The Doran Kingdom rose from war’s rubble, a nation once fallen and rebuilt on ash and echoing steel.

To move forward, you let the pain thaw like winter frost, but you keep the lesson like a scar beneath armor.

So a grand rite wrapped in dreamlike legends took shape, like lanterns along a river guiding weary pilgrims home.

“What a beautiful crystal sword!” The palace’s Knight Festival grounds sprawled like half a racetrack, lantern-bright and vast. Tens of thousands stepped in, eyes swept away by the ornamented blade displayed at dead center like a shard of dawn.

“Gorgeous, sure. Shame only the loser gets to lift it.” One revival tale told of the Sun Knight Taylor and his loyal Nightmoon Knight—she was Blood Clan in human guise, a shadow among torches, who confessed on the eve of victory and was defeated by Taylor.

“That’s the kind of romance where duty and love duel under the moon.”

“Hmph. Who knows. Either way, only the final loser grips that sword.”

“Hey! Leon, why do you always sound like you’re trying not to charm anyone?”

“None of your business!” Their bickering was a small ripple in a vast tide, lost among couples, comrades, spouses, and strangers sharing a single morning.

The holiday clamor should’ve been a bright market of voices, but two sudden surges broke the music like cold wind through flags.

“No one knows Doran better than Dylan!”

“No one fears for the kingdom’s future more than Gio!”

Two campaign crowds rolled in like twin thunderheads, meeting in the middle by accident and fate.

Their chants swelled past the sound of play. When neither side could drown the other, publicity turned to quarrel, then to poisoned words, and the morning—briefly clear and blue for Maple City—drew on its winter-gray veil again.

Thankfully, a voice full of heat tossed a rope to the mood and hauled it back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the once-in-a-decade Knight Festival! Wooo!” The announcer with the explosive afro descended into the air above the central altar, every gesture loud as cymbals.

He struck a pose under a spellborn spotlight, a prism of colors, and drifted down from a hot-air balloon like a gaudy bird.

He looked ready to land like a hero out of a mural, then slipped on touch-down. Face-first. The crowd burst into laughter like shaken bells.

He popped up, flustered yet polite, then shouted himself hoarse. “First, let’s welcome the four knights who advanced from the Selection Rites!”

“No surprise! From the very first round he crushed the field. From the kingdom’s Sand Bay, the Earth Rank Knight—Sandshade!”

His finger cut the air. The spotlight flared brighter than noon, sliding over to a cluster dressed in the Sand People’s gear. From them stepped a golden-haired man, skin sun-browned, aura wrapped in strange currents.

“I’m Sandshade from Sand Bay. Glad to meet you all.” His presence hit like dry thunder. His voice matched his age and stance. His style had the Sand folks’ bold laugh and the Republic’s warm blaze.

After a brief introduction, he grinned like a desert hawk. “I’ve heard a prodigy rose in Doran. I hope he doesn’t disappoint me. Try not to yield too fast to my Mirage Sand, haha!”

In Sand Bay, a knight is a mercenary with a badge—testing yourself against famous blades is the quickest ladder through dust and rank.

Sandshade’s vulture-sharp gaze slid over to Lance, talon-light and exact.

The announcer swung with it and let his tone break into cheers. “Against the odds, he survived a perilous second round to rise on top! A Charge Rank Knight from Wood Bay, the Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison!”

The light crossed, and Lance vaulted onto a platform like a spark leaping a log. “I’m the Blazing Fire Knight, Lance. I’m taking the win here!”

“Lance! Lance!” The crowd rolled his name like surf.

“And the winner of the third round of the Selection Rites—from His Majesty’s Golden Legion—an Earth Rank Knight, Hardsteel!”

“Hey there. Most of you know me, so I’ll keep it short.” He wore plate harness humming with Battle Aura, a frame broader than the last two, a presence like a cliff.

“What—he’s Hardsteel?!” The words Golden Legion lit the crowd like torches; the name Hardsteel drew awe like ironsong.

“I heard the Golden Legion’s the strongest of His Majesty’s elite orders.”

“And Hardsteel’s their captain!”

“But he’s a staunch supporter of Dylan…”

Before the announcer could finish and while murmurs churned, the knight with the plain voice cut clean and stern. “I have one request: vote for the next king.”

“If you want a prosperous Doran to keep blooming, give your precious vote to Prince Dylan.”

A knot tightened in the air. Eyes drifted to Lance, widely seen as Prince Gio’s blade and mouthpiece, but he held his tongue like a closed fan.

Awkwardness spread like cold dew. Confusion hung like mist.

Before that chill could settle, the announcer rushed a fresh drumroll and introduced the last contender.

This entry was a curve in the road.

“Of noble birth, from the Heavenly Spirit Empire—an Earth Rank Knight of the Celestial Race, swift and dazzling—Thunderlight!”

Just as billed, a Celestial Spirit woman knight stepped into the light, elegant as a river reed and sharp as a thunderline.

But no male cheers broke, no jealous gasps rose. Only a heavier silence wrapped the plaza like unspun wool.

“I thought the Knight Festival marks the kingdom’s restoration…”

“And wasn’t the previous dynasty torn by the Empire—”

“Shh. Quiet.”

Celestial Spirit is the umbrella term—Celestial Race, elves, and titans under one sky. The Celestial Race’s bloodline is distinct: ash-pale skin, light-gold hair, and an innate power that chills the spine of any thinking creature. They call themselves noble scions, born to rule.

“Feel honored by my presence, humans of Doran.” Thunderlight spoke with a pride sharpened to a blade, her retainers lifting her words like banners.

No one, not even the announcer, dared breathe loud.

Her arrival wasn’t pure surprise.

“The Feng Wolf Knight donated a great fortune to the Empire’s founding, and his descendants seek to reclaim it…” Thunderlight’s tone carried dislike like frost under silk.

“Luckily, the Feng Wolf Knight’s will says only an upright, powerful knight may enjoy that inheritance…” Her pale-gold eyes, brimming with a unique force, skimmed over Lance like a dragonfly touching water.

Lance felt the weight in that glance; power coiled there like stormwire. He nudged the Feng Wolf Marquis with a half-grin. “So she’s the witness you found?”

The Marquis shook his head fast. “No, no. Mr. Wenger is over there watching—huh? Where is he?”

Panic bit him. “Damn. I knew it would go sideways!”

The Second Prince, in plain clothes, patted his shoulder like a steadying hand on a horse’s neck.

“Your Highness?!”

“Calm down,” the prince said, a bitter curve to his mouth. “She’s not here for your family’s inheritance. She’s here for my brother.”

“Ah… so that’s it.” The Marquis sank, a little more hollow, like snow after sun.

“Wait, what are you two talking about?” Jeremy, a former mercenary, scratched his head like a puzzled mutt.

“Hopeless idiot.” Yuna’s look mixed disgust and pity; she pushed up her glasses, then closed her eyes and spoke softly. “Prince Dylan is seen as the conservative candidate. The conservatives are whispered about as the ‘sell-out’ faction. They argue for ceding more national interests to the Empire to keep prosperity.”

“Oh? Oh.” Jeremy nodded, half-understanding, like a man listening through rain.

“In short, if Lance wants to win, he has to beat her.” The Second Prince added the nail to the plank.

“That’s easy!” Jeremy lit up like a boy spotting fireworks.

“Ha.” The prince’s laugh was weary smoke. “The Celestial Race excels in magic. Thunderlight’s also a rare Battle Aura talent among them. Her Battle Aura sits at Earth Tier. Add her magic, and she’s close to Sky Rank.”

“S-Sky Rank…” Jeremy went pale like ash blown from a brazier.

“So, Lance.” The cautious royal turned to the young knight, worry like a line between his brows. “Do you have a chance?”

“Of course.” Lance thumbed himself with a grin that sparked. “There’s nothing I, Lance, can’t do.”

The duel isn’t the only rite. Before noon’s blade fell, the festival sang and danced, flowers floating like a spring storm.

People’s warmth made time forget the chill waiting beyond the gate.

Soon, as petals drifted down in a slow rain, sternness arrived like a hard winter line.

“First duel: Sandshade versus Thunderlight. Second duel: Hardsteel versus the Blazing Fire.”

“The third and final bout will see the two winners clash for the crown of the day.”