Fulin had thought she’d gotten used to Nordland’s odd folkways, like a stone worn smooth by wind.

Then she heard about Shawan—women ranked low, treated as the property of whoever held power—and surprise bit cold, like rain stabbing embers.

Surprise or not, Fulin, wearing the mask of Lance, tightened her will like a drawn bow and stepped to meet the trouble in front of her.

The soldiers kept shouting. “Hey! You hear me?! Hand over the girl!”

Outnumbered or not, Lance stood like a mountain that ignores storm. “What if I say no?”

Steel flashed up like shark fins. “Then don’t blame us for what comes next!”

“Is that so.” Lance stayed casual, like a breeze over grass. Then he roused his Battle Aura, a sun kindling behind his ribs.

“Let me see who greets the Light Deity first!” Light blazed and heat roared. Lance lifted the Sirius Sword, then burst forward like a comet tearing the sky.

“No! We were just—” They blurted prayers to the Wasteland Deity and their courage blew away like dry leaves. They begged, but the young knight left them no gap to slip through.

“Secret Sword—Blazing Fire!”

Heat rolled down the street like a wave. A dozen blackened bodies dropped, brittle as burnt branches.

“Impossible. The kid’s still alive!” Citizens saw the three—boy and two girls—walk out of the alley whole, and astonishment rose like a tide.

“Let’s go.” Lance didn’t drink in their stares; his voice fell calm, like dust after wind.

“Understood, my master.” Yuna’s tone stayed cold, like frost on jade.

Roadblocks cleared, they took in Shawan’s cityscape. Domed Gothic houses budded like white shells, and lanterns strung the streets like constellations, praising a port’s prosperity.

“Never thought the kingdom had a city like this.” Yuna’s eyes widened, light opening like a fan.

“Is Golden Bay worse than this?” Lance asked, as if watching clouds drift.

“That’s not it.” Yuna shook her head lightly; memory lit her gaze like a hearth. “Feels like the Republic.”

“Mephis Republic?” Lance’s curiosity flicked like a sparrow.

“Yeah. When Father was still here, we went to a city in the Republic once.” Her voice softened, sinking into that warm room called family.

“Do you think the Republic’s a good place?”

“No…” She shook again; emerald eyes dimmed like a lamp in rain, and the warmth snapped like a brittle string. “Father died in the Republic.”

Lance glanced at her, then asked without pity, like a blade that doesn’t bend. “How?”

Yuna closed her eyes, then spoke slow, words heavy as stones. “He was a noble and a diplomat. On a visit, an extremist group called the Republic Resistance assassinated him.”

Lance cocked his head, like an owl. “Republic Resistance?”

Before Yuna could go on, Shelika slipped in, almost idly, like a leaf on a stream. “There’s also the Republic Salvation Society, the Republic Victory Committee… They opposed turning the Republic into a rear defense for the human nations. They pushed for a non-aggression pact with the Gaia Empire.”

Lance snorted, as if scattering ash. “Hmph. Just a clutch of terrorists.”

Shelika shook her head, a hint of praise in her tone like a mirror catching sun. “No. If their movement had won twenty years ago, humans wouldn’t be bleeding so much for nothing.”

“Then your servant’s father wouldn’t have died. He wouldn’t have been strung up in the street by angry crowds helpless before war. He wouldn’t have become a sacrifice to cool Doran and Mephis.”

Yuna said nothing. Her head bowed like a flower under rain.

Lance’s scorn was sharp, a knife’s glint. “If you can’t command your fate, it’s all the same whose hands you fall into.”

Shelika’s retort flared, a torch in wind. “Wrong! They could’ve died with honor, with worth! In the sweet world the Earth Mother foretells, no one bleeds for needless conflict!”

Lance didn’t hide his disgust, a black wave. “Shut up, vile cultist. I don’t want another word.”

Shelika obeyed, her silence settling like snow.

Before Shawan’s night lights guttered out, they reached the inn marked on their route, its signboard hanging like a moon.

Yuna tipped up her gaze. “Master, we’re here.”

Lance matched the guidebook picture to the building, careful as a craftsman. When he was sure, he said, “Let’s go.”

Shelika stayed quiet, a shadow at their heels, and followed them inside.

“Give me a big, comfortable room… Mm-hmm, price? No problem.” Lance handled the clerk with easy rhythm, like tapping a drum.

While he booked, the grand lobby hummed. Predatory eyes sliced toward the two girls behind him like wolves eyeing strays.

A prickle climbed Yuna’s skin, cold as a draft. “Master, should we find another place?”

Lance held firm, stance steady as stone. “The more a place like this, the more you choose a proper, luxurious house.”

The receptionist agreed, admiration shining like lacquer. “Young sir, you’ve got taste.”

Yuna couldn’t win the words, couldn’t wedge in a plea. She consented. The long night slid by like a slow river, and his choice proved right. Another young couple arrived when Lance did—a pair fleeing a noble marriage. The man was beaten to death in the street by the gendarmes, like a drum breaking under fists. The girl was whisked to the ‘duke’s’ manor at once, like a lamb taken from the herd.

The ‘duke’ ordered servants to lash and club her. Before guests he’d specially invited, he publicly “disciplined” the naïve noble girl, cruelty gleaming like ice.

To Lance, the duke’s show was a gauntlet hurled, a shadow trying to darken sun.

The man stayed high and aloof, like a hawk on a cliff. He plucked a few coins flashing gold from a vessel brimming with treasure and scattered them like sparks on the floor. “So, young knight, you’re lucky. I personally invited you to my home.”

Lance looked at the glittering coins, bright as fish scales. Then he looked at the ‘duke,’ gaze flat as iron.

The ‘duke’ read hesitation and pressed with threat, a hook behind silk. “Hand me your two servants. Let them stay in my chambers. When today’s sun sets and tomorrow’s rises, I’ll forget what you did to my soldiers.”

Lance took the gold cup from his hand, movement smooth as a river.

For a breath, the ‘duke’ was joyous, like wine warming blood. He thought he’d tamed another young envoy from Doran’s capital and was about to savor a finer night.

The next instant, Lance capped the man’s head with the cup, clean as a lid falling.

Rage snapped. The ‘duke’ ripped the cup from his eyes and hurled it aside. Then he saw a tide of fire crash toward him, and his good mood broke like glass.

“Blazing Fire Knight, spare me! I didn’t mean it!” he screamed through pain. Two charred bodies lay beside him—his trusted Earth Rank Knights, bought at heavy price—fallen like burnt pillars.

Lance seemed not to hear. He picked up the fallen cup and gathered the scattered treasure back in, piece by piece, like collecting embers.

“Take these as your gift,” he said, stowing the wealth with calm that chilled like night. “I’ll overlook your insult just now.”