Outside the Misty Forest, at the foot of the hills toward Leyton Heights, the United Legion’s camp breathed under dusk like a banked ember.

Even at twilight, the camp bustled like a hive, knights and soldiers weaving through torch-smoke like fireflies in wind.

A knight from the Farm Kingdom trudged in with a weary squad, their steps dragging like boots through wet clay.

Back in camp, he parted from his men like a stream splitting, then headed for the center like an arrow finding a mark.

His chest tightened like a knotted rope as he stared at the spot where the command tent had been, now swallowed by a luxurious caravan like a peacock among sparrows.

He eyed the coach that clashed with every plain canvas around it, a polished shell gleaming like lacquer under lantern light.

Uneasy thuds in his heart like distant drums, he saluted the Imperial knights guarding the coach, their armor cold as moonlight.

With permission granted, he took the offered towel like a peace token and wiped away days of grime clinging like leeches.

He scrubbed off mud and burrs like dead leaves, straightened himself like a spear, and only then dared to step inside.

Only then did he risk entering that over-lavish coach, a gilded cage glimmering like amber.

Within, he sank to one knee like a shadow folding, and reported in a voice lined with apology: “Your Highness, after three days of searching, my knights are exhausted like spent arrows. Could we suspend the search for the Blazing Fire Knight for one day?”

The coach’s master was Isaac, First Crown Prince of the Heavenly Spirit Empire, a calm blade sheathed in silk.

He reclined in a plush office chair like a lion on a throne, skimming documents while elven maids kneaded his shoulders like waves smoothing sand.

Only after a full minute dripped by like wax did Isaac lift his head, his gaze cool as frost.

“You haven’t found him, yet you want rest—on what grounds?” His voice looked down like a hawk over field mice.

The knight spoke, sorrow weighing his words like rain-soaked cloth: “Your Highness, the Misty Forest is vast as a sea, and it’s tainted by the Evil Barrier like rot in old timber. The inside is labyrinthine and vicious as thorns, and we even found a camp of the Shadowspirit Legion—”

“We’ve already lost five knights to this,” he added, the number heavy as stones.

Isaac snapped like a whip crack, impatience flaring like sparks: “I asked for results, not to hear you whine.”

The knight bit down on his tongue like biting a bridle, and bent his head like a reed in wind.

A few heartbeats later, Isaac’s tone cooled like steel in water. “So. Have you found the Blazing Fire Knight?”

“No, but—” The word snagged like cloth on a nail.

Isaac’s brow rose like a drawn bow. “But what?”

Cautious as a man on thin ice, the knight said, “We found large tracks around the forest marshes, and some Battle Aura residue on-site like ash after flame. We’re not sure if it was left by the Blazing Fire Knight or by something else in the forest.”

“Then why didn’t you track it?” Isaac’s voice cut like a blade on bone.

“Beyond that point was the Dark Spirit Empire’s ground,” the knight said, the truth rough as gravel. “My squad couldn’t risk it.”

He lowered his head again like night falling, and Isaac cursed like thunder rolling. “A pack of cowards.”

Then, almost as if offering balm, he added, “Fine. That at least confirms the Blazing Fire Knight has defected.”

“Your Highness! If that’s so, this is dire as a storm front,” the knight blurted, fear rising like smoke. “He’s wearing the Eternal War Armor. A Blazing Fire Knight in that suit equals the combined strength of several Sky Rank Knights. If he turns to the enemy, the consequences are unthinkable.”

Isaac waved the worry away like a gnat, a smile thin as a knife. “That thing’s an antique in the Empire, old-generation performance. It’s nothing compared to our current dragoons.”

He flicked his eyes aside like pointing with a fan, toward the massive suit that filled half the coach like a slumbering beast.

“Fire-Dragon War Armor, Ifrit,” he said, the name burning like a brand.

The knight followed his gaze and his eyes swelled with awe, worry, and relief, emotions rising like tides under a red moon.

Awe came first, because days ago he watched Isaac in that armor dive into enemy lines like a meteor, laying waste as it vented flame like a wyvern torching the earth.

Worry followed, because this armor that magnifies a knight’s power like a furnace’s bellows is tech only the Empire owns, a collar of iron on every smaller nation’s neck.

If his homeland were ever discarded by the Empire or met it blade to blade, this killing engine would drive out his people like wolves from a fold.

Relief, though, cooled his brow like a night breeze, for he was a knight of the Farm Kingdom, and the one under the heaviest imperial cloud now was the Doran Kingdom.

The Blazing Fire Knight had defected like a star falling into the wrong sky.

If the Empire chose to seize Doran and yoke its people like oxen, no excuse would be sharper than this.

In the end, the humans of Nordland were meant to be vassals of the Celestial Spirit, like rivers bound for the sea; defy fate, and meet this shore.

With that thought, the United Legion knight felt ridiculously lucky, luck clinging like a charm on his chest.

Many in the United Legion carried the same belief like a shared prayer.

Isaac flicked his hand like dismissing dust. “Go. Halt the search for now. We’ll deal with the rest when the main force pushes the line.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The knight basked in the granted respite like a man in rare sunlight.

At the same hour, Fulin, wearing the role of Shelika like a borrowed mask, worked overtime without complaint like a steady tide.

A site worker held up a torch like a small sun and guided her hand, shouting over wind, “Here, here—set the stone here. Steady. Good!”

Under Shelika’s spell power, another slab drifted like a slow moon and settled true onto the broken wall.

Several workers surged in like ants with mortar, pasting the seams with a paste like wet cement.

Then another slab, and another, the crew repeating their motions like prayer beads slipped through calloused fingers.

The cycle turned on and on like a waterwheel until ten at night, and most workers collapsed on the ground like felled trees.

Though the men were spent, Shelika showed no fatigue, her pulse calm as a lake at dawn.

She lounged in the beach chair prepared for her like a throne of canvas, nibbling fruit delivered fresh as dew.

The foreman came over with an apologetic face like a wrinkled map, and told her the day’s work was done.

“It’s over already?” Shelika asked, as if no weight had pressed her shoulders, her voice light as drifting ash.

The foreman blinked, then laughed and praised, his words tumbling like pebbles, “As expected of a mage of the Blood Clan—your mana runs deep as a well!”

“Does it?” Shelika frowned slightly, doubt crossing her face like a cloud.

It was a misunderstanding, and she knew it like a secret stone; the Dark Blood Clan can convert blood they draw into spell power, but in pure mana, they’re not much above Earthfolk or the Demonic Human Race.

Chatting like neighbors over a fence, the foreman spoke of the other walls: “South, west, and east hired formal mages this afternoon, and rushed the work like storm crews.”

“But ours finished first,” he said, thumping his chest like a drum. “At least the beasts won’t come in from here!”

At his boast, Shelika’s curiosity rose like a candle flame. “You really like this job?”

The foreman scratched his head like a farmer weighing grain. “Can’t say I like it. It feeds the family.”

It was a simple reason, plain as bread.

“I see,” Shelika sighed, the sound soft as mist.

She knew in her bones, like frost knows winter, that under this continent’s struggle for hegemony, aside from the knights and mages at the front, most were common folk clawing for life; no matter who rose or fell, the bitter cup stayed in their hands.

“But if we can spare the city from monster disasters,” he added, honest as sunlight, “that still makes me happy.”

That attitude was one reason Shelika didn’t mind the overtime, a small light like a hearth in rain.

Of course, money mattered too, as steady as hunger.

“My overtime isn’t cheap,” Shelika said as she stood, her smile sharp as a crescent blade.

“Got it, got it,” the foreman chirped, nodding like a woodpecker.

He handed her another bag of coin, and she weighed it in her palm like a ripe fruit.

151 Lubi.

With the 230 Lubi from dusk, today’s hauling earned her 381 Lubi, a tidy stack like bricks.

“Minus 40 Lubi for dinner at the blood station, and then—” Shelika walked and tallied, numbers sliding like beads on an abacus.

The sum looked promising, hope blooming like spring; give it two more days and she could cover the pilgrimage fee, and scrape by on anything else.

With that thought, her mood lifted like a kite catching wind.

“Time to hunt Evil Barrier Crystals.” After a simple meal at the blood station, Shelika decided happily to take the next job.

To gather the Evil Barrier Crystals, she slipped outside the city like a shadow, and took the main road toward the cave from before.

On the way, a knight of the Demonic Human Race hailed her like a spear crossing her path.

“You there, Blood Clan!” He came up with several soldiers like a dark net. “Stop. You’re not going any farther.”