“You got stronger too.” Lance weighed the blunt reply like a stone in his palm.

“An honor to meet you here.” He toyed with a polite line, crisp as porcelain.

He chose instead a title that felt strange to him, cool as iron.

“Sir Malt,” Lance said.

Malt Morrison—Lance’s “father”—let his work-worn eyes flare like tired embers, then he nodded, slow as a falling leaf.

Not just Malt; others turned as well, drawn by the formal address like birds by a bell. They were Golden Eagle Legion. In their minds, Lance was a scruffy kid, not the knightly youth before them—strong as a coiled bow, manners neat as a straight blade. They’d heard of the Blazing Fire Knight. Seeing him burned rumor to ash.

Malt gestured, a firm wave like wind clearing smoke. “I need a word with him. Clear the room.”

No one refused; obedience moved through them like tide. Their discussions had dragged for two days, a grindstone over the city’s looming crisis.

Since talk jammed like a stuck gear, better to pause.

Officers filed out, boots ticking like rain on boards.

The broad room, dim as late dusk, emptied. Soon only Lance and Malt remained, their shadows pooling like ink.

With no eyes on them, Malt let the officer’s iron fall away like a breastplate. He pulled Lance into a reunion embrace, warm as a hearth.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Lance,” Malt breathed, voice rough as gravel under wheels.

“Me too,” Lance answered, heart thudding steady as a drum.

Malt poured tea and set pastries, steam curling like lake mist at dawn. No Steel-Heart Knight airs, no commander’s or father’s weight. He spoke plain: a year of worry, a year chained to the front like an ox to a plow.

Lance told his year in turn. Leaving Mubay City felt like stepping off a pier into fog. He adventured, cut through brambles, crossed storm and stone. Near-success kept sliding away like a wet fish.

Of Fulin, he said nothing. That name stayed folded like a sealed letter.

Malt listened and bent, elbows on knees, a mountain bowing to weather. “Lance… I’m sorry you went through all that.”

Lance shrugged off hardship like dust from a cloak. The answer made Malt glance sharp, eyes flashing like steel in sun.

After a brief catch-up, Malt looked to the window. Through plank gaps, the far docks washed gray, dull as pewter.

He brought up business. “Lance, why’d you come? Not just to see your father, I hope.”

Warmth first, then truth. Lance smiled. “Malt, I’d love to say that. But you know. I came leading a band of Celestial Spirits.”

“I heard from Willis,” Malt said, face creasing like old maps. “Some kid calling himself the Blazing Fire Knight. Roaming the Republic’s south with a bunch of Celestial Spirits, poking hornets’ nests without fear. I took it for rumor. Didn’t expect it to be you.”

“Did the Caribbean Travel Company not tell you? Or the Imperial Consulate?”

“No.” Malt shook his head, fatigue hanging like a low cloud. “Maybe they never thought the airship would break down.”

“It didn’t break down. It was shot down by Dark Spirits,” Lance said, the spark of cause catching like kindling.

“Which is why they didn’t foresee it.” Malt leaned back, body sinking like a spent arrow into a target. He looked utterly drained.

“How could that be…” Heat rose in Lance’s chest like steam.

“In short, you want passage back to the Kingdom?”

“Yeah.”

Malt’s face tightened, a knot in rope.

“Lance, I’m not making it hard. A scheduled ship’s not realistic.”

“Why?” The word cracked out like a whip.

Malt exhaled, a long wind over plains. His tone turned heavy as stone.

“Lance, you know the Republic’s defense line, right?”

“I do.”

“Good. Say it.”

“Nordland pulled strength from every corner for generations. They laid a solid line across the Mephis Republic to resist the Shadowspirit Legion. Because Mephis borders the Wilds, the line has three parts—”

He laid it out like chess on wood: the border line, the mountain line, the coastal line.

The border line stretches across the Republic’s north. Fortresses and walls link like vertebrae, stacking stone on stone. It seals the northern frontier, so it’s called the border line.

“If the Shadowspirit Legion wants a land offensive, they have to batter the border line.”

“Good. Keep going.”

If they won’t strike an unbreakable wall, they can detour.

They can skirt the Absolute Mountains, touching no human nation, and strike straight at the Heavenly Spirit Empire.

That’s fantasy. The Empire stations most of its military on those ridges. Weak passes bristle with more than a hundred knightly orders. That’s the mountain line.

Mountain assault is unreal, border bypass is unkind. So the Shadowspirit Legion chooses the sea.

“East of Mephis’s northern frontier, the border waters sprawl. Using Conni Island, Kulobell Island, and other chains as footholds, the United Legion spreads fleets and shore-landing marines, forming an offensive line.”

You can’t raise a stone wall on water. The United Legion fights island to island, surf and blood foaming together.

These fights don’t crown victors, only grind bones. We seize an island; the Shadowspirit Legion counterattacks like a black tide. Both sides bleed, then champions step in and wrestle storms.

Even if the winners hold an island, there are too many to hold. Guard this one, lose that one; hands never enough, fingers cold as iron.

So you finish one rocky beach, then sprint to the next. The war of attrition rolls like seasons, never ending. In the end, waves eat countless soldiers, and the sea yields no solid gain. Both sides hollow out their strength like trees gnawed by insects.

Thus the coastal line is the main battlefield. In attrition, Nordland holds the edge.

“Every human nation keeps sending men and money to the United Legion,” Lance said with an awkward laugh. The Empire’s levies sat on his tongue like cold copper.

“Yeah. The Empire’s clever.” Malt’s tone turned dry as bark. “They burn resources nations can’t replace. Human populations thin like autumn fields. Their throne never shakes. It can’t be shaken. Ah—I'm straying. Go on.”

“In short, the coastal line can’t be broken. The United Legion’s main force sits there.”

“No…” Malt sighed, tired as midnight rain. “The coastal line had an incident.”

“Impossible!” Lance flared, disbelief flashing like lightning across a black sky. He’d heard rumors of front-line trouble. But the United Legion has a dozen Sky Knights, hundreds of Earth Knights, and two hundred thousand troops. How could it break?

He’d thought it was just the Imperial court’s excuse to move funds, smoke curling to hide a hand.

If the coastal line fell, that means the main force collapsed. That happens only if the Shadowspirit Legion launches a full assault. The Empire wouldn’t ignore that.

If the Legion truly launched a grand attack, the Empire’s knightly main force would arrive like thunder over cliffs.

“So the Empire’s knights failed too?” Lance asked, breath tight as a bowstring.

“No.” Malt’s tired voice stayed steady, a river under ice. “Our main force didn’t rout. But Night Disciples surfaced among our soldiers. They summoned the Shadowspirit Legion behind our line. The Disciples were executed. Yet many of the summoned troops slipped away—”

“Reports say some drifted into the Republic’s southern waters. That stretch is thin on the United Legion. Your Celestial ship was likely shot down by them.”

“So that’s it,” Lance murmured, memories rising like smoke from damp wood.

Malt’s voice sharpened, rising like a horn call over fog. “And some vanished. My brothers think they’re circling and scouting, hunting for high-value targets—”

He pointed to the broad table behind Lance. A military map lay open like a skin. Enemy markers sat like black thorns, scattered around the waters near Midway Port.

“I see… so that’s how it is.” The truth landed like winter. Lance sank into the sofa, hope falling away like leaves.