Though the kingdom had no so-called “Seventh Legion,” no one on the pier doubted the sight; even the company clerks chasing a quick end to this risky gig sighed like surf, “No wonder he’s the Blazing Fire Knight—he brought a squad with the swagger of a true legion.”

So the company staff took the land route home, a ribbon of dust fading under sunset; the Imperial knights, duty done guarding the Empire’s face, wheeled their steel and left the harbor like gulls lifting off.

The gigantic ship squatting over the central port of Shawan had a pretty name, a slice of sky and jade: the Emerald Firmament.

With Lance bringing reliable hands, everything felt in season; the Emerald Firmament set sail, until sky-blue and sea-blue merged at the horizon, that thin line swallowed by light.

After departure, Lance expected trouble to cling like barnacles; instead, the days felt lighter than he’d guessed, like a breeze over calm water.

By day, Lance drilled the “Seventh Legion,” pointing Krick and the others to grind on the sunlit deck, a showpiece for the Celestial Spirits, and a slow return to the steel they’d had as Republic soldiers.

In the afternoon, Lance climbed the lookout of the Emerald Firmament, taking the soft salt wind on his face; he watched waves slap the hull and set up a beach chair, catching a short, quiet hour that felt like shade under a lone pine.

At dusk, he sometimes helped in the galley, steam and spice rising like mist; more often it went like now—

“Watch this—Secret Sword Blazing Fire!” He cast punishment like a red comet at the sea tribes that shadowed the ship all day, claws on the rails, hungry for flesh, and he burned them back in front of everyone.

“This is the kingdom knight who beat the thunder—his name isn’t empty!” The Celestial Spirits treated it as after-tea spectacle, their praise fluttering like paper fans.

“No wonder he’s the Blazing Fire Knight!” The show of force deepened the “Seventh Legion’s” trust in him; Krick and the rest grew eager, like sparks taking dry wood.

After a lively, golden dusk came a night like still water.

“Silent sky, quiet earth, a calm sea, and a gentle moon.” Fulin would drop her avatar at midnight, winging up ten thousand meters, alone with the world’s hush, making it a ritual to close a lovely day.

Of course, life on the Emerald Firmament wasn’t always this placid; sometimes the sea heaved like a beast, then smoothed again like silk.

“We’re very sorry—truly sorry—no offense meant, please accept our apology!” Krick and the three officers of the “Seventh Legion,” with two soldiers in tow, knelt before a woman of the Celestial Race, their voices trembling like reeds in wind.

Those two were Republic-born. For many reasons, women stood low in the Republic—heavy labor and brutal war shut them out, and worse, crude customs treated women like property, a stain like oil on water.

So when they passed the dining hall after a meal and saw men and women sharing a table, even after repeated training, filth spilled out by habit; a keen-eared Celestial Spirit heard it, and they had to pay the price like frost biting an unguarded sprout.

“If you do it again, I’ll toss you into the sea,” Krick snapped, his voice like a whip crack over dark water.

It wasn’t just small frictions between the “Seventh Legion” and the ship’s Celestial Spirits; Shelika, third princess of the Dark Blood Clan, was hardly “well-behaved.”

Half a month at sea, she kept trying to contact her homeland; she sketched escape after escape across the waves, plans like nets thrown at the moon.

Every time, Fulin caught her, then hung her from the mast, ropes creaking under moonlight like cold strings.

“I was wrong, sob-sob-sob…” Shelika would mewl, but Fulin’s heart stayed iron, and the hanging lasted the whole night; before the morning sun turned her to powder like ash from a kiln, Lance would drag her inside by the arm.

For Fulin, that still wasn’t the worst of it; the real tangle was the Imperial upper crust, who loved to disembark at every coastal city to “inspect,” not to tour.

Scholars in long coats waved their hands like flags, ordering the “Seventh Legion” to escort them ashore and assist the inspection.

Politics stayed out of it, but they counted everything—population, security, income—details like grains of sand; Krick and the others were out of their depth, and the road kept throwing bandits, mercenaries, and monsters, claws in the brush and eyes in the dark.

In the end, Lance did the heavy lifting, steel flashing in narrow alleys, and he grew tired of it, like a man chewing grit.

The most unruly of the lot was a little girl of the Celestial Race who claimed to be royal-born.

She claimed it, yet when Lance asked about the royal house, she answered one blank after another, not faking it, just empty as a shell at low tide.

And she ate Lance’s private time like a small, smiling whirlpool; if the inspectors took four parts, she took the other six.

“Brother, brother—play with me,” she’d coo at every new port, sticking to Lance like a starfish, dragging him ashore to amuse her, stuffing local sweets in her mouth until her cheeks shone.

To be honest, Lance was fed up; more than once he wanted to toss her into the sea like a stubborn crab.

But the little alien was too cute, and she wore the Empire’s upper-class sheen like silk, so his hand wouldn’t move; he swallowed his temper and let her ride his head, daylight wasted like rain on sand.

Half a month slid by like foam on the tide.

The Caribbean Travel Company’s risky coastal tour of Doran reached its end.

Tomorrow, the Emerald Firmament would shift from sail to sky, lift off and fly back to the Empire, a great bird breaking cloud.

Thinking that, Lance let out a deep breath, relief spilling like warmth from a cup.

In his cabin, he lay on a soft fur bed, the day’s fatigue dissolving like salt in hot tea.

“Good moon tonight.” He turned toward the window; below deck, the hall’s grand ball thumped like drums, noise needling his calm, so he looked back at the moonlight and thought, “Should I drop the avatar and ease my mood?”

Just then, a crisp knock sounded at the door, knock-knock like pebbles on wood.

“Who is it?” Lance didn’t remember calling anyone at this hour, the thought passing like a shadow under lantern light.

If he remembered right—

Krick and the “Seventh Legion” should be on the lowest deck, turning the Celestial Spirits’ leftovers into delicacies, drinking and howling like wolves at the moon.

Yuna was in the next room, tallying accounts, ink scratching like rain, recording every expense and any detail worth a report.

Shelika was still on the mast, praying the damp night wind would rinse some schemes off her bones, sticky as sea air.

No one should be here at this time, so Lance’s guard rose like a blade.

He got up, took the Sirius Sword, spread his Battle Aura like a ripple through the room, and stacked defensive spells like stones around a fire.

Once set, Lance opened the door.

He sighed. “It’s you.”

Annoyance, and the wish not to be annoyed, weighed in his chest like a wet cloak.

“Do you hate me, brother?”

“No.” He was fed up but not disgusted, like an adult humoring the neighbor’s troublemaking child. “It’s late. Kids should sleep.”

“Okayyy.” Saying that, before Lance could shut the door, the little alien pat-pattered in, hopped onto the freshly made fur bed, hugged a pillow, and struck a pose like a cat on warm tiles.

“So naughty you don’t even leave me a place to sleep?” Lance looked on, helpless, a sigh slipping out like steam.

“Don’t you react at all?” Seeing him just sit in the leather chair, the girl popped up, pouting like a pink cloud.

“What reaction—like tossing you out to feed the fish?”

“You—you—you—ya!” She stood on the bed to blow up, slipped on the fur, and a shower of fluff flew like snow; “achoo, achoo,” she sneezed, then pat-pattered straight to Lance.

He thought she’d start complaining about nothing, a storm in a teacup, but—

“Blazing Fire Knight, do you think Doran is fine the way it is?” she asked, suddenly serious, her eyes calm as a still pool.