“Slow.” His voice came down like sleet, no praise, no comfort, only a hornet’s impatience stinging the air.

“I’ve waited three whole minutes. We’re the Knights of the Heavenly Spirit Empire, a banner of its glory, riding from a mountain base twenty thousand kilometers away. That ride was the Empire’s mercy.”

Lance stood with his officers of the Golden Eagle Legion, their spines stiff as spears, yet they dropped to one knee like reeds in wind, heads bowed to the dust.

The commander was an imperial knight, a youth of the Celestial Race, his face a mirror of Lance’s years, his gaze a blade of frost.

His haughty words stalled as he noticed Lance hadn’t knelt. “You. Why aren’t you on your knees?” His tone cracked like dry wood in a fire.

The officers flinched and glanced back, eyes flashing signals like lanterns in fog, begging Lance to kneel.

Lance looked at the Celestial youth, then the knights massed behind him like a wall of shields, then the leviathan of a ship looming like a city-sized mountain.

Only then did he drop to one knee, steady as a stone. “Acting Commander of the Golden Eagle Legion, Lance Morrison. An honor to meet you.”

“Good—good,” the commander purred, a cat with cream, then frowned like a cloud. “What do you mean, ‘acting’?”

His aide leaned in, words falling fast as rain, reporting that Malte, the Golden Eagle Legion’s commander, had fallen in battle.

“I see. To receive us, you pitifully minted an ‘acting’ commander.” His voice floated between pity and disdain, a leaf caught on two currents.

He peered at Lance, eyes full of doubt and scorn like grit in the wind. “But why such a snot-nosed brat?”

The aide pressed on, each word a measured bead, recounting how Lance’s group had repelled the Shadowspirit Legion, felled three Daemon Knights, and been hailed as heroes.

“Three Daemon Knights?” The commander’s eyes flew wide like doors in a storm. “Impossible. They’re lying.”

He smoothed himself a heartbeat later, mask snapping back like a visor, and lectured the aide with a weighty sigh. “Listen. Humans exaggerate to claim merit. The weaker they are, the louder they boast, especially pathetic little human brats.”

The aide nodded, then pointed as if lifting a curtain. The Daemon Knights’ corpses lay yonder like toppled statues.

The commander looked, froze, then jolted like a struck gong. “How can this be?! They really are Daemon Knights! How did these humans do that? Impossible!”

He sprang from his recliner like a cat from a sunspot. “Where are the remnants? Three Daemon Knights means at least a thousand Fallen warriors and thousands of dark thralls. Where did they go?”

“They’ve been eliminated,” the aide reported, voice flat as iron.

“Impossible! They’re lying!” the commander snapped, temper flaring like oil to flame. He jerked a thumb behind him. “Mages, get to work!”

Several field mages stood within the knightly ranks like colored knots in a tapestry; two stepped forward, one Celestial and one Elf, robes whispering like leaves.

“Corporal McCain, use your best Truthspell. I want to know if these humans lied.”

“Private Patricia, Detection. Sweep the entire city. I refuse to believe not one fish slipped the net.”

They worked quickly, chants rising like wind through pines, sigils flaring like fireflies, and answers came as clean as a blade’s edge.

“Sir, these humans aren’t lying, though deception’s still possible, so—”

“Report. No Dark Spirits in the city, but many spell traces remain. I recommend—”

The commander didn’t wait for finishes. His hand flashed like lightning. The goblet smashed to the stone with a sharp crash, wine spattering like blood.

“So what then? Not one Dark Spirit left? We crossed half the world to hear a post-battle briefing? Light Deity’s vomit, you’re a pack of damned fools!”

Lance held his tongue like a sheathed sword, and the officers bowed lower, their shadows long as evening spears.

Spent fire cooled to smoke; the commander’s anger guttered, and worry crept in like damp. “Great. No merit on this run. Back at the Academy, they’ll laugh me to death.”

Silence pooled around them like stagnant water, thick and awkward.

Lance broke it, voice calm as a steady flame. “Sir, I have a request.”

“Kid,” the commander sighed, flicking an empty glance like ash, “what?”

“There’s a group of Cel—”

He pointed an empty cup at Lance like a dull dagger. “Watch your wording, human brat.”

“A group of respected citizens of the Empire are stranded here,” Lance said, the words set like stepping stones. “They hope to ride your ship home.”

The commander turned, face cooling like quenched steel. “Is that true?”

“It is,” the aide confirmed, nodding like a metronome.

From the shadows stepped the Celestial travel party Lance had guarded, silk and poise flowing like a stream; several offered greetings, and the commander straightened as if a string pulled his spine.

“Glad to see you, Acting Sub-Lieutenant Alfred.” Violette curtsied, her grace a falling petal.

“You are… Miss Violette. An honor.” Alfred’s mind shuffled names like cards for a full minute before landing.

Another strolled up with a grin like a tilted sun. “Yo, Alfred. Years no see—how’d you end up this washed-up?” He was a councilor’s son, a tongue with lacquered boots.

Alfred gave a smile that was half heat, half iron. “Scram.” He shoved the man away like sweeping dust from a step.

The Celestial travelers were all high-born, stars set in a single net; seeing the knights arrive so late, they complained like bees around a hive.

Alfred’s earlier swagger wilted, his face tight as a knotted rope. “What could we do? The front’s on fire. Knights are stuck at home garrisons, or the mountain line, or the Doran Kingdom… Only idle hands like mine can spare time for humans.”

He poured out excuses like a river over stones, smooth and endless.

Lance stepped back in, voice even as a plumb line, asking for passage aboard.

Alfred scoffed at first, a spark against wet tinder, but the other Celestials pressed like a tide, and he yielded with a crisp nod. “Fine. In the military’s name, you few can board as attendants to these Celestials.”

His eyes sharpened like drawn steel. “But if you try anything, we’ll toss you off the ship.”

He’d ship off hot potatoes and ride a tailwind to the Empire; two birds fell like ripe fruit.

With that settled, Lance let out a breath, a knot loosening like thaw.

The battle had raged through the night like a storm, then morning bled into receptions, and the ship would lift by afternoon; sleep had fled like a skittish deer.

The imperial ship allowed only Yuna and Shelika to go with Lance, so boarding meant parting from the “Seventh Legion” like splitting a braid.

At noon, Lance asked Crick to disband the Seventh Legion and paid the promised hundred gold coins, the pouch heavy as a ripe gourd.

Crick took it without opening, weighing it in his palm like a scale, then lifted his eyes to Lance.

“What is it? You can go,” Lance repeated, voice steady as a drumbeat.

“Sir Knight, I heard you’re boarding the Celestials’ ship, yeah?” Worry creased Crick’s brow like furrows in a field.

“You didn’t just learn that,” Lance said, a faint smile like a hidden ember.

Crick slid the pouch into his pack, then set a hand on Lance’s shoulder like a comrade’s banner. “Sir Knight, we bled and lived together. As brothers-in-arms, hear me.”

“What’s got you so jumpy?” Lance waved, casual as wind over grass.

Crick glanced at the ship jutting above the square like a cliff, swallowed, then spoke. “Don’t trust Celestials too much. They sometimes say one thing and do another.”

Lance chuckled, light as a clink of glass. “You think they’ll throw me off the ship?”

“That’s not it,” Crick said, face twisted like a knotted rope. He grabbed the cup and drained it, the burn a torch down his throat. “Anyway, be careful. Take care.”

After they parted, afternoon rolled in like warm tide. Street clamor tried to rise, but the ship’s engines thundered like stormclouds.

At the gangway, Alfred barked, voice a whipcrack in rain. “We’re departing. If you’re boarding, move!”

People climbed in a line like ants on a vine; at the end came Lance, Yuna, and Shelika, shadows stitched close.

When Shelika set a foot on the ladder, Alfred snapped, a hawk’s cry breaking the air. “Hold it. You there. You look suspicious.”