"Uh, Cynthia?"

"What is it?"

Cynthia set a crate of towels on the floor.

"I need to take the day off. Something’s come up."

"Of course," she said, stepping closer. "But I’m curious—what exactly are you up to?"

She knew better than anyone how small Boke’s social circle was. He rarely left the shop except for deliveries. The last time they’d gone out together was only because Dorin had insisted on a picnic, dragging Boke along.

"Just... a thing," he replied without batting an eye. "Master Gena wrote yesterday. He wants help transplanting flowers in his courtyard."

"Oh, I see." She tilted her head. "Will you be back for dinner?"

"No, it might take a while."

"Alright. Be back early." Cynthia planted her hands on her hips. "And is Aisha tagging along too?"

Aisha stood rigidly beside Boke, her expression unreadable. She occasionally accompanied him on errands, but only if the destination was nearby—her stubbornness usually kept her rooted in place. That’s why Cynthia’s eyes narrowed now.

"Never seen a big house," Aisha stated flatly. "Want to see."

"My little girl, interested in *that*?" Cynthia ruffled her hair. "How rare."

Aisha ducked her head, silent. Around Cynthia, she always seemed powerless.

"Boke," Cynthia said, her smile sharp, "if I catch even a whiff of alcohol on her breath when you return... you understand what that means, right?"

"O-oh! Got it."

*So she’s jumping to conclusions again.*

"Alright then. Stay safe out there."

With Cynthia’s permission, Boke and Aisha headed for the door.

"Wait."

Her voice stopped them.

"Y-yes?"

"Winston’s niece might arrive sooner than expected," Cynthia said softly. "Prepare yourself. Don’t embarrass us when the time comes."

"Understood."

After a few more warnings, Boke and Aisha finally left. At the end of Mire Street, Dragonfolk waited for them. Together, they marched toward the National Grand Theatre.

Alva and the others had spent all night trying to dissuade him. But once Boke made up his mind, nothing could sway him.

Today, the National Grand Theatre hosted the Emperor’s invitation to foreign envoys—a Birth Festival tradition. Guards would seal the place from dawn till dusk. Whatever Lupin planned, challenging a Holy Templar to a duel in the Emperor’s presence was unforgivable. Even by knightly code.

Boke’s heart churned with dread and hope. *Please, let nothing happen.* He wasn’t doing this for the Dragonfolk.

Cynthia and Lola were Baird’s dying wish—his hard-won family. He wouldn’t let cowardice in a duel shatter their lives. Some things were worth dying to protect.

*...Though if it gets bad,* he thought grimly, *I’ll just kneel and beg. Alastor wouldn’t kill a nobody like me.*

By the time they reached the theatre, crowds already choked the streets. As tradition dictated, the royal family would enter first. Spectators pressed forward just to glimpse them. Boke’s group arrived late—too late to see the Emperor, too late to squeeze near the entrance. Only when performances began did the throng slowly thin.

The theatre rivalled the nearby library in scale. Its two-tiered amphitheatre design stood unique, circular walls carved with stone figures of every shape.

Before they reached the gates, guards blocked their path. Boke and Aisha looked ordinary, but the green-robed Dragonfolk drew stares.

After checking their tickets, the guards paled. *Foreign envoys*, they realized—these odd robes were diplomatic attire. Their earlier rudeness could spark an international incident.

Envoys were the Emperor’s honored guests. Boke’s group, however, held public tickets—rare draws from street administration lotteries. Valid tickets meant passage. Boke almost wished they’d been detained for questioning. *It’d be an excuse to miss Lupin’s challenge.*

Music and singing drifted from inside.

Stepping into the auditorium stole Boke’s breath. The circular hall held nearly a thousand people, packed tight. Heat washed over him. At the stage’s edge, resonance stones—mined from northern mountains—amplified sound fiftyfold, vibrating through the very air.

An usher checked their tickets and guided them to seats.

Their row was far back—not ideal, but better than the deafening front rows. The theatre’s acoustics carried sound perfectly to the rear.

The royal family sat elevated on the second tier.

"Is that the Emperor?"

"Mm." Aisha nodded.

"Too far. Can’t see anything," Boke grumbled.

"Your eyesight’s just terrible."

"Look how many surround him."

Today’s audience mixed commoners with nobles and merchants. The Dragonfolk stood out starkly. Whispers spread; those who recognized them stared with awe and unease. Beyond their mystique, Dragonfolk healers were legendary.

The music faded. The main performance began.

Boke had zero appreciation for theatre. He nearly dozed off—until the Birth Festival’s origin story unfolded.

It matched Mia’s tale: Amir dissolved into dust to guard humanity. Each time the crimson moon rose, she battled demons to shield the world. But one detail the princess omitted surfaced now:

As Amir’s body became dust, her spirit transformed into living beings to watch over the world.

Boke frowned. *Human history spans millennia. How old would Amir’s spirit be?*

"If gods truly existed," he muttered, "would there be so much killing? Why doesn’t Amir stop it?"

"Wrong."

Lola, the Dragonfolk girl beside him, spoke softly.

"What?"

"Because gods exist, killing is *rare*. Because she intervenes, order survives. But you wouldn’t understand."

Boke fell silent, words failing him.

"I... don’t get it."

"Some truths seem complex but are simple," Lola smiled faintly. "Find the core, and you touch reality."

"I’m more confused now..." He had no idea what she meant.

Aisha glared at Lola, eyes sharp as blades.

"If you think his brain can’t get any emptier," she snapped, "I won’t stop you. But don’t fill it with useless things."

"Fine, fine." Lola raised her hands. "I’ll stay quiet."

"You’d better." Aisha’s gaze turned lethal. "Or I’ll rip the scales off your back."

"Scary."

"You have scales on your back?" Boke asked.

"Oh yes," Lola winked. "Something special. Find a quiet spot, and I’ll show you."

*Snap!*

Aisha lunged to bite her—but Lola dodged smoothly. Teeth clicked on empty air.

"Alright, alright!" Lola spread her palms. "No more teasing him."

Boke realized she’d been joking. Aisha likely meant Dragonfolk scales—patches of them grew on their skin.

About the duel with Lupin... Boke had rehearsed his plan. He wasn’t weak. With a bow in hand, he might even hold his own. He’d once grazed Knight-Captain Rosha in a skirmish. Alastor was just a regular knight, right?

"Alva," he asked, "what do you know about Lupin?"

"Alastor," rumbled Alva’s voice. "Second son of Angora’s noble house."

"Ah, explains his poise." Boke pondered. "But he’s not *that* strong, is he?"

He unscrewed his thermos—Cynthia’s homemade broth, kept warm for him—and took a sip before offering it to Aisha.

"Him?" Alva’s eyes narrowed. "He’s one of the Nine Holy Templars. Angora’s greatest swordsman. That’s all."

*Ptooey!*

Boke spat the broth straight onto a nobleman’s bald head.

"You—you old man! Trying to kill me?!" the noble sputtered.

"Sir Boke! What’s wrong?!" Andrew gasped.

Aisha pressed a hand to her forehead. "These idiots never change," she muttered. "Are they brilliantly stupid, or just stupidly brilliant?"

Below, the performance music cut off abruptly.

Like the spluttering noble, Boke froze.

*What’s happening?*

Performers scattered from the stage.

Silence stretched.

Then—a knight leapt from the second tier. He landed on bent knees, shattering marble beneath his armored boots. Drawing his greatsword, he raised it high and slammed it into the stage floor. Steel sank deep.

"By the Oath of Legacy," his voice boomed, "I, Lupin Alastor—"