded with the Feng Wolf Marquis. “He” burned the Golden Flower Marquis’s courtyard to charcoal.

“He” walked with the lowly. “He” shamed his childhood sweetheart in public, like a blade drawn in the square.

And yet—

“Lance! Lance!”

This so-called gutter-rat drew such a cry because of what he showed that day in full sun.

Cracks webbed his armor like dried riverbeds. His clothes were torn like storm flags. Faded dark red stained him in patches, the color of old rust. His gaze held a wild tilt, like a stray star. In his hand, he gripped—

The Sirius Sword, forever wreathed in roaring flame.

“Lance! Lance!”

The Doran Kingdom honors old knightly bone. No one doubts a youth who bleeds like iron in rain.

Lance had hacked through thorns to reach this step. The crowd had watched, breath by breath.

He was battered, yes. But his stride still swaggered like a wolf on a ridge. His smirk still flicked like a spark.

“Out of my way.” Under every eye, he mounted the dueling dais, each step a hammer on iron.

An altar stood before the platform. He set his torch upon it with a lazy hand, like placing a stone on a cairn.

Another torch already burned there—his opponent’s flame, steady as an oil lamp.

“Heh. So you’re the Blazing Fire Knight they whisper about?”

The townsfolk had no heart to cheer the Bedrock Knight, and the reason was simple as dust.

Bedrock reached this stage without a scratch, like a cart rolling downhill. Set against Lance’s scars, Grett’s unmarked sheen looked like a stain of its own.

He leaned on the Silkworm Clan and didn’t bother to hide it. “I’ve heard about you. A prodigy, are you?”

Lance said nothing. Silence hung like a drawn bow. It wasn’t surrender. He didn’t know the man. He had no use for spare words.

Grett tasted that silence and called it weakness. His tongue grew longer, like ivy on stone. “Ten years ago, I was called a prodigy too—”

Lance lifted his blade and pointed, the motion clean as lightning. “Cut the crap. If you’re surrendering, do it clean.”

The crowd exploded like a pot at boil.

To taunt so bluntly—against a Silkworm Clan honor knight—drew gasps sharp as winter air.

Grett’s temper twitched, but his voice wore pity like a painted mask. “Ten years ago I was a Charge Knight. I still am. You’ll end as I did, shackled by ‘mediocrity’ like iron around the ankle.”

“You’ll lose.” His sword rose, steady as a gatepost.

“Not a sure thing,” Lance said, voice cool as a stream.

“Even if I’m ‘Bedrock’?”

At that word, the spectators fell still, like cicadas in frost.

Outside the VIP and common seats, a family section waited like a quiet garden. Lance’s companions gathered there. His mentor, Layne, watched the crystal sphere with tight jaw and stormed eyes—his first crack of worry since morning.

Jasmine felt unease pool in her stomach, like rain in a bowl. “Father, what’s wrong? What about ‘Bedrock’?”

She’d trained as a mage since entering the Academy. The affairs of knights were mist on a distant hill.

For once, Layne kept his poise in front of his daughter. His tone warmed like a hearth, yet stayed firm as a staff. “My Jasmine, do you know how knights are ranked?”

She recited like reading from a tablet. “By how many Battle Aura Stones they can light. Charge, Earth, Sky, and Sun.”

“Since both Lance and Bedrock are Charge Knights, their strength is even, right?” She tipped her head, then grinned, playful as a cat. “Plus—Lance earned certification at the Magic Academy. He’s a knight and a proper mage. The other guy’s only a knight. No way Lance loses, right?”

Layne only shook his head with a bitter smile, like a man tasting cold tea.

Jasmine puffed her cheeks, a small thundercloud gathering. “So I’m wrong?”

Layne kept that same rueful smile, thin as smoke.

The Mountain Wind Knight yawned, lazy as a breeze through pine. “You’re not wrong, my lady.”

“See?” Jasmine straightened, her confidence blooming like peony.

“But only the last bit is right,” Mountain Wind added, pricking the balloon with a fingertip.

The ever-composed prefect flushed, temper flaring like a struck match. “Why? They’re both Charge Knights. How can there be a gap?”

“There is,” Mountain Wind nodded, then spread his hands in a helpless wave. “But that’s not what I mean, my lady.”

“Then what?”

“Forms of Battle Aura,” said Alice, the Iron Duke’s daughter. She had watched the screen in calm silence, a moon in a clear pond, until now.

Jasmine’s brows knit like threads. “You mean Lance’s abilities get countered?”

“Put simply, that kid Grett’s aura will choke how Lance fights, like mud around a root.”

“The Silkworm lot!” The Feng Wolf Marquis jumped like oil in a hot pan, curses spilling like sparks.

“So now you see,” Grett called across the dais, voice smooth as polished stone. “I don’t know what spells you learned, but with just a knight’s tools, you can’t win.”

“So what?” Lance’s reply was dry as flint. “I’ve heard that line a thousand times.”

“Poor youth. If you want to claw back your foolish Feng Wolf Marquis’s assets, you might try the front lines like your father. There’s a glimmer there. Here, striking at the Silkworm Clan? That’s pure stupidity.”

“Heh.”

The on-site judge looked between them, hands trembling like reeds in wind. He raised one arm high. “In the presence of the great Light Deity and our King—salute and declare!”

“For the honor of the Silkworm Clan, I’ll make this wretch pay,” Grett intoned, voice cold as stone.

“I’m the Blazing Fire Knight. I’ll win,” Lance said, his words a coal that wouldn’t die.

The judge checked the panel, caught a nod from the arbiter’s box, then cried like a bell. “Duelists, ready!”

The storm of noise fell away at once, a curtain dropped. Afternoon sun split the gray roof of cloud and laid a pale blade across the stage.

“Begin!”