The government troops not only sealed Crescent Pass like an iron lid, they pasted notices on both gate pillars like fresh scars.

The notice said a Celestial Spirit caravan was taken by bandits, so the pass was shut and bounties hung like hooks.

Crick held a flyer that mirrored the notice like a shadow in water.

He studied the words, his face storm-dark.

He murmured to Lance, his voice like a held breath. "Lance... do they mean us?"

"Who else?" Lance took the flyer, crushed it like a dry leaf, and tossed it like a stray pebble.

A squad of government soldiers marched over like a gust rattling tin signs.

The captain's question cut like a bayonet. "Hey, outsiders, seen anyone suspicious traveling with Celestial Spirits?"

Crick shot Lance a glance like a flicked spark.

They picked up the cue like a rehearsed chorus and answered in tandem.

"No!"

"We only got in today."

The soldiers watched them like cats eyeing brush.

The captain unrolled a portrait, parchment unfurling like a pale tongue.

The sketch showed a red‑haired brute with a demon's glare, ink heavy as bruises.

He looked nothing like Lance, but in Mubay City folks would see red hair and think Lance, like a bell answering a bell.

This was the Republic, though, where hair came red, brown, gray, like fallen leaves in many shades.

Symbolic portraits were useless here, as blunt as a wooden knife.

The captain compared face to face like weighing stones, then shook his head, doubt still coiling like smoke.

They left a warning like a posted sign. "Don't make trouble. This is Crescent Pass."

"Sure, sure," Lance said with a grin thin as paper.

Crick wiped cold sweat like dew off grass. "That was close. If they'd spotted us, we'd be dead fish."

"We're fine," Lance replied, easy as wind over water.

"You're right." Crick drew a long breath like drawing a bow and let his pulse settle like settling dust.

Today his heart had climbed to his throat again and again like a startled bird.

This was only a small town on the rim, a satellite to Crescent Pass like a pebble orbiting a boulder.

Even here, they'd been questioned more than once like nails hammered in sequence.

If they tried to bring a whole group of Celestial Spirits through, questions would fall like hail.

Worse, Lance's group's marks were on wanted sheets like brands on hide.

Fishing in these muddy waters at Crescent Pass would be hard, like casting a net in ice.

"We can't go around the Pass," Crick said, frowning at the map tucked in Lance's travel guide like a pressed leaf.

"Yeah. The ranges here run crosswise like sawteeth. They split Mephis cleanly into north and south," Lance quipped, his tone a knife wrapped in velvet. "Your Republic's a lovely place."

He took the map, folded it like a letter, and slid it with the guide into his pocket like stashing coals.

"No detours, and we can't force it," Crick muttered, eyes lifting like a compass needle toward a distant spire.

The spire bled periodic arcs of lightning like a storm lighthouse.

Mage corps built those towers to amplify spellwork like wind filling a sail.

A tower like that meant the United Legion's mage corps lay nearby like a coiled serpent.

They weren't for head‑on fights, but they could strike from hundreds of miles like thunder crossing a valley.

If they tried to storm Crescent Pass, they'd draw long‑range fire like a bonfire draws moths.

If it were only Lance, maybe he'd dance through it like a knife through silk.

But there were others—Yuna the comrade like a steady star, Shelika the offering like a candle in a shrine.

Crick stood as a brother‑in‑arms like a shield at his back.

The Celestial Spirits needed guarding like seedlings in frost.

If the mage corps hit them with spellfire like that day, the sky would rain Fireball like clustered sparks from a broken sun.

The outcome would be unthinkable, like a field after locusts.

If they quit here, the credit for escorting the Celestial Spirits would go to the government troops like a river stolen midstream.

Lance wouldn't reach the Heavenly Spirit Empire, and without the royal requisitioned assets, Fulin's quiet life would lose its roof like a house without beams.

So he would see these Celestial Spirits across, even if he had to wade fire like stepping stones.

That was the price Fulin had to pay for peace, a calm lake held by a dam of resolve.

"No point lingering. Next town," Lance said in a grimy tavern where the air hung like stale smoke.

He set down an empty cup like a mute bell.

"Got it," Crick answered.

He tossed back his drink like a thrown stone, then gagged like a cat on a hair. "Damn, the booze still tastes like ditch water."

"You served here?" Lance asked, voice easy as a shoulder lean.

"Yeah, but at the front," Crick said, eyes like old brass. "The United Legion won't give good wine to government troops."

"So you went to the front for better wine?" Lance's smile flashed like a knife edge.

"Ha! Knight, you do get it," Crick laughed, the sound like clattering cups.

"Not really," Lance said, shrugging like a falling leaf.

"I thought knights don't drink," Crick teased, words light as foam.

"I drink coffee," Lance said, tone calm as dark water.

"Ca‑coffee?" Crick blinked like an owl at dusk.

"Yeah. A kind of bitter tea," Lance said, the word bitter like a burnt bean.

They traded small talk like pebbles skipping water and walked out of the alley tavern like stepping from shadow to sun.

They neared the street and the town's edge when a group swung around the corner like a net cast ahead of fish.

Their bandit getup screamed trouble like wolves in borrowed sheepskins.

Lance didn't waste words.

He snatched Crick's longsword like a hawk seizing prey.

He lifted Secret Sword Blazing Fire, the strike aimed for a face like a falling star.

"Please wait, we mean no harm," one man stepped out.

His leader's aura flew like a flag in wind.

His voice cut through like rain on dust.

"Then move," Lance said, stopping one step away like a halted blade, lowering the sword and straightening with a patience thin as ice.

The man waved his crew back like a hand smoothing ripples. "I know exactly what's hounding you two."

"Spare me the suspense," Lance said.

He lifted the sword again like a raised eyebrow.

The gesture was a warning like a drawn bow.

"Fine. We're the Republic's new blood, the Mephis Republic Victory Committee," he said, the name unfurling like a banner.

Lance watched him for a long beat like a hunter weighing tracks. "So, what do you want?"

"I've said enough hints, Blazing Fire Knight. You should know our aim," the man said, his smile a knife kept friendly.

"I'm no stranger to threats," Lance said, eyes narrowing like shutters in wind.

When he heard Blazing Fire Knight, his gaze opened a hair like dawn. "If you know who I am, don't try anything crooked."

"Why would we threaten you? You wiped out the government troops at Newkast and freed the people like breaking shackles," he said.

Praise flowed like warm wine.

Then he launched a short speech like a drumroll.

Lance listened, wary as a fox at the mouth of a snare.

When he judged it wasn't a stalling trick, he slid the sword away like sheathing a flame.

"I'm Abel," the man said, stepping closer like a bridge extended.

He explained his cadre post in the Committee and led them to a hidden house like a stone tucked under moss.

"Blazing Fire Knight, here's the situation. We've been embedded at Crescent Pass for half a year," Abel said, words steady as stacked bricks.

They were waiting for the head of the government troops, the General, to show like a whale surfacing.

Then they would strike to assassinate him like a harpoon.

"I don't think you'll pull it off," Lance said bluntly, the truth like frost. "The General is Sky Rank, and the mage corps are here like stormclouds."

"Don't underestimate us," Abel shot back, pride rising like heat. "We have experts too. Three Earth Tier volunteers. With the right timing, the kill isn't a problem."

"So you want me to team up and make your opening," Lance said, voice flat as a slate.

"Yes," Abel said, his tone brightening like a flare and darkening like soot. "You saw them. Those damned mage corps. Their threat is too big."

"What do you need from me? I can't solo a fully armed mage corps," Lance said, honesty like iron.

"Don't worry. First, a demonstration," Abel said, and someone brought in a black crystal like a captured night.

"What's this?" Lance asked, eyes tracing its perfect facets like counting ribs.

Every few seconds, a purple, ghostly glow pulsed inside like a heartbeat in shadow.

"This is—" Crick blurted, shock popping like a spark.

"The Tears of the Earth Mother," Abel said. "Any mage fears this, human or Celestial Spirit alike, like a wolf fears fire. With it, we can cripple the mage corps."

Lance said nothing, his nod a pebble dropped in a still pond, asking Abel to go on.

"But the Tears are finicky to use," Abel said. "So, Blazing Fire Knight, we need you to buy time. Just draw their eyes for a few minutes like a decoy kite."

Low risk, and a clear path through the Pass afterward, sounded like rain on parched soil.

"Alright. I'm in," Lance said, the decision settling like a stone.

"Excellent!" Abel burst, joy flaring like sunrise, as if he already saw victory like banners over walls. "Soon—very soon, Mephis will be in our hands, freed at last from its cursed fate like a chain finally snapped."