Even in that sea of yellow dunes, Fulin still scraped together “food” for Shelika, like a scavenger picking pearls from a dead tide.

“Eat, and do it quick. Don’t dawdle,” Fulin urged, her voice like sand hissing against tin.

“I… I…” Shelika faltered, her throat tight like a knot in dry reeds.

Laid before her sat a grand desert game platter, a grim feast set like bones on a sun-bleached altar.

Sand rats, vultures, and jackals piled together, with a few larger beasts weighing it down like dark stones.

The bodies hadn’t rotted, but the stench rose like hot tar, a stink bred in life and not washed by death.

To a noble palate of the Blood Clan, raised on crystal goblets and clean veins, it was unbearable as ash on the tongue.

So she asked again, soft as a torn veil, “Could we find humans instead? I really can’t.”

For the Blood Clan, it should’ve been a proper request, a law written like a red moon on black water.

It only stoked Fulin’s anger, like a spark dropped into dry grass.

She couldn’t hold back the disgust clawing up from her chest, and she slapped Shelika hard, sharp as a wind-whipped flag.

Then she hauled Shelika up by the neck and shouted, voice cracking like thunder over flat sand, “Do you know how hard it was to find this ‘food’?”

“I searched the whole damned wasteland,” she spat, words like thrown stones across a well.

“I yanked those cursed rodents up from the earth, one by one, like roots torn from clay.”

“I shot the birds out of the sky, feather by feather, because they refused to land under this dead sun.”

“I scraped together ten full liters for you, like jars filled from a dry spring, and now you say you won’t eat?”

“N-no, that’s not—” Shelika almost broke into sobs, the sound thin as a cracked flute.

Fulin didn’t care, and she slapped her again, the blow dropping her into the sand like a torn banner.

She leveled the Sirius Sword at Shelika’s dirt-streaked cheek, the blade cold as moonlight through smoke. “If you don’t eat, I’ll carry your corpse instead.”

“I… I’ll eat now,” Shelika whispered, hunger gnawing like a rat in the ribs and fear heavy as a collar.

She put aside the pride of the Dark Blood Clan, and she went down like a house dog to the floor of dust.

She lunged like a fly at the stench, and she fed like a maggot, ugly as rot blooming in shade.

Fulin bit her finger as she watched, her eyes gleaming like glass catching firelight, and she enjoyed it.

She could’ve drawn the blood clean from the animals, poured it into a vessel, and let Shelika dine with a shred of grace.

She simply didn’t.

“Master, that’s too much,” Yuna murmured, her voice a cool stream against hot stones.

“Shut it,” Fulin snapped, stubborn as a cliff against tides.

“Master, if you do this now, how is it different from her past evils?” Yuna asked, glancing away as if from a broken shrine.

“Spare me the saint’s tears,” Fulin said, blunt as a hammer. “I’m not like her.”

“I’m only chasing a quiet life,” she added, turning her back like a door closing on a storm.

Black mist curled around her like a night cloak, and the Dual Incarnation took hold with a hush like falling ash.

Fulin became Lance again—straight as a spear, cape cutting the wind, and a knight’s blade at his hip like a line of dawn.

“I’m the Blazing Fire Knight, revered by the masses, and I won’t be questioned,” Lance said, voice iron-flat.

Yuna closed her eyes, helpless as a candle snuffed by a draft.

Shelika’s red eyes dimmed like dying coals, and she stared at the boy’s back as if it were a greater beast in winter fog.

Then she bowed her head and kept eating, as if gnawing through night to see a weaker dawn.

When the desert platter dwindled to a withered heap, Lance faced the blowing grit and pointed into the wind like a compass on fire.

“Let’s go,” he said, words crisp as flint striking steel.

Yuna couldn’t see past the dust storm, her gaze smudged like ink in rain, so she followed the line of his finger into a yellow haze.

“Where are we going?” Unease fluttered in her chest like a bird trapped behind shutters.

Lance unfolded a map, the parchment fluttering like a dry leaf. “We’re in Shawan, and these inland dust storms ride the sea wind.”

“Head into the wind, and we’ll find the busy beaches, bright as a golden shore after rain.”

“Then we hitch a ride to Shawan City, smooth as a sail catching the right breeze.”

Yuna steadied at once, her breath like a lake settling after a tossed stone. “Understood, my master.”

Shelika stared into the direction he indicated, words dying in her throat like frost on a reed, and she followed in silence.

After three hours of trudging sand, they broke out of Shawan’s inland desert and met the coast like a curtain lifting on gold.

The beach shone brilliant and alluring, grains like scattered coins under a mild sea wind brushing their faces.

Soft grit shifted underfoot like warm silk, crisscrossed by hoofprints and wheel tracks rolling west like rivers of iron.

A downwind carriage pulled up right before them, timely as a gull landing at tide.

“Ride, mate? Ten copper fa for the leg,” the driver called, cheerful as a bell on a market morning.

He saw the two girls behind the boy, and a frown pinched his face like a knot drawn tight.

“Oh no, mate, forget I said it. Goodbye,” he blurted, tugging reins like a man yanking a door shut on smoke.

“What’s wrong? Seventeen copper fa, then,” Lance said, thinking coins could grease any hinge in the wind.

The driver hesitated, worry crawling like ants under a collar. “Mate, you’re in Shawan. You dare take girls out on a ride?”

“What do you mean?” Lance asked, confusion flickering like a shadow crossing a lantern.

The driver didn’t explain. “I don’t want trouble. If you’re headed to the central city, find a heavily armed convoy.”

He cracked the whip and rolled off, dust rising behind him like a pale ghost.

Lance turned. “Yuna, do you know what’s going on?”

“No, my lord, I don’t,” Yuna said, the words clean as a blade, even from her days with the Raven Gang.

Lance faced Shelika. “I command you. Tell me about this place.”

Shelika, long a hidden hand behind Doran’s fate, knew a thread or two, like a spider feeling tremors on silk.

“Shawan and the Mephis Republic share a lineage, and a titan of finance from the Republic dodged war by ‘donating’ his way into Shawan’s ducal seat.”

“Since then, the local vices have only grown, like weeds swallowing a gate.”

Lance remembered the Knight Festival and a name rang like a bell in fog. “You mean Mr. Morick?”

Shelika shook her head, slow as a willow in a weak breeze. “He’s a true noble of the Kingdom, only a duke in name here.”

“All right,” Lance said, regret falling like ash, and he yielded. “We’ll wait for a fully armed big wagon.”

Traffic rolled by like a river of brass, but armored merchant wagons were rare as rain in drought.

Carts that carried expensive living cargo were scarce on the Doran Highway, no more than one a day under open sky.

So they waited hours, while the sun tipped toward the sea like a coin rolling off a table’s edge.

At last a caravan of salt merchants arrived, white sacks stacked like dunes on wheels.

A few rough men climbed down, trouble stamped on their faces like scars cut in oak. “Want aboard? One silver fa coin!”

They bent fast after the clink of three silver fa, smiles slick as oil on water. “Heh, customer is God.”

On the road they served tea and snacks, the cups breathing steam like ghosts in the evening air. “Young master, you headed to Shawan City too?”

Too greasy by half, Lance tried one bite, then set it down like a stone in sand. “Yeah, ran into bad luck on the way.”

They widened their eyes at the two beauties beside him, their stares like hooks under silk. “Then be careful in the central city.”

Lance didn’t hide it; he drew the Sirius Sword an inch, its edge a cold star in a leather night. “I will.”

By night, the city burned with lamps like constellations fallen to earth, and they parted from the salt caravan with brief words.

Before they found an inn, a pack of mercenary-looking thugs ringed them, closing in like wolves around a lone fire.

“Listen up, kid, the two girls are ours,” their leader barked, strutting under the streetlights like a rooster on a wall.