After soothing Violet, Lance stepped out of the tent. He lifted his gaze to a chipped moon, a broken jade bowl hung in a sky as still as a dry well.

So—

Cancel the skill. Cancel Dual Incarnation, he whispered, a stone dropped into calm water.

A petite figure slipped free like a cicada shedding its shell.

Mist gathered. She shot upward, a wisp on the wind. Riding a quiet updraft, Fulin hovered against the vault of night.

From that height, the earth shrank to a toy map, every worry a grain of sand.

Night draped everything in ink-black cloth. The world felt hushed, like a pond unruffled by a single ripple.

Fulin watched the land like a lantern-watcher at dusk. A sigh rose first, then the thought followed. When will a quiet life finally be mine?

At first, she’d thought playing “Lance,” playing a Mubay City punk, would buy peace, a leaf in slow water.

She hadn’t guessed that was the first stumble. She drifted to Golden Bay City, and thought a small, well-behaved knight could sink into calm, like a stone into silt.

She hadn’t known Golden Bay City was already snared in a plot to break Doran. She waded in, turned the tide, and told herself—keep going, the lake will still.

One wave after another, and doubt bubbled up. Should I keep going? Should I keep wearing the mask of Lance Morrison?

She shook her head, pushing the ache down first. No. I should keep playing it out.

She nodded, steady as a hinge. The mistake isn’t my choice. The world is what’s crooked, a storm-torn sea.

She drew a long breath, cool as night dew, and lifted her eyes to that broken yet tranquil moon. She closed them. Then they opened—

Fulin Belit, why didn’t you accept her invitation? A voice winged up behind her. Shelika had followed.

As one of the Dark Blood Clan, Shelika flew by simpler means. Bat-like wings unfurled from her back, feather-light beats holding her in place, a moth against the moon.

What invitation? Fulin had known someone shadowed her, but she wondered why this someone hadn’t fled—and why she chose this hour to speak.

Aren’t you wearing the title of Blazing Fire Knight? Don’t you need more stepping stones? That arrogant, unguarded Celestial Spirit princess—doesn’t she fit your twisted wish like a lamb to the altar? Shelika’s words dripped like cold rain.

That barbed tone snagged. I’ll give you one chance to correct your phrasing, Fulin said, voice flat as a blade.

Silence pooled. Shelika lowered her head, the moonlight a pale veil over her hair.

How nice for you. You always get to choose. You have power, like a fortress on a hill. You stay outside the fray, clever as a fox…

And I… have nothing left.

The hurt of it came first; the facts trudged after. Fulin didn’t have time for another’s sorrow, yet the words hooked her curiosity. What do you mean—nothing?

No power. No wisdom. Nothing worth holding onto, Shelika murmured, eyes down, like a candle guttering.

She had lurked in the Kingdom for years, a lone shadow. For her Blood Clan kin in the Dark Spirit Empire. For a queen gripping the helm of a storm-tossed ship. But Belius had said it plain—her work was already ash on the wind.

Aren’t you the one baptized by the World of Night? Why so powerless? Fulin shot back, no pity in the shot.

The baptism exists to herald a savior. It isn’t my private altar. That authority doesn’t smile only on the Blood Clan… Shelika’s meanings trailed like fog down a ravine.

After too much mist and not enough ground, impatience flared, then the pivot. Anyway, aren’t you planning to run tonight?

I’m not, Shelika said, clean as the cut of frost. Do as you please with me.

So you gave up because you can’t help your people anymore?

Something like that. Shelika glanced at Fulin, eyes complicated as braids, then looked down and turned away.

She closed her eyes. Daylight spilled back in her mind—like a prince on a white horse riding out of a dream and into dust and sun.

Once, as a child in a castle greenhouse, before the Dark Spirit Empire’s politics spun like knives, before she became a ruthless Blood Clan noble who bent any means to an end—she had been gentle, simple. She had dreamed, like a girl cupping fireflies.

So now, at this hour, she let a last wish fall in a voice too small for anyone to hear. To be protected by someone… that’s a happiness.

The quiet night thinned and broke.

Dawn bled over the horizon. With first light, Lance woke everyone, his urgency like a drumbeat, and hurried the group onto the road.

Knight, my legs are still sore. Could we— The Celestial Spirits buckled under fatigue first, then gave voice. They begged Lance to delay, their words like wilting petals.

Sorry, but no, Lance said, firm yet sincere, a stave hammered into earth. This is the Republic. No Inquisitors will throw themselves into fire for you. Only refugees, bandits, and drifting mercenaries. I can’t shield you if a looting army tens of thousands strong falls on us.

They bristled, disbelief like sparks. The next heartbeat, Krick shoved a bandit down before them, a sack of breath and fear.

The Republic crawls with men like this, he said, voice iron. Bandits and refugees both. You wear fine clothes and carry treasure. If we let him walk, we’ll be ringed by hyenas before noon.

He finished speaking. His blade flashed. A head thumped into dust.

The Celestial Spirits stared, ran the future in their minds, and felt the chill. Fear settled first; consent came after. They moved.

Good thing they did. Not long after they left, a swarm of refugees ransacked the empty camp, digging through ashes and finding nothing but their own hunger.

They pressed on across a plain starved of green, a flat sea of dirt and brittle grass.

Soft lives and short rest weighed them down. Many Celestials were spent within an hour, bodies like unstrung bows.

Violet sprawled spread-eagle on the jolting cart boards, a fallen starfish on rough wood. The sun’s glare stabbed, so she turned her face and peered at Lance leading the line.

Heeey, Blazing Fire Knight, how much longer? she sang, a complaint sugar-dusted.

Almost there, Lance said, no deflection this time. It was true. A climb up that dead tree would show the city’s outline on the far rim. Mudflat City was near.

Can’t you carry me? she wheedled, as the soldiers’ rough pulling jarred the cart like stones in a pan.

Let someone else carry you, Lance said, jerking his chin toward Yuna. Yuna had combat training. No awakened Battle Aura, but her stamina held steady.

Violet shot Yuna a jealous glance, green as new leaves. She huffed. No. I want you to carry me.

She pushed harder than usual, as if last night’s knots were still pressing her ribs.

Lance held fast, a post in the wind. Krick, though, sighed. Knight, indulge the little princess. I’ll carry the banner for you.

Lance glanced at Krick, then at the watching Celestials. He swept the road with a soldier’s eye. No enemies in the ditches.

Fine, he said. He handed Krick the crimson flag, then crouched at the cart’s front, back offered like a sturdy ledge.

Only for a while, he sighed, weariness and warmth braided.

Okayyy! Violet lit up like a child whose wish just sprouted wings.

She reached—and everyone stopped, stilled like statues.

Wah—! She grabbed air, slipped, and nearly ate mud, a gasp puffing dust.

What are you—?! she started to whine, then froze, voice swallowed. Shock crawled over her face like frost.

She had looked up. Over the distant city, a black spiral of smoke climbed, a serpent coiling into the sky.

A dull, low hum rolled through the air—mmmm—like thunder trapped in a barrel. Another black column rose. It billowed as it climbed, then blossomed into a mushroom of soot.