Being screened by the Empire’s army at the border defense line—Lance hadn’t expected that, like running into a steel net strung across the sky.

No, correction: he’d expected checks, but not at a military base instead of a port city, like moving the gate deep into a fortress.

The border line, one of the Republic’s three great defenses, was garrisoned by over a third of the Empire’s strength, like a dam braced by mountains.

In truth, the border line was the Empire’s base inside the Republic, like a nail driven into foreign wood.

To let Shelika slip past the Empire’s scrutiny—to let a Dark Blood Clan member through—was near impossible, like threading a needle in a storm.

Pressure throbbed like a stone on his skull; Lance felt a pounding headache.

“Back to the cabin, quick,” Violette’s voice cracked across the wind like a whip.

He lifted his head like surfacing from deep water and answered, “Got it.”

With his reply, Violette slipped back alone, like a swallow darting into the hold.

Lance followed, but before stepping inside, he glanced out, as the ground swelled nearer like a lifting tide.

Imperial facilities were scattered below like chess stones on a board, and with inspection looming, his worry simmered like a pot left on the flame.

Worry or not, he had no plan; he’d never seen an Imperial base, like a blind man feeling a wall for a door.

“At this point, one step at a time,” he sighed, like setting foot on thin ice.

At worst, he’d sell Shelika on the spot, like cutting rope to keep the boat afloat.

After a violent shudder, the airship settled, like a caged beast crouching to sleep.

Titanborn soldiers muscled the gangplank up with ease, like hefting driftwood, and set it down with a solid thunk.

They planted it firm and barked, “Time to disembark,” like drums calling a march.

The shout aimed at the cabin with Lance and the guardian Celestial Spirits, who filed out like a stream of white birds.

Violette went with them, saying, “I’ll line up first,” like a runner breaking ahead.

Soon only Lance, Yuna, and Shelika remained, like three stones in an emptied bowl.

He turned to Shelika, who kept her head low, and snapped, voice like a knife, “Don’t cause trouble. Hear me?”

Head bowed, Shelika murmured, “I understand,” her tone like ashes on snow.

She rose and followed with Yuna, meek as shadows trailing a lantern.

Only when they fell in behind did Lance step out, like a wolf counting its pack.

Outside, even before his boots hit dirt, severity pressed in like a suffocating fog.

Obelisks of the spell corps stood like a forest of spearheads, cold and unblinking.

Imperial Knights moved in tight patterns, patrolling or drilling like clockwork hammers.

Lance tallied in his head, numbers falling like cold rain: one obelisk equaled a mage brigade, one Imperial Knight led a legion.

A single obelisk’s focused salvo could blanket a mid-sized plain, like wildfire running through dry grass.

Each Imperial Knight was at least Earth Tier, and a legion under them hit like a landslide.

Yet this temporary port-of-entry base held twenty obelisks and at least nine Imperial Knights, like thunderheads packed over one valley.

Along this border line stood a thousand such outposts, a range of iron hills, the Empire’s might thick as ore, far beyond the Shadowspirit Legion a Daemon Knight once drove at him.

Lance could only marvel, like a traveler staring up at a sheer cliff.

He tightened his focus and went down step by careful step, like crossing iced stone.

While disembarking, he kept glancing back at Shelika, like checking a splinter that might fester.

After all, “he”—or rather Fulin behind the mask—couldn’t help wondering how she’d react, like a watcher at a gallows.

With death looming, would she beg like a candle guttering in wind?

Faced with massed enemies, would her legs turn to clay in rain?

At the thought, Fulin felt a mean little flutter, like a sparrow hopping on hot tiles.

Ugly, maybe, but better than reasonless mercy; she kept herself cold like tempered steel and believed she wasn’t wrong.

So when she watched Shelika with that secret thrill, her hope sank, like a stone into silt.

Because to Lance’s eyes, Shelika was calm as still water.

Calm because nothing was left to love, Lance wondered, like touching a lake gone corpse-cold.

No, not that; he recalled her fixation on a certain parchment, clutched like a talisman.

It wasn’t a spell scroll; it couldn’t help her flee, and even if it were, these walls were iron cliffs.

So Lance didn’t understand and Fulin was puzzled, like two mirrors staring into fog.

If living only meant mockery and being a sacrifice, what was Shelika still guarding like a candle cupped in a storm?

Lance shook the question off and returned to the present, like snapping a frayed thread.

Smuggling Shelika through was the true puzzle, like sliding a chess piece under a judge’s eye.

But reality was thorny; before he could think, vines already tightened round his wrists.

Barely off the gangplank, before they found footing, they and the other Celestial Spirits were funneled into a tent, like sheep into a chute.

It wasn’t a pen but a gate; long barbed-wire walls ran on both sides like iron rivers, so entry to the camp narrowed to this tent, a throat perfect for checks.

As soon as they stepped in, a squad of Celestial mages swept forward like frost across glass.

They weren’t like the ones Lance had seen in Doran; these had edges honed like razors.

Their dress was uniform more than robe, crisp as drawn lines, and their telescoping staves glowed with artifact-grade brilliance like caged stars.

Their mana was nothing to scoff at; each gaze held deep soul-light, like lanterns in caverns.

These were true combat magi, trained hard as hammered steel.

Then a man in service uniform stepped out, medals ringing his chest like small suns, his face set and grave.

“This is the Empire’s 831 Special Unit!” he thundered, voice like a drum.

“To keep the Empire safe and stop any vile Dark Spirit from crossing the line, we will cast spells,” he declared, words like bolts clanging into place.

“These are safe inspection arts! Imperial citizens and attendant humans, do not resist!” he called, palms raised like open shields.

For Lance, the worst had arrived; despair rose like black water, because he had no way out.

Only sell Shelika on the spot, Fulin thought, the idea bitter as iron.

If they found her, he’d feign ignorance, let them take her, then silence her before interrogation, like cutting a fuse before the blast.

That would only save his own skin, and with the military and the royal family at odds, it meant throwing away his bargaining chip with the royals, like tossing a coin into a well.

Keep the chip, and he’d need a riskier, sharper move; either way, it screamed failure, and a quiet life blew away like dust.

Fulin burned with anxiety, like paper at a candle’s tip.

Suddenly—

“Lance?!”

A voice he knew—surprised and bright as a bell—cut through his gloom like sunlight through mist.

He turned toward it, and there she was: the foreign girl he’d met at the Knight Festival duel, the Thunderlight Knight, Liya, like lightning bottled in a smile.

“Why are you here?!” she asked, eyes wide like morning skies.

“I should be asking you that,” he said, words flicking like sparks.

The nearby Celestial Spirits all looked over, and the air twisted a little, like strings tightening before a note.

One of the Celestial mages scanned them and called, “What’s this? Who’s reporting?” his tone sharp as a blade.

Thunderlight Knight Liya straightened, stepped to him, and reported briskly that she was a Kingdom knight and knew Lance, like a banner lifted in wind.

He listened and nodded. “I see. Good, saves me trouble. You take them—” he said, waving them onward like a gate swinging open.

They were led deeper into the camp by Liya and her people, and Shelika went with them; strangely, her disguise held like paint in rain.

For Lance, the passage felt light, like walking through a dream.

“Go in,” Liya pointed at a separate pavilion, its walls half-open like a stage with one curtain drawn.

It offered little privacy; you could see in, and from inside you could watch officers flow past like a river.

Lance sensed nothing amiss and followed Liya in, but once inside, the world muted like snow falling on a market, the noise outside vanishing.

“All right, Lance,” Liya said, her voice drifting like a wilted leaf, “tell me why you’re here—don’t tell me, like me, you got into trouble too?”