Out on the street, Crick cursed about what just happened, his words sparking like flint: “Liberate fate, my ass—sounds pretty, but they’re just stirring chaos!”
Walking ahead, Lance glanced back, like a wolf checking its trail, and urged, “Whatever. Let’s move.”
Crick stared a long beat, eyes fogged like wet glass, then sighed and caved. “Fine… okay.”
Back at the cave hideout, the mountain’s throat damp and echoing, they relayed everything and moved at once.
As requested by the other side, Lance had to draw the government army’s eye, like a torch waved in the night.
Crescent Pass wasn’t some back alley; it was a choke point, a cork in a river, and a government stronghold.
So the cleanest way to pull eyes was to show up in person, like bait gleaming on a hook.
Lance picked a few Celestial Spirits from the group, and led them to appear right at Crescent Pass, like actors taking center stage.
“I’m Doran’s Blazing Fire Knight, on orders to escort Celestial Spirits home,” Lance barked, voice like thunder under stone. “You Republic soldiers, open the gate!”
The move caused an uproar, the noise boiling like a pot, and the waiting crowd pressed in like a tide.
People shot strange looks at the Celestial Spirits behind Lance, their gazes like needles pricking silk.
To a Celestial Spirit, those looks were an insult, a grit of sand in the eye; but need trumped pride like rain dousing embers.
At Lance’s cue, they started shouting too, their voices like thin reeds in wind.
“Yeah—yeah! We’re noble citizens of the Heavenly Spirit Empire!”
“You Republic soldiers, hurry up and let us through!”
They shouted, but not with Lance’s ease; fear thinned their tone like frost on glass, and doubt tugged at every word.
Thankfully, no one cared about that; once people confirmed they were Celestial Spirits, Lance’s act pulled every eye like a magnet.
The crowd swelled by the breath, a wave stacking on waves, and the clamor grew like a storm building.
When chaos seemed about to break, government soldiers finally arrived, boots drumming like rain on slate.
“What’s this, thieves with Celestial Spirits?” the leading centurion drawled, his words like vinegar on a wound.
In truth, the troops inside the gate had noticed from the first spark; orders flew up and down like messenger birds.
So it wasn’t just that one centurion; more officers came, and with them hundreds of elite soldiers, a ring of iron like a tightening noose.
Their muzzles, black and cold as wells, leveled and encircled Lance’s group in a hard circle.
Under hundreds of dark mouths, the Celestial Spirits panicked, hearts fluttering like trapped birds.
They knew these long rods well—convenient casting tools, a wand any non‑mage could shoulder, like fire in a tube.
Load once, fire once, and it spit an elemental art; most often Fireball, a sun-seed that turned the helpless to charcoal.
Only the Heavenly Spirit Empire could manufacture such weapons, factories beating like furnaces behind the front.
The Empire mass-produced them; Imperial Knights had heavier arms, so these went to human soldiers on the line, like spears to footmen.
So every barrel pointed not at the Celestial Spirits but at Lance, the storm’s lone tree.
The Celestial Spirits fretted, worry crawling like ants; this reckless knight could be burned to cinder by one slip.
They looked down on humans, yes, but the conscience stings like a thorn; could they just abandon the guardian who bled for them?
The timidest one faltered, voice shrinking like a snuffed wick: “Sir Knight, maybe we should…”
Lance acted like he hadn’t heard, calm like a lake at dusk. “I’m Lance Morrison, Doran’s Blazing Fire Knight, escorting Celestial Spirits by order.”
“Your nerve’s impressive—not helping is one thing, but forging orders and blocking me? Who allowed this?”
He treated them like air, a lone actor under a forest of barrels, putting on a one‑man show.
Across from him, the soldiers didn’t dare fire lightly, fingers tight as frozen branches.
One reason: such weapons fail against a knight awakened in Battle Aura, and they fail against mages wrapped in warding arts, like rain on oil.
Another reason: someone had ordered restraint, a leash pulled tight as a drawn bow.
So the standoff held, the air stretched like a drumskin.
Irritation prickled first, like nettles under armor; why hadn’t the Committee moved yet?
Then the line of soldiers split, parting like a tide, and troops on both sides snapped salutes like blades.
An important figure stepped in, the government’s head at the pass—a Sky Rank Knight known as the General, Sir Meven.
“You’re Doran’s Blazing Fire Knight?”
The words were simple, but the presence hit like storm pressure; no wind, no rain, just a shadow that pressed on bone.
Just by nearing, he triggered animal terror, like needles under the skin and ice in the lungs.
It wasn’t merely in the mind; it weighed on matter, too, like a millstone on glass.
Crack— a brittle note rang out; a Celestial Spirit behind Lance had his eyeglasses shatter like frost under heel.
“Aaah!” He was only ordinary; under twin pressure, mind and flesh, he bolted screaming like a rabbit from a snare.
“E‑excuse us—” The others babbled excuses and fled, their steps scattering like leaves in wind.
Who could blame them; a Sky Rank Knight bears an aura that makes all creatures quake, like thunder over low plains.
The soldiers didn’t stop the Celestial Spirits; so one side’s field held only Lance, a lone ember in a ring of ash.
Alone, he stood surrounded by soldiers, while the Sky Rank Knight looked down on him like a cliff over surf.
The gathered crowd watched in hush, mouths open like fish; they’d come for a show, but the curtain seemed to drop too soon.
But—the spark held.
“Yes. I’m the Blazing Fire Knight. Was it you who ordered the obstruction?” Lance threw calm and courage like a gauntlet; the show wasn’t over.
“Heh. Your courage draws the eye,” Sir Meven said with a cold smile, like frost on steel.
He drew a telescopic cane from his tunic and slid it long with a click, then planted it like a banner.
“But compared to courage, your scheme is shallow and laughable, like a pond pretending to be a sea.”
Sir Meven rested both hands on the cane, then tapped the ground, a metronome for menace.
At the signal, a squad brought someone forward, a hooded shape in shackles, thrashing like a netted fish.
It didn’t help; they dragged him into the open, and slammed him to the ground between both sides like a stake.
A bad premonition rose in Lance, smoke coiling from a cold hearth.
As if reading him, Sir Meven flicked the cane’s tip; whoosh, it flipped the hood back.
A face showed, swollen blue and purple like bruised plums.
Even battered, it was clear: Abel, the Committee officer who’d plotted the General’s assassination with Lance two hours ago.
