The front line lay like a steel scar north of the Mephis Republic, a border rampart where humanity slammed into Dark Spirits like storm against cliff.

On the human side, countless drifted there like leaves blown to a fence, yet they split into two kinds like black and white stones.

One bore honor and duty, legion warriors fighting like torches in rain to resist invasion.

The other were convict soldiers, tossed like pawns on a board, waiting for fate to flick them off like dust.

Luck was ash; Lance belonged to the latter, his name a cold pebble in a rushing stream.

So that morning, he was folded into another suicide unit like a dark banner whipped by wind.

After a savage death-match, he came back at dusk alone, a single ember rolling through the drafty dusk.

No cheers rose in the Leighton Highlands camp, only lamplight shivering like thin frost on canvas walls.

They swarmed like crows when he returned, their jeers fluttering like torn flags.

A scar-faced brute barked, his grin like a cut in leather. “Yo, Doran’s ‘big hero,’ how’re you still not dead?”

A gaunt, sly one snickered, voice like a needle. “Heh, with that hustle, dreaming of going home, are you?”

Laughter cracked like brittle ice, and the air shifted wolf-gray with malice.

Cold settled in Lance’s chest like winter stone; he only gave them a glance like a knife-edge and walked deeper into the camp.

His silence doused them like a bucket of cold water, the convicts’ faces twitching like quenched coals.

“End of the day, he’s Doran’s Blazing Fire Knight, right? He won’t stoop to us,” someone muttered, a hiss like air through teeth.

“Tch. Boring,” another spat, the word a dry seed skittering across wood.

They drifted off like smoke, each back to whatever grindstone waited in shadow.

Lance kept walking alone, his steps like steady drumbeats fading down a canvas corridor.

Deep inside the camp, a command tent rose like a white hill, taller than the rest, ropes humming like taut strings in the night wind.

Inside sat several Celestial Spirits, officers of the Celestial Race, faces carved by lamplight like stone masks.

Seeing Lance stirred old bile like stirred sediment; because of what happened two months ago, no face there softened.

The highest-ranked officer gave him a contemptuous glance like frost on glass, then spoke coldly, his voice a thin blade. “Blazing Fire Knight, another dazzling battle, another return with breath.”

“And today you’re especially fruitful—three enemy squads wiped out, what a marvel, Blazing Fire Knight,” he added, tone like honey dripped on thorns.

Lance said nothing, his gaze a winter lake, flat and mirror-still.

That chill stare stung like sleet, and the officer’s veins bulged like ropes; he surged up and punched Lance across the face.

Smack!

Lance hit the muddy floor like a dropped stone, wet earth splashing like dark ink.

The officer strode over, finger stabbing down like a spike. “Blazing Fire Knight, you insulted the Next Emperor—your crime is Everest-high!”

“Just a human—don’t dream of luck! Your sins would take three lifetimes to burn away, like tar on bone!”

“Aren’t you the kingdom’s great hero?! Then be obedient: fight here till you die, like a candle guttering!”

He spat, a wet smear on Lance’s hair, and the officers’ laughter rolled like dirty hail across canvas.

Even under the hail of jeers, Lance kept silent, his mouth a shut gate in a winter storm.

It wasn’t surrender—he knew resistance was useless, like pulling against a bridle woven into his neck.

These Celestial Race wardens of convicts were combat mages, fingers like iron quills drawing sigils in air.

Not just any mages—they practiced the Quelling Art that shackled a knight’s Battle Aura like chains in cold water.

That Quelling Art was both spell and divine rite, a twin-spiral of law and prayer coiling like smoke and gold.

Only Celestial Spirits of the Celestial Race could learn it, and it slipped off Dark Spirits like oil on obsidian, for they were blessed by enemy gods.

In truth, that Art was the Empire’s bridle on its vassals, a leather strap cinched through every throat.

Humans were born to fail against Celestial Spirits, like grass against iron.

When the insults finally thinned out like rain ending, Lance rose from the mud, his joints creaking like old leather.

For two months since his dispatch to the front, every day was the same, a millstone grinding with steady cruelty.

He ate disgrace to go fight, then chewed disgrace again upon return, bitterness like iron filings on his tongue.

Most would crack like kiln-fired clay, but Lance didn’t break; his resolve closed around him like a shield.

“I will live a quiet life,” the thought stayed warm like a hidden ember inside his ribs.

For two months, Fulin’s voice had told him that in his heart, a gentle stream under stone.

And his patience wasn’t blind; it was a set trap, stakes driven in by careful hands.

Shelika’s intelligence said that when elite enemy strength pressed the battlefield like a weighted net, the Shadowspirit Legion sent special killers.

Lance had been active for two months on the forward field of the must-win Leighton Highlands, a flame flickering where winds met rocks.

Many knights were stronger than him like higher peaks, but they were regular legion knights, cradled by protection like eggs in straw.

In peacetime, those protections were tight as a locked chest, and assassinations rarely cracked them, so blades sought the unguarded in shadow.

Yes—the unguarded was the convict Lance, a lone pine on a bare ridge.

If Fulin’s guess was right, “Lance” had been roaring on the forward slope for two full moons like a drum on a cliff.

A convict knight piloting a steel humanoid on Leighton Highlands was a tale with iron weight, rolling toward enemy ears like thunder.

It was time that rumor crossed to enemy officers like night birds, and tonight was a full moon, round as a silver plate.

If nothing went awry, their assassins would come by night like knives in silk, and that was exactly where Fulin aimed her bow.

The full moon had barely climbed like a lantern when camp bells shook like frantic geese.

“Enemy attack! Dark Spirits inbound!” a runner on the arrow tower shouted, his voice fraying like jute.

Inside the tent, officers who had bullied Lance moments ago panicked, their plans scattering like papers in wind.

The news hit them like a thrown stone, and the highest officer slammed the table, wood popping like a drum. “What’s going on?! Where are the men below? What are those knights doing?!”

A smarter-looking one raised a timid hand, fingers fluttering like moth wings. “M-maybe they slipped past, sir.”

“Slipped past?! What’s the point?! The main force’s at the foot—pincer won’t matter, like claws on air!”

“I—I don’t…” he wilted, words drying like rain on hot stone.

Outside, the clash drifted closer like a rolling tide, and the runner returned, breath ragged like bellows. “Report! Fighting inside the camp—we need support!”

The officer clenched his jaw, then hammered the table again, the sound snapping like a branch. “Forget it! Throw the convicts in to die—they’ll buy time. You, link with Strategy—Dark Spirits must not succeed!”

“Yes!” The Celestial Race officers scattered to their tasks like sparrows flung from a tree.

The officer sprinted to Lance’s barracks, boots thudding like mallets, and kicked the door in, wood yawning like a split fruit. “Out! Enemy’s here!”

Silence pooled inside like black water; no voice rose from the dim room.

He flared with anger again, face reddening like a struck furnace. “Hide-and-seek now?! I’ll drag you out myself!”

He ripped out his wand, light glinting like a fish-scale, and started the spell, breath steady like a held bow.

In that heartbeat of focus, pain bloomed in his chest like a hot nail; he looked down to see a long blade thrust through him like a cold stake.

He toppled forward, collapsing like a felled tree, and turned his head to his killer, eyes blazing like coals. “Y-you… y—you… bastard…”

Lance set his boot on the officer’s skull like a lid on a jar and leveled the Sirius Sword, point steady as a star. “A farewell for your trip to the other world.”

The barracks settled into quiet like snow after wind, the air heavy and clean.

Soon, the camp’s battle-noise drained away too, like a tide pulling from black sand.

Bodies lay everywhere like scattered logs—Celestial Spirits, Dark Spirits, and humans alike—and only Fulin remained, a lone figure under the moon with red eyes.

No one stood near; her words felt spoken to herself, soft as night rain. “And so, the Blazing Fire Knight vanishes in mystery. Next… we go to the Empire of Night.”