“What? The Blazing Fire Knight is missing?” Satia’s disbelief cracked like thin ice at dawn.

The Prince Council rippled with the same shock, like stones dropped into a still pond.

The one who delivered it sat opposite Satia—the Chief Crown Heir, Isaac—his smile like a careless knife.

“Yeah. Missing,” he said, tossing the report onto the table like dry leaves scattered by a gust.

They passed the file around; grim faces hardened like iron masks under cold rain.

One round of reading, and they traded looks, quiet pooling like a winter lake.

Isaac shoved his chair, flung his legs onto the table, hands laced behind his head; he sprawled like a cat in sun and said, “Let’s just declare the Blazing Fire Knight defected.”

It wasn’t the full council—just Isaac’s and Satia’s factions—yet a loyalist rose, earnest as a lantern in fog. “Your Highness, that’s unwise. If we announce it, the opposition will poke at it.”

“Poke?” Isaac’s voice snapped like a whip, heat flashing like a torch. “I’m the next emperor! Heir to the Heavenly Spirit Empire! Who dares question me?”

“That little girl? Those consortiums?” His scorn spat like sparks.

The speaker shrank, his tone flickering like a candle in wind. “Besides the opposition… the imperial military.”

“The military?” Isaac’s edge dulled, caution settling like dust. “Temple Knights, or the Strategic Bureau?”

“The Strategic Bureau,” the man murmured, quiet as seeped water.

“Why would Father’s men oppose?” Isaac’s anger rolled like thunder, his logic counted off like beads. “Declare the Blazing Fire Knight a defector: it shakes Doran’s rebels, unifies the polls; then we strike Doran’s royal house, make an example like a scarecrow in a storm. Am I wrong?”

The loyalist’s voice faded like smoke.

Isaac sat up with a crack, his shout thundering like a drum. “Then it’s set! I’ll declare the Blazing Fire Knight a defector! No one stops me!”

A low laugh drifted from opposite, smooth as silk over a blade. “Heh… heh. You’re too naive, brother.”

Eyes swung to the sound. Isaac frowned, glance sharp as a hawk. “Satia, what rotten scheme this time?”

He pointed at her, temper pricking like nettles. “And don’t forget—two months ago I made a fool of myself because of you.”

“I know,” she said, cool as tea under moonlight. “But half of that was yours.”

“You dare say I’m at fault? You dare say the Crown Heir is at fault?”

“Heh… heh…” Satia’s smile lingered, thin as cat’s whiskers in shade.

She let it fade, voice firming like a drawn bow. “Set the Blazing Fire Knight aside. You all know the Dark Spirit Empire’s uncanny weapon.”

Heads nodded; Isaac’s contempt rang like gravel. “I heard they call it the Wasteland Deity.”

“A carved stone, clearly man‑made, praised as divine grace—Dark Spirit fools,” he said, laughter clattering like dry bones.

Satia narrowed her eyes, her tone cooling like frost on jade. “By our original plan, their bizarre engine would be summoned to Doran’s Timber Bay. Doran had no answer—”

“It would rampage, the coast would char like scorched fields, and then we’d extend a saving hand. Humans of Doran would hail us as saviors—”

“Enough, Satia,” Isaac cut in, irritation buzzing like hornets. “Spare me these public‑opinion games. Doran’s a vassal. To control it, grab the royal throat.”

“And that,” she laughed, the sound chiming like bells with frost, “is where you’re naive, dear brother.”

Isaac shuddered like a stallion spooked, sprang up, and hammered the table, his roar blazing like noon sun. “Don’t call me that! I’m the next emperor, the greatest under heaven!”

“Great as I am, don’t doubt I’ll give you what you want!” His words strode like banners in wind.

She sighed, soft as plum blossoms in snow. “So cold. Ever think I’m acting out of kinship, not profit?”

“You—disgusting woman!” Isaac’s face went dark as stormclouds; he scanned the room, calm returning like a tide. “Fine. If not the Blazing Fire Knight, what’s your next move?”

“That’s the imperial bearing,” Satia said, praise glinting like lacquer, then pointed at the map spread like a river of ink.

She placed an eagle piece on Doran’s Timber Bay, the talons posed like lightning. “Originally, the enemy’s engine appears here.”

She slid the piece to the Republic’s northern border, snowline tight as a blade. “But the teleport altar’s wrecked. For their politics, they might drop it straight onto the battlefield.”

A watcher murmured, voice thin as reed wind. “Then the human front will collapse like paper in rain?”

“Yes,” Satia said. “So we prepared the Dragon Knight, a Divine Warrior gifted by the Light Deity.”

She took an angel‑shaped miniature, set it at Timber Bay like a star over waves. “By plan, it would descend as Timber Bay burned, to face their engine. But the plan has shifted.”

She lifted it north, blocking the eagle like a shield before a charge. “Our knights must arrive with the Divine Warrior ahead of other factions, to plant our banner.”

She fell quiet, gaze resting on Isaac like dusk on water.

He understood at once, his frown deepening like carved wood. “So you want me to lead from the front?”

“As expected of the next emperor,” Satia said, voice bright as steel. “With you leading, humans who’ve never seen a Divine Warrior won’t panic; our riders will find courage. Then, empire and vassals alike, your fame will spread like wildfire.”

“Spare me your sickly praise,” Isaac rasped, swallowing heat like embers. “Fine. This time I’ll follow your lead, Satia.”

“As expected of the next emperor,” she said, the compliment settling like a seal.

“But!” Isaac’s calm cracked, his glare flared like a blade. “That Blazing Fire Knight punk grates on me. When I’m emperor, once the knights find him, I’ll tear him to pieces.”

“May your wish be fulfilled,” she said, smooth as silk.

…

Ten kilometers north of Leighton Highlands lay a vast primeval forest soaked in corrupt miasma, its breath thick as marsh fog.

Because of that taint, fog clung like a shroud, so people called it the Mist Forest.

It was just before dawn, sky pale as ash.

Fulin, wearing Shelika’s face, moved through the Mist Forest, following a map like a thread through briars.

The map was spoils from last night’s clash, taken off a Fallen‑man warrior, its ink sharp as knife lines.

In war, a precise map is a lantern in the dark.

Shelika’s map traced a true route through the Mist Forest, a line like a river vein.

Cross this fogbound swath—a hundred kilometers north to south—and you reach the far south of the Dark Spirit Empire, a horizon of stone ribs.

The far south was a rock‑belt wasteland, harsh as sun‑bleached bone; push three hundred kilometers north through it, and cities rise like teeth.

Cross forest and wasteland, trek to a Dark Spirit city—that was Fulin’s road, a bowstring drawn toward shadow.

She could fly if she knew every mark, wings like ink strokes across sky.

But over the Mist Forest, Celestial Spirit and Dark Spirit wove an anti‑air net like spider silk; Fulin couldn’t promise she’d slip unseen.

So she walked as Shelika among trees, bark and moss her cloak; if spotted, Shelika’s skin would hide Fulin’s heart.

By that measure, the journey felt steady as a mountain path.

As Shelika walked and thought, the Eternal War Armor behind her halted, still as a stone guardian.

“What is it, big guy? Did I miss something?” Fulin kept Lance’s cadence, even casual words shaped like his blade.

Beep. Beep.

The three‑meter machine raised a steel arm, pointing ahead like a spear in mist.

Shelika peered into the black thicket, a mouth of shadow.

She saw nothing, only ink‑dark trunks and wet leaves like scales.

But as its rider, Shelika trusted the Armor’s senses—eyes like falcons behind steel.

She didn’t doubt it; she summoned a Vanguard and let it hover like a moth under moon.

She pointed forward and ordered the servitor, quiet as dew, “Slip ahead. Keep it hidden.”

The Vanguard slid on, threading branches and vines like a needle through silk, its flight whisper‑soft.

Shelika closed her left eye, sinking into the feed like water into sand; vision bloomed gray‑white.

The night‑view rolled, flanking scenery gliding past like riverbanks.

It flew steady for five minutes, heartbeat even as a drum.

The Vanguard stopped, a pause hanging like a held breath.

Through the link, Shelika exhaled, a sigh thin as mist. “As expected.”

She saw a camp veiled inside the forest—a Shadowspirit Legion nest recessed like a burrow.

Fallen‑men stood bored on watch, their posture sagging like damp straw; a knight of the Abyssal Demonic Human Race scanned from a crude tower like a crow on a post.

“Close call…” Shelika pressed a hand to her chest, nerve tight as wire. “Another step and we’d be seen.”

“You agree, big guy?” She glanced back at the Eternal War Armor, its frame looming like a silent cliff.

Beep.

It was a yes, clipped as a spark.

Even so, Shelika hit a snag—her map drew a lone path forward, a thread through needles, and the camp sat on it like a boulder.

“Do we skirt wide, or punch straight through?” she muttered, caught between briar and stone.