The crystal gave off a dim yet gentle glow, like a veiled moon behind thin clouds.

From time to time it pulsed with mysterious power, a hidden heartbeat in the dark wood.

Against a forest swollen with evil miasma, the crystal on the stone pillar seemed eerie yet sacred, like a lantern in fog.

Shelika narrowed her eyes, then opened them firm and said, “No mistake. This is a Dark Spirit Empire altar.”

Altars in the Dark Spirit Empire come in many forms, like stones worn into different shapes by wind.

Depending on how they’re built, their functions diverge, branching like streams from one source.

From simple sacrifice and prayer, to complex rites and descents of deities, each path a different ritual road.

With a large shard of the Earth Mother’s Tear enthroned here, this one was undoubtedly a “portal” altar, a doorway in crystal.

Such portals are usually one-way and must come in pairs, twin mirrors facing across distance.

Which meant the “portal” before Shelika was an exit, a mouth of the path.

To learn where the entrance lay, Shelika laid her hand on the crystal and sent out mana, like a thread feeling its way through night.

Sensing with mana is like opening the soul’s eye—your spirit slips free and roams the world like a bird.

In an instant, Shelika’s spirit soared, then dipped into the crystal, a swallow into a spring.

She saw the crystal’s “line,” then rushed along it, northward, far beyond the republic, into the endless north like a road into stars.

Following that line, her spirit reached its end: the Dark Spirit Empire, a name like iron and wind.

Her vision linked cleanly to the other side, a window opened by light.

It was night there, so the first thing she saw was the empire’s night sky, polished like obsidian.

A clear, lucid sky pricked with flickering stars, little fires trembling in the cold.

In a starless swath, auroras drifted like ribbons of silk, five colors streaming like riverweed.

“So beautiful,” Fulin breathed, awe blooming like a flower.

The Heavenly Spirit Empire paints the Dark Spirit Empire as pure hell, a pit with no dawn.

Clearly, such beauty isn’t a scene hell could claim; their lies crumbled like paper in rain.

After a moment staring at the sky, Fulin reminded herself of the task and let Shelika’s spirit sink, the view dropping like a feather.

From the sky down to the surroundings: a plaza, Fallen Ones, fiends, Blood Clan, a fountain flinging silver.

The scene was solemn, like a temple beneath winter light.

Obviously, a multitude of Dark Spirits were gathering on the plaza, a tide of bodies murmuring.

Fulin had no time for their assembly, her focus narrowed like a blade.

Because there stood a colossal stone sculpture, a mountain carved into a god.

Twenty meters tall, it held an eagle’s majesty and a local architecture’s grace, wild and ornate like desert towers.

But the crucial truth was this: the sculpture was the Wasteland Deity, a name that tasted of sand and storm.

The stone idol was lifelike; in the breath before it was only matter, its veins lit with dusk-dark radiance, like coals waking.

Then the sculpture spread its wings, and a blaze of vast divine power erupted, a sun born in shadow.

In that instant, the world felt washed clean, like rain after dust.

Heaven, earth, and man—

All were dyed in a darker, yet purer, sacred hue, a blessing like nightfall.

The spectacle was so immense that many Dark Spirits present dropped to their knees, foreheads to stone like waves bowing.

But within seconds of that flare, cracks spidered across the crystal under Shelika’s hand, frost racing a window.

Fulin felt dread bite like cold and, acting through Shelika, snapped her spirit back, lifted her hand, and sprang away, pulling distance like a drawn bow.

It was the right call, a choice made in thunder.

At five meters out, the crystal on the pillar detonated, a star shattering in a fist.

The blast wave swept Shelika like a storm, branches whipping and air howling.

Unlike Lance, Shelika lacked a Battle Aura-forged body; a direct hit would break her like porcelain.

“Ah—!” Her cry tore out as the shock hurled her into a tree trunk, bark cracking like old bone.

She slipped from the trunk that barely held her weight, sliding like a leaf.

She tried to stand, but her body went soft and toppled, helpless into the dirt like a fallen kite.

On the ground, she forced her arms to prop her upper body, trembling like reeds.

Only then did she see, right before her, a shard of crystal, a shard like ice.

The altar’s crystal was the finest material; the fragment was flawless, transparent as a mirror laid in mud.

And like a mirror, it caught the face of a violet-haired girl, dawn-colored and wet.

A beauty haloed by tears, a sorrowful face like rain on plum blossoms, delicate and bruised.

A maiden crying, desolate and lovely, spring petals in a storm.

Seeing that reflection, Fulin—the one playing Shelika—realized, “I’m crying?” Her thought rose like smoke.

Confusion drifted in: “But why? Because it hurts?” Questions like birds circling.

It must be said, that blow hurt, a knife under skin.

She’d taken heavy damage to her mana as well; even now she couldn’t stand, power guttering like a lamp.

She could only sit in the mud, stare up at the sky, and wish, her heart a small boat on dark water.

That someone would scoop her up, shield her, and carry her away in romance, like leaving storm for harbor.

“So that’s why you long for a white-horse prince, right?” In the sea of consciousness, Fulin spoke toward Shelika, voice a ripple across black.

The real Shelika was dead, so in that inner sea she stayed silent, head bowed like a wilted flower.

But Fulin went on, as if proving something, voice rising, “I’m not like you. I’m strong. I can do anything—” Her words like sparks.

The bravado thinned into grievance; big tears spilled unchecked. “Even if I’m alone… I can still…” The sentence trembled like a string.

“I can live a peaceful life.” Fulin said it, forced and fierce, little fists clenched, eyes burning with stubborn light like stars.

Then she turned, the motion a hinge between selves—

When she rose again, she was the knight boy, steel in breath.

Lance looked at the ruined altar, glanced once, then ground his teeth and lifted the Sirius Sword high, a blade catching dawn.

He slashed at the altar, the edge blazing like fire cut from the sun.

As if pulverized, the altar vanished, dust swallowed by wind.

When Lance left the Demon Realm Forest, the east was already paling, a fish-belly white.

The citizens who’d fled the city were leaving bunkers, streaming back into Mubay City like rivers returning.

The destruction of the city was a sigh that wouldn’t end, smoke clinging like regret.

But no one spoke of it; they doused lingering fires, repaired houses, and started patrols on their own, hands busy as ants.

In short, Mubay’s people set to their tasks, shoulders down, steps steady.

The scheduled market day went on as planned; visitors stepped into town, lamenting broken streets and the heavy grief on faces forced forward by life, clouds that wouldn’t lift.

The boy hero who saved the city returned then, like a shadow crossing sunlight.

Piloting the Eternal War Armor, Lance let the steel giant march down the street toward the castle, a mountain walking.

Each step thundered like drums, echoing through stone.

People knew who sat inside that iron beast, a name banging in their chests.

“Our hero of Mubay saved us from the Dark Spirits with his lone strength! Give your praise to him—Blazing Fire Knight, Lance Morrison!” Minstrels and the circus troupe had shouted through the night by the duke’s order, voices like banners.

It had to be said: the duke knew how to handle things, and he was considerate, a hand smoothing waves.

The news had spread, but the true goal hadn’t been met, a net cast but empty.

No matter how the bards sang, how the circus bragged, the citizens looked with complex, barely-contained anger at the iron monster—at Lance inside, eyes like stormglass.

By a ruined shopfront, a man glared and cursed, “The city is like this because of him!” His words spit like sparks.

Voices rose around the rubble in a chorus of blame, a murder of crows.

“It was that punk who drew the Dark Spirits. To hell with that phony hero!” Roars like surf.

“Yeah!”

“Light Deity’s bastard!” The name thrown like a stone.

Clearly, they pinned part of the city’s ruin on Lance, even though he’d saved almost everyone, justice bent like a twig.

The duke’s voice held guilt. “Blazing Fire Knight, I can’t change their minds. Will you still guard Mubay?” His question hung like mist.

On the castle balcony, Lance gazed at the sea’s blue swells. “They’re loud, aren’t they? That means they’re alive. Even for just that, everything I did was worth it.” His calm was a shore.

The duke stared, incredulous, then let out a relieved smile. “As expected of the famed Blazing Fire Knight!” His praise rang like a bell.

His smile faded into severe caution, making Lance inexplicably uneasy, a chill under sun. “Blazing Fire Knight, you’re now the kingdom’s hero in truth, but storms are coming. So—while it’s calm—how about I marry Alice to you?”