Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 6 - Chapter 3

Late Autumn of the Fifteenth Year

Epilogue

After a campaign concludes, the GM may offer a third-party retrospective on how the PCs’ actions were viewed by the world at large. Seeing the bird’s-eye view of how ridiculous or heroic an adventure was is yet another part of tabletop fun.

“We’re out of cash.”

After making our way to a big city for the first time in ages, I curtly refused Dietrich’s suggestion to splurge on a nice inn.

“Huh? Wait, what’d you say?”

“We’re out of money.”

“Why?!”

Why do you think?!

As much as I wanted to shout, I held myself back and calmly opened my backpack to show her the yawning void within that had once been enough food to fuel a one-man mission.

That’s right: Dietrich had eaten us into penury.

Fourteen days had passed since we’d parted ways with Mr. Gerulf and his family. The critical failures of fortune that had marked the first leg of my trip home had vanished without a trace, leaving us with peaceful days on the road.

Yet as placid as our travels were, every passing day steadily chipped away at my savings. All the money we were supposed to save on meals by helping load and unload cargo came back with a vengeance, and neither of us could bring ourselves to seek out another merchant, what with all the trouble it could bring. Add the occasional stay at an inn to soothe our souls, and my wallet was draining, fast.

Putting aside the fact that this big eater was just as big a drinker.

Figuring that I could let her enjoy herself every now and then, I’d indulged her request to drink and dine at the last inn to devastating results. Her digestive system wasn’t in her upper body, but her huge equine frame; the amount she could ingest was simply on another level compared to a mensch. I had to admit that this was on me for miscalculating: zentaurs had to chew carefully to pass food down the long passage to their stomachs, and I’d foolishly thought that all the chewing would make her fill up faster.

Seeing her go wild in an inn had made me realize that she really had been holding back on the road. I’d let it slide on the basis that she was stocking up for when we resumed travel—apparently, zentaurs could actually do that—but that one meal had set me back twenty librae.

From there, the compounding costs of rations and daily life quickly sucked the life out of my once-plump wallet. I knew I’d started with a big cushion of ten drachmae, but at this rate, I’d have burned through half of it by the time I reached Konigstuhl.

Initially, I’d hoped to get home using one gold coin. I’d planned to launch myself onto the frontier with the remaining funds, and it was all I’d have to tide me over until I could find work—I couldn’t afford to spend it at random. If I wanted to make my adventuring dreams come true, I’d figured that eight drachmae ought to be my minimum acceptable value.

Once I got home, I wanted to support my family with a big sum up front, since I wouldn’t be making as much in the immediate future. From there, Margit and I—though I supposed Dietrich might come along—would need considerable cash to make it to the outer reaches of the Empire.

But after pitying Dietrich for only having one set of clothes and paying for our meals, I’d burned three drachmae. I wasn’t even close to home yet. And I’d known clothes were expensive, but seeing prices for specialty goods tailored for uncommon body types had nearly made me hurl.

From now on, though, I couldn’t afford to waste another penny: I needed the capital to put together a life for myself.

“Aww... No booze?”

“You drank plenty last time. A mensch would’ve burst in a shower of pickled gore if they tried to match you.”

“C’mon, that doesn’t count as drinking. I only took two pisses!”

Dietrich was the type to drink, let her liver figure it out, flush, and drink again. But while she was the textbook example of a habitual carouser, I had to acknowledge that there was some truth to her claim that she’d shown some restraint: after all, the spirit of liquor hadn’t once overstayed its welcome. She woke up every morning sober, so I’d give her credit where credit was due.

Still, the cheapest swill still added up when it flowed free—even cruddy, sour beers with bits of grain floating in them.

“A young lady shouldn’t be taking pisses,” I chastised. “You should say you’re picking flowers, or at least that you’re going to the restroom—”

“A piss is a piss, and no fancy words’ll change that. It’s not like I’m gonna start crapping flower petals if I beat around the bush.”

Ugh, what am I going to do with her? I spent a moment trying to think up ways to drill some manners into the little rebel, but eventually decided that she looked the part of a nice lady when she shut up, and that was good enough for now. Etiquette wasn’t something one could learn in a day, and I was around to handle those matters for the time being.

“All the inns in this district look so gloomy,” Dietrich moped.

Our first taste of urban life in quite some time came in the form of a city called Wisenburg. Located in the Lausitz administrative state, it was a metropolis three thousand citizens strong; the Southern Sword mountain range towered in the northwest, with several smaller peaks rich with metals lying just south of it.

The signature silver and iron mines of the city meant that the officially registered citizenry made up only a fraction of the real population. Itinerant miners, rural folks who dropped by to repay their labor taxes, and fugitives forced into labor by the state made up another fifteen thousand semipermanent residents.

Once the precious metals were cast into ingots here, they were shipped elsewhere to be turned into products or minted into coins. I’d heard that it wasn’t feasible to keep the whole supply chain local: mining required enough wood as it was, and the forests of the area couldn’t sustain the huge fuel requirements of smithing on top of that. Even so, the booming industry that was present sufficed to draw in huge crowds of workers—naturally, there were plenty of lodgings for every kind of customer.

“They all have a roof and four walls—that’s the height of luxury.”

“But I want a room built to fit a cen—ugh, zentaur.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

In a sea of options, our shallow purses meant we’d have to choose the cheapest place that looked remotely decent. At worst, I could do something about fleas and lice with magic. I just needed to bring myself back into the chill-inducing mind state required to call Lady Agrippina my sister: the madam had subjected me to some truly awful inns, and if I lowered my standards to be ever so slightly better than that, we wouldn’t have any problems finding a place to stay.

Unfortunately, Dietrich’s build demanded some extra consideration. Zentaurs were as tall as ogres and unable to sleep in a normal bed. She’d feel cramped if the ceiling was too low, and she’d stick out at every angle if the bed was too small.

Like horses, zentaurs tended only to sleep for anywhere between half an hour and three hours at a time. They could doze off standing up too, but could end up falling over during deep sleep. Instead, they preferred to lay down on thin bedding—similar to a Japanese futon—or to at least have a flat surface around waist height to rest their upper bodies on. While some things could be compromised on, I wasn’t too keen on denying her restful sleep everywhere we went.

Alas, the average inn was designed for average people: bipedal, standing upright, and roughly a meter or two in height. When the majority of customers fit this description, it was hard to find an inn that catered to the extra large.

Zentaurs, ogres, and the like also struggled to find good bathhouses. Standard baths came up to their hips at most when sitting down, and steam baths were usually tight squeezes. I couldn’t blame Dietrich for needing a bit more specialization there.

Establishments tailored for the gentry would solve all her problems: they had high ceilings, baths entirely too big for a single person, and furnishings to fit any body type. Better yet, all the amenities could be swapped out for more custom replacements, proving that higher prices truly did buy better service. Not that we could afford that, though—blowing a silver coin every night just for the most bare-bones room was out of the question, especially since we planned to stay in the city for a few days to recuperate.

Ignoring Dietrich’s grumbling, I walked along and scoured the signs until I came across one with an emblem of a horn, fang, and scale—the industry’s marker for inns that catered to nonstandard folk.

The business didn’t have its own bath, the toilets were communal, and hungry patrons would have to make a trip to the local pub; it was basically just a motel, complete with stained bedsheets. Still, there weren’t any creepies or crawlies laying claim to the place from midday on, so I could put up with it.

I quietly Cleaned the place up with magic; Dietrich was puzzled as to why such a nice room cost so little, but that was proof that I hadn’t been spotted. As long as she hadn’t seen me, then I was content to keep doing it: getting bit by bedbugs was awful, and Lady Agrippina would just have to forgive me.

Once we dropped off our luggage, I handed off the Dioscuri to a nearby stable and we walked into the closest diner to grab lunch.

“Man, we really are burning cash.” After purchasing a standard meal and drink, I peered into my wallet. Only containing the silver and copper coins for ease of use, my purse was looking much thinner than it once had. Unless I could find a new source of income, we’d need to live meagerly for the foreseeable future. “I guess we either pick up an odd job or find a new caravan...”

“Hey, wait. Look at that.”

Knocking back a swig of beer without a care in the world, Dietrich tugged at my sleeve. I looked up to see a wall full of fliers. Among the many that meant nothing to vagabonds like us like barter deals, missing persons requests, or marriage offers, one stood out: positioned front and center was an official announcement that bore the seal of the local lord.

“A martial arts tournament?”

The notice was adorned with a drawing of two plain swordsmen locked in combat, and advertised a series of trials of arms. These were common throughout the Empire: even at the canton level, we’d had seasonal strongman contests in Konigstuhl, and I’d heard our relatives’ town held time trials to see who could cut down a tree fastest or hold up a rock for the longest time. This was the same thing, but scaled up. The noble hosting it would probably justify it as a means of scouting out capable soldiers, but in truth, this was a way of tossing the people a bone.

We were in a mining town, after all. A “harvest” festival in the fall probably didn’t mean much to the populace, and the Harvest Goddess likely didn’t even have a temple here. In Her place would be the God of Metals and maybe His brother, the God of Trials; a martial tournament was perfect to let the people blow off steam.

Besides, while this would still be a contest of battlefield skills, it wasn’t going to be as bloody as what one might see in the Colosseum of classical Rome or the castles of old Suruga. More idyllic than those, the competition ranged across many different categories: jousting, group combat, javelin throwing, long-distance archery, horseback archery, and so on, and so on; none saw its entrants fight to the death.

The Emperor of Creation had banned the killing of people for sport, and the organizers would obviously not want to let their most prized fighters die for the sake of entertainment. From where I stood, it seemed like the execution of criminals had devolved to fill that niche, but I guessed that technically didn’t count.

The main event was jousting: jockeys clad in dazzling armor rode up on their horses to earn glory in battle—but with blunted swords and training lances. So long as they didn’t tumble off their steeds in a particularly unfortunate way, there wasn’t any risk of death. Second most popular were the one-on-one duels, also held with mock weapons; you’d need a particularly worked-up contestant to cross the line with those. Of course, thrashing one another with metal rods still wasn’t safe, and an unlucky exchange could still put someone in bed for months.

“Whoa,” I gasped. “First place in each category is five drachmae!”

That was a huge payout. The singles jousting tournament—group battles had been more popular in medieval Europe, but individual valor was easier to see one-on-one and was thus more popular in the Empire—and singles duels I’d mentioned made for two. On top of that were both the distance javelin toss and one geared toward accuracy; archery similarly had separate categories for multitarget, long-distance, and horseback. Add unarmed combat and a few others to the mix, and there were more than ten total categories: that was over fifty drachmae, just in prize money.

By my estimate, the local lord was a big fan of martial sports. Factoring in the venue fees and miscellaneous costs, the tournament would have to cost hundreds of gold coins to put on. Sure, that wasn’t a huge dent in an aristocrat’s treasury, but it was a lot to pay for the trouble of having to ask one’s superior for permission to do extra work.

“This is perfect,” I said. “We should just barely make the registration deadline, and the whole thing should only stop us for ten days or so. I think it’s worth signing up.”

“Me too. I wanna buy my own bedding already, and I can’t let my tutelary spirit share a spot with my luggage forever. I want another mule or two.” Dietrich lowered her voice and mumbled into her mug, but I could still clearly hear her from a mere table’s length away. “And I feel kinda bad making you pay for everything.”

This was a good opportunity for her. The only money she’d earned thus far was her share of cleaning up the bandits; yet she’d had to spend that pretty quickly just to scrape by.

I pretended not to have heard her last comment—she’d just get embarrassed and deny it if I pointed it out—and instead asked about something that piqued my curiosity.

“What’s a tutelary spirit?”

“Well, a zentaur’s back is a holy place. We all get our own god watching over us, made up of the souls of our ancestors. That’s why we never let people ride on our backs, and we try not to carry stuff like that either.” She eyed me for a second and added, “Did you not know that? I’m pretty sure the zentaurs around here have the same tradition.”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a zentaur let anyone ride them.”

Looking back, I’d seen zentaurs using mensch-catered backpacks that went over their shoulders, but never a saddlelike knapsack. Although I could think of exceptions in heroic epics where brave zentaur knights carried their lords through enemy lines or whatnot, none in real life had broken the rule for mundane work—not even in the melting pot of Berylin. It was only now that I could understand just how heroic the zentaur heroes of sagas had been.

“See? Walking around with my dumb armor chest isn’t just lame, it’s an offense to my ancestors—so I really want the money. How about you? What are you entering? The jousting one?”

“No, if I remember right, I think you have to put up your armor and horse as collateral to enter a jousting competition. I don’t have any fancy plate armor, and I’m not even that confident with a lance. I think I’ll just stick to the one-on-one duels.”

“Huh, okay. I think I’ll go with archery. It says you can enter multiple categories, so I’ll probably go and do all three.”

“Uh... Are zentaurs allowed to compete in horseback archery?”

That has to be cheating, right? Swallowing back my thoughts, I downed the tasteless soup in my bowl so we could hurry up and go register at the main gate. If we could just win one of the categories, it’d cover the food costs for this bottomless hole I called a companion. Plus, I was sure Dietrich wanted to buy herself replacements for all the stuff her previous crew had stolen; it was time to get a little bit serious.

“Confident?” I asked.

“Duh, I’m confident. Not like there’s gonna be anyone strong at a backwater tournament like this. You better not lose to some country hick from bumfuck nowhere, you hear?”

“Bum...ugh. I don’t plan on losing, but personally, I’d be happier if the competition is strong. It’ll give me a chance to hone my skills, and a good fight is way more enjoyable than a one-sided beatdown.”

“...You know, I’ve been thinking this for a while, but you sure would fit in with a zentaur tribe.”

“Why’s that?”

My genuine question was met with a weary expression that screamed, You just don’t get it.

Wait, hold on—did she think I was some kind of battle-crazed maniac? I know we’d been sparring pretty much every night, and I admittedly did want to see how my skills fared against the wider world, but that didn’t mean that was my top priority or anything.

As we walked to the reception, I tried to explain away Dietrich’s misunderstanding; yet the whole way there, she simply shrugged me off.

[Tips] Martial tournaments in the Empire are recreational events that, legally speaking, are similar to private military parades. More than just the hobbyhorse of militaristic nobles, the occasions serve as a proving grounds for wandering fighters seeking employment, and many warriors will cross national borders aiming to partake.

Signing up for the one-on-one duels went by without incident. The clerk I spoke to didn’t put up any protest, and nobody turned up to make a hackneyed remark about how letting a snot-nosed punk like me in the ring was assisted suicide with extra steps.

Not that I’d wanted that, of course, but I’d been a bit worried—what with my appearance and all. However, according to the clerk, plenty of farm boys fresh from their coming-of-age ceremonies gathered around to show off their strength and put their names out there. Anyone was allowed to enter so long as they paid the fee, and two copper quarters were all it took to book a place in the competition.

The same could not be said for Dietrich.

It seemed that this was the first time a zentaur had ever expressed interest in this tournament series’s horseback archery category, and the clerk had the same reaction as me, ultimately prompting them to call their boss: “Horseback archery? Horse? Back? Uh...is that allowed?”

Figures. I mean, she’s not on a horse’s back. She’s just part horse. That has to be cheating.

After getting the manager, the manager then sent a message to the lord hosting the tournament, who allegedly responded with an energetic, “Sure, that sounds fun!” Despite the noble’s decision, though, the desk worker handling our reception still seemed unconvinced. Don’t worry, I’m right there with you.

Yet the confusion during the sign-up process was nothing compared to the state of chaos that followed.

You see, on this occasion, the local lord had opened an official gambling circuit on the outcomes of the event. Probably hoping to undercut the profits of criminal organizations and the inevitable underground bets they’d host anyway, they’d set up a counter next to the one for tournament entry so the employees could shift around the odds whenever a strong-looking challenger showed up.

The actual betting wasn’t open until after the registration period closed, but a handful of loafers were hanging around like this was the paddock of a racecourse—fitting, considering my company—in order to scout for potential winners. When they caught wind that a zentaur was entering in horseback archery, the crowd went wild.

As far back in time as the Age of Gods was, tales of the Living Scourge survived to the present day. On top of that, memories of the dromedrin—think zentaurs, but with camel bits down below—giving the imperial army serious trouble were fresh in the Rhinian zeitgeist. Anyone who was anyone knew that four-legged demihumans made for killer archers.

The number-keepers went back and forth over fears that odds so stacked would kill business and the reality that Dietrich would almost certainly win. I quickly lost count of how many times they shifted the payouts.

Figuring it would only do harm to stick around, I pulled Dietrich away, but the clamor around the gate was audible even when nearly out of view; I had no doubt their arguments went on for quite a while longer.

And when I went to check in the next day, surprise, surprise: the betting numbers for horseback archery were pretty much nothing at 1.05 odds. What this meant was that someone could bet a whole libra and only earn five assarii for being right. In the end, it looked like the bookies’ fear of the zentaur’s skill had won out. Even then, Dietrich was all but promised to win—I didn’t know how they were handling the profit skimming, but I felt bad for the people running this bet.

But, hey, you never know until you know. I didn’t want to be party to the golden ship of a 120,000,000 dollar confetti storm, so I’d do well to make sure she held off on any drinks the night before.

On a separate note, however, I was met with the exact wonderful news I’d been hoping for.

The singles duels didn’t actually begin with one-on-one fights: because of the number of participants, we were split into ten free-for-all pools, with the winner of each moving on to fight in the knockout rounds. To accommodate the format, betting was only open for this first round, and only the top fifty or so contestants had any sort of notoriety to work off. The rest were thrown into the same dark-horse category with fivefold returns.

Naturally, it didn’t make logistical sense to vet every single entrant and statistically calculate the odds of winning like the horse-racing associations of Earth. This wasn’t some underground fighting circuit where every warrior gave a whole speech every time they entered the ring; I thought it was a fair compromise.

Now, the betting houses of my past life had barred competing parties from participating—probably a means of combating match-fixing and promoting fairness. Yet there were no such rules here. In fact, a fighter was free to bet on themselves.

As vexing as it was to admit, this face I’d gotten from my mother and the leanness of my build meant no one was looking my way: I was a dark horse. But if I won with the odds stacked against me...

My lips stretched into an evil grin as I decided to earn myself a bit of sneaky pocket change.

[Tips] Imperial law allows local governments to run gambling facilities.

The tournament venue wasn’t much of a venue at all.

Fantasy settings full of swords and magic were prone to having massive amphitheaters with row after row of seats specifically to house these sorts of competitions. Alas, the capital to an administrative state was lucky to have anything comparable, let alone lesser cities. The Emperor of Creation wasn’t big on bread and circuses, and thus his Empire was sparsely populated by large-scale entertainment facilities.

In our case, the event was being held just outside the city walls. A stretch of land had been flattened out with a few bleachers for high-ranking spectators, with everyone else laying out picnic sheets to surround the empty plain we were to fight in. The arenas themselves had been weeded and trampled, with white chalk marking the boundaries. Had I not known any better, my first guess would’ve been that this was the grounds for a sports festival.

Simple as it was for a citywide event for ten thousand, it wasn’t like imperial citizens had the zeal needed to justify regular gladiatorial facilities like those of ancient Rome. Honestly, I was impressed they’d put together seating for the upper class.

The tournament was set to take place over five days, with the preliminary rounds taking place on the first and second. Days three and four were meant to thin out those who’d made it into the knockout rounds, and the last day was dedicated to the grand finale: the emblematic jousting finals.

My debut was on the afternoon of the second day. After the boxing—though pretty much anything went other than grappling—and wrestling events, the armed singles duels began.

Each of the ten preliminary pools comprised twenty to twenty-five fighters structured into a battle royale. The last man standing from each would move on to the tournament bracket on day four.

I’d been seeded into the fifth group. No one paid me much mind, and the bell beginning our match rang without anyone bothering to target me.

One point of interest was how open this melee was—that is, since everyone was free to target whomever they wished, the majority ended up dogpiling opponents they’d never beat in a fair fight. The favorite of our group was a wandering cynocephalus knight who’d built up an impressive name by putting out his fair share of trouble in the region. Unfortunately for the hyenid gnoll, he was currently struggling to fend off the dozen or so people ganging up on him.

While everyone was free to pick whatever fights they chose, gear was far more restrictive. The organizers knew there wouldn’t be any spectacle if someone mowed down the competition with enchanted weapons, and as a result, we were all bound to rent out mock equipment. Not only were our weapons blunted, but our defensive equipment was limited to worn-out junk the host’s soldiers were on the verge of throwing out. This meant contestants couldn’t brainlessly rely on bought power to brute-force victories, but it was clearly a detriment to the gnoll, who seemed more used to heavier armor.

Part of any warrior’s strength lay in their equipment, and that was especially true of a wanderer. We were the kinds of people to pour fortunes of a lifetime into weapons, armor, and miscellaneous trinkets without reserve. Yet after spending enough to build a small house on gear, we found ourselves staying in rotting inns and drinking cheap beers. Take those precious knicknacks away, and nobody in this line of work could show their true strength.

Of course, the policy was still good: had he shown up in glorious plate armor, our blunted sticks and axes wrapped in cloth would do nothing at all. I wasn’t denouncing the rule itself, but simply lamenting the fact that the knight wouldn’t be able to show his skill to the fullest.

Armor wasn’t some magic clothing that instantly made one stronger, and required genuine technique to make use of: not only did the wearer have to learn how to move fluidly in it, but with enough savviness, they could deflect attacks in ways that left the enemy open. I suspected the cynocephalus was as handicapped now as if he’d been forced to fight with his off-hand tied behind his back.

Meanwhile, I was living the good life. Half of the crowd had gone off to gang up on the gnoll, and I kept a low profile on the periphery. Whaling on one of the many in the thick of things from behind was an easier sell than facing me in an actual duel, and my rivals slowly whittled away at their own numbers. Using my lack of reputation to my advantage, I saved my energy and waited until I absolutely had to before knocking out my first opponent. Even then, I made sure not to draw any attention with a flashy finish: a tired man came swinging with a lazy approach, and I “barely” managed to react and counter.

This wasn’t me trying to use my wiles to skirt by without fatigue or injury—frankly, I could wipe the floor with a crowd of this level empty-handed. No, I just had bigger fish to fry than flaunting my strength here.

By the time I finished monotonously cleaning up the stragglers, the hyenid knight had also finished dealing with his mob. But from what I could tell, he seemed utterly drained.

I couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t a kendo match where one strike defined the round; he’d had to knock all of his opponents out, and had taken plenty of hits himself in the process. He’d managed to take most of the rabble out with one hit apiece, but not in time to avoid the cloud of swords and spears hurled his way. Dull as they were, the blunt masses had landed in a few thinly protected spots, and he was covered with bruises.

Perhaps more tiring, though, was how a handful of his opponents had run around in circles trying to wait for an opening. I surmised that chasing them down had been a major hit to his stamina.

I might’ve actually had some fun if I’d fought him at full power, but sadly, I had a journey to fund. He struck, several times more slowly than when he’d been at full strength; I slipped through and smacked him hard on the wrist to end the brawl.

“Argh...”

While I hadn’t broken his arm, I’d hit him hard enough to potentially leave a small fracture. Letting go of his large sword, he took a knee in pain; I pointed my sword right in his face as he dropped.

I smiled as he looked up in disbelief and asked him if he wanted to continue. Though there was a separate category for boxing, there wasn’t any rule barring unarmed combat. If he wanted to pick up his weapon and try again, that was well within his right.

However, the man raised his hands and surrendered in good grace. He knew that pushing the envelope when my weapon was right in his kisser was likely to end with a real injury.

“Wh-What an upset! Our winner is, um—let’s see... Uh, blond hair, mensch, short...”

An announcer with a mystic speakerphone provided live commentary for those in the back of the crowd, and he was in a proper panic. From every other direction came shrieks and boos, probably from the knight’s fans or those who’d punched him in as a winning ticket.

But I didn’t care so long as I won. I flicked away my sword and bowed to my opponent. Then, I bowed to the onlookers in every direction and left the scene.

I couldn’t care less that I’d orchestrated a boring opening fight: I was quintupling my money. Mwa ha ha, getting five drachmae for this was easy pickings. The opportunity didn’t come up often, and I ran the risk of running into a ridiculously broken enemy, but man, was this a good business.

Heh, not only could I make back what I’d lost on travel, but I’d be able to make a donation to the Konigstuhl canton at this rate. I wouldn’t want the money I sent to my family to make father and Heinz stick out in a bad way; if I built the village a new granary or covered the cost of fixing up the town square, I was sure they’d enjoy a better reputation in the community. Oh, or maybe I could buy old Holter a mate.

“Man, you sure do love your schemes.”

“Aw, come on. You’re not going to accuse me of playing dirty, are you?”

Dietrich was waiting for me back in the tent that served as the competitors’ waiting room. She didn’t seem like she’d been worried; rather, she was as much a spectator as the best of them. Munching on fish and sipping on booze—which she must’ve bought at a huge markup from the vendors wading through the crowds—she was the spitting image of a hopeless addict at the racetrack.

“I mean, I know it’s not like you threw the match, but...c’mon, those guys were chumps.”

“That last knight wasn’t a chump—he was a great hero with poems in his name. The announcer talked him up before things started, remember?”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. It’s just...couldn’t you have gone in all fancy like when you beat me? It was so boring.”

“I wonder if you can say that again after seeing this.”

I flicked a coin Dietrich’s way. It zipped toward her face at tremendous speed, and she effortlessly plucked it out of the air; yet when she realized the twinkle in her palm was golden, her eyes went wide.

“I bet a drachma on myself and got four more in return. Heh, still want to laugh at my tactics? The odds of my next fight will probably be even better now.”

“Brilliant! Genius! You’re the smartest man in the Empire!”

“Ha ha ha! Don’t think I didn’t hear you grumbling about not getting to drink while everyone else is partying. Go on, have some fun!”

“Yippee!”

Dietrich galloped off to the bleachers, where the vendors tended to gather. The tournament was a festival, and it felt wrong not to give her an allowance to enjoy herself. A drachma was a lot, but I’d gotten it for free anyway.

If I won the next round, I was ready to splurge—probably on more presents for my family. Some nice cloth would be a good choice for Michael and Hans, so they’d be able to wear newly sewn garments when they got married; on the off chance we came across a steelworking city on the way home, I bet everyone would appreciate a sturdy hoe or scythe head. Oh, and how could I forget about my nephew? It’d been a while since he was born, but I wanted to get him a set of silver spoons for good luck.

Caught up in daydreams of free profits and the purchases it would fund as I was, I didn’t want anyone to start trouble with me over a dumb grudge. I packed up my belongings and quickly made for the inn.

[Tips] Even the most rural of tournaments is not to be scoffed at. Whether to find funds for their journey or on a sheer whim, true champions can and will stop by to hide among the competition.

The fourth day arrived in the blink of an eye, mainly because Dietrich’s end had gone so swimmingly that there was little to mention.

The preliminaries on the second day consisted of traditional trials like shooting targets from fifty paces out, shooting distance to see who could clear a hundred paces, and hitting five out of ten marks while running. She absolutely crushed every one.

Holding back was a foreign concept to Dietrich, and her actions caused her already low odds to plummet so hard that the bookies had to close shop for lack of opposing bets. If I had to guess, zentaurs would not be allowed back in for horseback archery next year.

As expected, the knockout rounds were more of the same: she won with such magnificent perfection that it was boring to watch. I’d expected nothing less of someone who’d charged into enemy lines, hunted down an enemy general, and picked a fight with the hero of her clan, all while living to tell the tale.

For standard target-shooting, a handful of skilled marksmen kept up with her until the end, but when she decided the whole thing was a chore, she fired three arrows at once from 150 paces out and landed all of them. Their spirits broken, they all surrendered.

The sniping rounds were even less entertaining on account of her powerful bow and specialized skill. Out of the fifty entrants, only two had managed to keep up with her in any way: an audhumbla and a callistian. They had both the strength and the bows to match her, but eventually came up short when it came to the luck of the wind and their technical ability to compensate for it.

As for the equestrian competition... Did I really need to elaborate? The decisive round centered around shooting at ten successive targets on horseback, where the winner was whoever hit the most targets. If multiple people went ten for ten, then they’d keep going until there was a clear winner. Forget not holding back: Dietrich went out of her way to mow down targets at twice the range of everyone else. Who could blame them for losing heart?

And so, Dietrich suddenly found herself fifteen drachmae richer. Yet as with any nouveau riche, she had immediately gone off to gleefully spend it. When she came back, she’d shelled out the asking price for a ludicrously expensive wine that came “from a good batch” near the Southern Sea; she’d picked up a mead that smelled like the Wine God died and fermented in the bottle, accompanied by a phony anecdote as to why it was good; and she’d been lulled by some salesman’s smooth talk about how even noblewomen lined up for his silver hair ornaments, and bought one for when her hair grew out.

The sorts who let a bit of spending money get to their heads were everywhere—I’d known a few in the past. I vividly recalled a grade-school friend buying every glowing bracelet and vinyl balloon at a festival, only to come up short when the rest of us were eating yakisoba and sipping on sodas.

She must have forgotten that this money was also how she was meant to pay for replacement gear. I watched her coldly, but didn’t say anything; it was in her best interest to learn the hard way at least once. Besides, I was already in line for my first knockout match.

Unlike the first day, the main tournament ran all day until the winner was crowned. With ten people, the top six—as judged on their initial performance by in-house panelists—got a first-round bye. Obviously, my inconspicuous showing placed me well outside the top seeds, and I would need to win one more round than most of the others if I wanted to take the whole event.

If I came in first place, the returns on any money gambled were almost thirtyfold. Even after breaking through the preliminaries, I was still a dark horse, with per-match odds remaining at a cool five-point-oh.

My utterly trite means of victory had led the crowd to see me as a lucky kid who’d reaped the benefit of others’ work. Being a fellow low-seed competitor, my opponent hadn’t had the greatest showing during the preliminaries either; but he was still the watch captain for a nearby canton, and the onlookers considered him a sure win as a result.

Now, whatever might happen if I put all my previous winnings into another bet here?

Just kidding: I would never. This line of work was one ever at the mercy of fate’s dice, and there was no telling when an ancient dragon would come to ravage the very city we were staying in. I was prepared to face an epic hero hiding his true identity, a masterful warrior here just to kill time, or whoever else.

Though I hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the man while we ten finalists were being introduced, it was hard to gauge someone when their weapon was sheathed. Some people, like Sir Lambert, passively radiated intimidating auras, but tons of real threats saved their deathly presence for when a battle was at hand.

More than anything, I was simply not well versed in measuring another’s strength without crossing blades with them. Pouring my life’s savings into this bet was too much of a gamble. I mean, yes, I was literally gambling, but there was an ironclad rule about this sort of thing: only put in as much as you can laugh off. This time, it wasn’t like I had to risk everything I had in order to save Elisa’s life or anything; wanting to hedge against the worst-case scenario, I repeated my first-round bet with a single gold coin.

Even this low stakes investment would net me huge returns if I won—so much so that the government might ask me to stop. Well, whatever, I’d cross that bridge if I got there.

My mind meandered as I waited for my turn, and the unanticipated second round of the top ten quickly rolled around. The other nine had all been winning bets in their own rights, and the fight with a no-name was sure to deflect eyeballs.

“Will the fighters for the second round please enter the ring!”

Oh, that’s me. A mystically amplified voice directed me into a chalk square roughly ten meters on each side. Having one of only two fighters run away wouldn’t be very fun to watch, and they’d shrunk the grounds from the preliminaries accordingly.

“On the west wing, we have the shining star of his countryside town! Captain of the Watch and a veteran fighter, welcome Vetoslav of Dreieich! And on the east wing, we have the young lad of fortune, Erwin of Walteeesch!”

The crowd remained mild-tempered. Who could blame them, when one of the contestants was a scrawny boy who’d advanced through sheer luck?

As an aside, I’d entered under a fake name. Although Limelit converted fame into experience for me, I felt like gaining a reputation for plowing through a regional tournament before I’d even registered as an adventurer was kind of backwards. That, and I also didn’t want anyone tracking me down for the money I’d make here.

Between the prizes and my bets, I’d have enough to justify whatever effort it took to chase me across state borders if I won. You might think that no one would be stupid enough to hunt down the champion of a martial tournament, but the well of dumbass moves was not to be plumbed so lightly. Plenty of idiots were happy to rely on alternative means like poison or seduction anyway.

On the other hand, having a bit of cash wouldn’t be anything to worry about if I were a local adventurer known in the area. As a community figure, people would let me know if they saw anything suspicious and make it harder for nefarious individuals to do me harm.

“This isn’t really what I had in mind.”

My opponent’s voice rang loud and clear, also amplified. We had tiny mystic microphones strapped to our chests to excite the crowd with our preduel trash talk. The audio was fed back to the arcane system by the announcers, and then rang out through the speakers littering the venue. As far as I knew, this was military-grade technology—how in the world had they gotten permission to use it for a random competition?

“Make sure to throw in the towel if it gets too tough, kid. I’m not a fan of hurting children.”

The giant grizzly callistian looked down on me more literally than metaphorically: his “trash talk” was closer to genuine concern. Holding a huge training axe, his intimidating presence was more than enough to convince me he was fit for the job of watch captain.

“There isn’t any need to worry,” I said. “Here, in the ring, I would rather you afford me the courtesy you might do me as a swordsman.”

Yet I wasn’t cowardly enough to balk at his aura, and my experience in battle was nothing to sneeze at. I gently unsheathed my sword and placed the broad side against my forehead in a warrior’s salutation.

“Very well... Don’t die on me, kid.”

“Please, feel free—without reserve.”

I pointed my blade toward him in invitation, and the callistian began to advance with his axe in front of him. He did not run: he simply marched without any opening, his hands firmly planted near the base and middle of the axe’s grip. Every step made me feel like a foot soldier awaiting the approach of an oncoming tank.

I suspected that large folk like him had racial bonus traits to intimidate those with smaller frames. Envious as I was that he had something I could never get, I sharpened my mind and focused on the incoming attack.

First came the axe—or so he feinted, but his true aim was a punch with his massive fist. Just a few steps outside striking range, his leisurely gait gave way to a full on sprint. Tempo mix-ups were the most basic of all deception, but his came with masterful fluidity. I could feel the effort that had gone into polishing his craft.

On top of that, he was holding back. Thinking that an axe wrapped in cloth could still kill me with a solid hit, he tried instead to pin me down with the paw of his hand. If he struck me away, he’d be able to ease up on impact; if he got the pin, he’d be instantly declared the victor.

Smiling at the gentleman’s kindness, I slipped to the left and landed a counter right in his midsection.

“Grgh?!”

I’d totally caught him off guard. I bet I’d vanished before his eyes: squatting low, I’d slipped past him in the blink of an eye.

That said, he was a sturdy fellow. As confident as I was that I could slice through to his innards with a real blade, my training sword bounced off his thick coat even with a clean hit. It was no wonder the callistians, as an entire species of permanently reared-up bears, were always in the running in discussions of the strongest kith.

Turning back to face my opponent, I twirled my sword to shake off the numbness in my hand; he’d managed to stop himself just at the edge of the ring and was holding his side.

Murmurs washed over the crowd. Our exchange had only lasted a moment, and the greater part of my strike had been hidden behind his massive frame. For most laymen, it would have seemed like a mysterious chain of events: I’d disappeared, and the callistian had suddenly taken a knee.

“How did I do?” I asked.

“My apologies,” he said, dropping his head and hand both. “I underestimated you on account of your youth. I’m fine enough thanks to the blunted blade, but I would have died in a real duel. Honor rules that I should concede, but...”

“May I offer you one more bout? Remember what I said at the start: without reserve.”

“My thanks!”

Evidently enough, the man was an earnest fighter. His apology felt sincere, so I went ahead and accepted it; immediately, he offered a word of gratitude my way and a giant swing of his axe. Sprinting forward like he’d done before, he held the back of the axe’s grip with just his left hand to extend his reach as far as possible. I liked it: extending his range while moving was a great combo.

An atrocious snarl rang out as I took a large step back and the swing zoomed by my eyes. I hadn’t borrowed a shield—they only had second-rate articles for rental—but blocking had never been part of the plan. I was playing a fencer build: get hit once, and I was out.

But the callistian wasn’t done after one attack. Using the rest of his angular momentum, he swung himself around to kick with a leg far longer than any bear’s; right after that, his spare hand swiped at me to control more space. Although his style relied on the natural strength the heavens had gifted him with, it was no brainless brute force; he logically exploited his talents to the greatest extent he could.

Yikes, that’s scary. Those meathooks of his looked like pure power—though in truth callistians could accomplish finer tasks like writing—and had razored claws to match. While his punches weren’t quite enough to tear straight through armor, I had no doubt they’d put a fat dent into any platemail.

What this meant was that if he hit me, I’d die. I knew I’d said “without reserve,” but why was he here when he would definitely have been a favorite in the boxing matches? Unless, maybe, some callistian in years prior had blown out the competition so hard that they were now banned from the sport, like Dietrich was sure to do with zentaurs this year.

Axe after claw after kick zipped by without leaving any openings. As I continued to dodge, I could hear the audience beginning to clamor. Echoing in a dilated timescape, their voices crashed into my ears like roaring waves; in place of specific meaning was the primal excitement at good old-fashioned bloodsport.

Hah, where’d all that apathy from the start of the round go? I’d already figured sandbagging to raise my betting returns wouldn’t be viable in the knockouts, so maybe now they’d stop looking down on me so much.

Through careful observation, I carved out an opportunity in the barrage without openings and jumped into the eye of the storm. His swings were wide and large, meaning he couldn’t keep it up forever without taking in a big breath. The slight break in form was my cue to close the gap and hit him where it hurt: under his jaw. Unprotected by bone and relatively lightly covered by muscle and fur, all it took was placing the tip of my sword below his chin to get him to throw on the emergency brakes.

Both arms raised, the man looked like he was ready to deliver the finishing blow from the outside; yet his eyes were wide open with shock. I wasn’t an expert at reading demihuman expressions, but the surprise was palpable.

“Gh...”

“By my estimate, I could have thrust through your skull and into your brain. Though, I suppose I would have had to unhand my weapon a bit early if you leaned forward to crush me with your fall.”

My Lightning Reflexes fizzled away, and the world resumed its natural flow. The end of my heightened alertness spelled the end of the fight.

The venue had fallen silent, as though a heavy rain had doused their burning excitement. No one made a sound—they were too dumbfounded. In a tempest of violence thought unweatherable by all, I had suddenly appeared; as the storm receded, it left only me as the victor.

Thinking it was bad manners to keep my sword nestled into my opponent’s neck forever, I quietly withdrew my blade. I wasn’t one to let my guard down thinking I’d won, but it was apparent that a man tasteful enough to offer a kid like me an apology wouldn’t go back on an honorable duel.

“It’s your victory.” The callistian dropped his axe and took a knee.

Finally, the crowd’s collective consciousness caught up to the situation: they went wild. The hoots and hollers were so profoundly noisy that it sounded like a bomb had gone off in the stands.

Among the many cheers at the upset victory were the sorrowful wails of those who’d bet on the callistian. On the other hand, some had figured that what happens once might happen again, and were now losing their minds over the profit they’d made off me.

“It was a good fight,” I said.

“Heh, please. I couldn’t even imagine myself landing a hit. That felt like trying to box my shadow on a moonlit night.”

The man walked over and stretched out a balled fist. Imperial tradition was to link weapon-wielding hands in a show of trust, and this was how clawed races kept themselves from hurting their fleshier friends.

Happy to oblige, I energetically bumped my fist against his.

“Win the next one for me,” he said. “I’d like to at least go home with the honor of losing only to the eventual champion.”

“That’s the plan, of course. Feel free to place a bet on me if it strikes your fancy.”

“Hah! Not a bad idea.”

Seen off by a majestic howl of a laugh, I exited the scene of my first knockout duel with a skip in my step.

[Tips] Callistians are demihumans who originate from the northern reaches of the Central Continent. Many are intimidated by their appearance, as they are effectively bipedal bears, but culturally, they are a highly social people with great fondness for others and a long history of poetry. When enraged, a group of them can bring down drakes unarmed—and have. They are no doubt one of the strongest among all the sentient races.

The grand finale rapidly approached.

I could almost hear a distant yell demanding that I stop skipping things, but I was probably imagining it. At any rate, my second and third fights had been far less interesting than the first. I’d gone up against a mensch soldier and a werewolf mercenary, respectively: I’d disarmed the former over and over again, only inelegantly ending the fight after realizing that he wouldn’t give up; the werewolf had suffered a rib injury in his last round, trivializing the affair.

To add to my woes, I’d been too flashy in my duel with the callistian—not to mention the man was a well-known local—which had sent my earning potential tumbling through the floor. An upset victory was no longer upsetting by the fourth time it occurred, and I figured that the odds might even be against me by the final round; yet, surprisingly enough, I found that the other finalist was slated to win with about two-to-one odds.

From what I’d heard, my opponent was a mensch knight who’d managed to end every single battle in one hit thus far. Rumor had it he was young—only barely of age—but I didn’t snoop any further: I didn’t want to diminish the beauty of discovering a worthy foe in battle. Excited at the prospect of a good fight, I was fidgeting in the waiting room when I sensed a visitor at the tent door. Dietrich had just gone out to buy more booze, but this was clearly not her.

“Excuse me, Mr. Erwin of Waltesch. May I have a moment of your time?”

“...You’ll have to pardon me. Have we met?”

A mensch man came inside and greeted me by my false name. Although he was dressed as a commoner, the impression of a classy education came through in spades: his footwork, mannerisms, and the cast of his gaze were thoroughly refined. I could tell he was dressing below his post at a glance.

Yet he lacked the gait of a fighter. He was less prudent with his balance than a true warrior, and I had him pegged as a bodyguard at best. Coming from a more sedentary background, I suspected his training had come from waiting on a high-class person. While he was still young, he seemed relatively close to thirty; I imagined he was in a position of authority, at least as far as servitude went.

“I have come on the order of my superior. Would you be willing to hear out a request?”

“A request, you say?”

“Yes, mister. If you wouldn’t mind having a look here...”

Suddenly, the man produced a small leather pouch. Plain and simple, the bag was small enough to fit in one hand. Yet the contour of the contents made it easy to guess that it was full of cash.

Ahh... I see your game.

“I am not so careless as to accept payment without knowing what the job entails,” I said. “May I ask you for a more detailed explanation?”

“Why, it is a simple task. All I ask of you is to be defeated in the next round.”

The year I’d spent under Lady Agrippina served me well here, as without it, I would have certainly furrowed my brow. A version of myself less accustomed to insulting propositions wouldn’t have just made a face: he would’ve punched the fool in the kisser.

So this is how he ends every fight in a single blow.

And here I’d been worried that my usual luck had kicked in to bring an avatar of the God of Trials to face me in battle or something. Reality was much less exciting than I’d imagined.

“Fixing a match in a tournament meant to honor the art of combat seems rather boorish, wouldn’t you say?”

“Please, don’t be so rigid. The victory itself would only amount to five drachmae, anyway—I would advise against thinking so deeply on the matter.”

Then what does that say about the guy trying to buy his way into winning this paltry duel? As much as I wanted to snap back, my reason managed to rein in my mouth before I could.

Truth be told, winning a regularly held contest like this was sure to bring its fair share of glory. My opponent was supposedly a “wandering knight,” but judging from his evidently well-off retainer, he was probably the son of some noble with a full entourage of attendants.

How pitiful. What was the point of propping himself up on stolen valor? Lying his way into a promotion would come crashing down at some point in the future: the day would come when his lacking talents would be tested.

I had my gripes with those who’d taken the bribes too, but on second thought, I couldn’t be so harsh on them. While I wasn’t sure what house he belonged to, it was clear from his funds and servant that the man was noble, and not just from a knight lineage either—he surely came from a family with a proper title. Refusing a request like this could be genuinely dangerous.

When the reward for honor was retribution, it was hard to justify sticking to one’s guns. The wrath of a noble was as unshakable as it was terrifying, and they had both the money and power to exact any sort of vengeance, no matter how undeserved. Fighting back would just lead to the victim being labeled the criminal—justice wasn’t easy to come by.

“And if I refuse?”

“That is, of course, your prerogative. But what might follow such a decision, well...”

The man folded his arms as if to express how troubled he was; doing so puffed up his mantle just enough to give me a clear view of the dagger at his hip. Obviously, he wasn’t threatening to personally stab me here and now; rather, this was a roundabout way of telling me that— Hey, wait!

Catching a glimpse of the dagger’s pommel, I saw a large medal fitted within. Daggers stamped with a family crest were important tools for servants to verify their identities: the best of them could bypass inspections at city gates entirely. This lunatic hadn’t taken any precautions in flaunting it. Sure, he wasn’t an assassin; there wasn’t much risk of dying in the city; and he might need it in his day-to-day life, but...

No, you know what? That alone would’ve been fine. It would have simply reinforced the threat of the knight’s peerage. The actual problem was the emblem itself.

I’d forgone any heraldic skills, but my job had necessitated that I at least memorize the names and crests of all the noble lines calling the Ubiorum county home. This one belonged to a distant relative of House Ubiorum proper, which laid no claim to inheritance but had a substantial amount of land: the Lindenthal viscounty.

Although they were currently on a downswing, they weren’t total nobodies, peerage-wise. Why in the world were they out here?

Or more pertinently, which of the viscount’s sons was this? As far as I recalled, Viscount Lindenthal had five. The first was a grown man with children already beginning to take responsibilities off his father’s plate. The second had applied to be one of the madam’s new retainers, but I’d penned his rejection letter on account of wanting talent. That said, he was past thirty as well; it didn’t match up with the rumors of a young knight.

If the culprit here was the third son or younger, then this ploy was probably the groundwork to open up career opportunities for one of the boys who wouldn’t be able to inherit anything. He wasn’t looking to live off the prize money, but rather to win several tournaments just like this one to propel himself into the spotlight. In the best case, he could hope to establish a new knight lineage or find employment under a high-ranking noble—I could see where his ambitions lay.

What an awful scheme. This was one of the few opportunities a lowborn fighter had to sell their name, and he’d deprived them of that. I wouldn’t have had any complaints if he’d simply used the opportunity to polish his skills or fought the battles fair and square, but buying the wins outright was depraved. On top of that, former as she was, seeing someone run around causing trouble right under my employer’s nose was tough to ignore.

Gods dammit. Before leaving, Lady Agrippina had told me to let her know if I came across any of her nobles up to no good. How had I actually run into one doing just that?

It looked like I would have to be the one to set him straight. If I let this moron loose like this, he’d end up dragging the Ubiorum name through the mud sooner or later.

Quickly throwing together a plan of action in my head, I took the sack of change for now. The man nodded in satisfaction and added in a sinister tone, “I have no doubt you’ll stay true to your word,” before leaving.

Less than a minute later, Dietrich returned with a bag full of skewers and a whole jar of oats in one hand.

“Who was that?” she asked with a cocked head. “One of the tournament staff?”

“What did I tell you about manners?”

“But all the dumb vendors keep selling these tiny little bits of meat at festival prices to try and jack up their profits. How am I supposed to feel full if I can’t even get a good chew?!”

The zentaur had three skewers in her free hand, and had bitten off enough to stuff both her cheeks. Figuring that I owed it to her to explain the situation, I tossed the bag of coins her way.

“Huh? What’s... Wait a second!”

The pouch of money, the mysterious man, and the impending grand finals clicked together in Dietrich’s mind at lightning speeds. The coin she’d pinched out of the bag cried out with a dreadful squeak as she crushed it with sheer fury.

“Hey, don’t bend those,” I said. “Money is money.”

“But, but—this?! Money that you got from following a script?! Don’t tell me you’re actually gonna go through with it!”

Though she straightened up and brought her face right into mine, she stopped herself from grabbing me by the collar. Instead, her hands trembled by her side in a desperate attempt to control her anger.

“This might be a tiny tournament in the middle of nowhere, but everyone here wants to be number one! Everyone who entered! Just to be the best! So—so why—”

“I know. Calm down, Dietrich.”

Her tail flapped angrily, knocking over basically everything in the tent. I placed a hand on her head and flashed her a smile—the most intimidating one I could manage.

“I’m upset too, and I’m happy to see that you’re as angry about this as me. But don’t worry.”

Because this knight is in for a lesson in chivalry.

[Tips] The glory of knighthood shall be upheld by the people, for the knight must be gallant, just, selfless, and valorous. 

—Opening preamble to The Way of the Knight

The crowd was excited. Two young warriors were about to take to the battlefield: a bout between the dark-horse swordsman and the knight who ended every fight in one hit was sure to be a thrilling conclusion to the tournament.

Every minute, new betting odds were posted, and every minute, more tickets were sold. Staff and spectators alike were brimming with anticipation to see the fierce combat that would soon come.

Would the blond swordsman snatch away victory, evading every hit with his dance-like footwork? Or would the knight place it all on one true strike to cleave his way to the trophy? Those sitting in the crowd could hardly keep their rears planted—that was how great the expectations of this battle were.

Alas, what came was a sight more horrible than any had imagined.

The knight who had ended every fight in dramatic fashion as soon as the curtains rose...just couldn’t land a hit.

No matter how hard he swung or how desperately he gave chase, it didn’t matter. By the end, he threw off his helmet to reveal a beet-red face, still clearly teenage. He resumed his pursuit with less weighing him down, and even then, he couldn’t so much as graze the swordsman.

Meanwhile, the blond boy had come to make a mockery of his opponent. The armor he’d worn in previous rounds had been replaced with plain clothes; the sword he leisurely carried in his hand did not once swing at his opponent. He simply dodged and kept dodging.

Without breaking a single sweat, the swordsman simply watched the knight swing at air with a thin smirk permanently etched into his lips. Just a half step too short; just a few degrees off; just a split second too late—at first, the crowd booed and jeered at the boring display...but as the minutes passed, they fell silent.

The heckling ceased as the audience found itself mysteriously captivated by the bizarre spectacle. Before anyone knew it, an hour had passed.

At long last, the knight ran out of breath. Heaving and panting, he could no longer properly wield his weapon and collapsed onto the ground. Nobody knew whether what they’d just witnessed could be considered a “fight.” Perhaps, technically, it met the definition of two opposing parties trying to best the other; in that sense, yes, it was a fight. But to anyone present, the word was far too grand a term for what they’d seen.

This was play: one side was inhumanely toying with the other.

Fatigue sent the knight tumbling, and he moved to prop himself up on his sword. Yet his arms were as wobbly as his legs, and he quickly toppled on his back. Unwilling to concede, he pushed himself up with one arm, but that was the only one of his limbs to respond to his still-burning will.

Content to see that his opponent could no longer stand, the swordsman’s lips curled up ever so slightly more as he raised his sword to announce his own victory.

Not a single person cheered at the appalling display of skill.

How could they? It was as if a man had taken an insect, ignorant of the world beyond their minuscule patch of grass, and slowly deprived it of life, one thin needle at a time. Make no mistake: the display had not been boring. Yet the dark excitement bubbling in the crowd was weighed down by a greater horror and pity, brought on by the sheer cruelty on display.

Had the swordsman brought his opponent down in a single strike, the demonstration of their vast disparity in skill would have still taken the form of a duel, and the audience would have reacted accordingly. But this? Was this truly a fight?

The swordsman exited the stage before most could come up with their own answer, taking his prize money and vanishing before the award ceremony could be held. The powers around town sent their finest to find the young man and welcome him into their midst; the lord hosting the tournament even ordered his people to offer him a position instructing the next generation of his fighters. Yet all they could find was a trail of smoke.

Perhaps thinking that he no longer had any reputation with which to face the public, the knight failed to appear for his jousting match the next day, as he skipped out on town early.

All that remained was a merciless silence, and an urban legend of the strangest match to ever be fought. Though the tale became a poem, the sneering swordsman was too callous to appeal to most listeners; and so, the records began to fade away...

[Tips] If one of two participating sides in combat loses all means by which to harm the other, the GM has the capacity to declare a victor via narration.

A few scant shadows appeared on the walls of a tent, each armed with a bow or spear. They waited for orders, alert and ready.

Eventually, the man standing outside the circular formation nodded, and the figure beside him brought down his arm to signal the attack. Arrows zipped into the tarp from every angle, with spears quickly following to end the poor fellow sleeping within.

Or at least, that was the plan.

“Dear me, they certainly do some awful things.”

“That looks like it’d be an ouchie if you were really in there.”

Two days after having left Wisenburg, I found myself sitting in a tree overlooking a campground just off the main highway. I was suited up in full armor, counting on Ursula’s night vision to see what was going on.

Obviously, my tent was a decoy. I hadn’t just embarrassed the knight; if he’d been a medieval samurai, he would have had to cut open his own guts on the spot just to save face. I’d known from the start that he wouldn’t let me go.

After collecting my prize money and winnings—and dodging annoying recruiters every step of the way—we’d left the city. What I had in mind wasn’t exactly something I could quietly get away with in an urban area; our need for a more private staging ground had led us two days out.

We’d trudged slowly along to let them catch up, and I’d asked Lottie to keep an eye out as we did. Tonight, she’d caught a whiff of a clumsy pursuit, giving us the chance to set up an easy trap and wait for them to bite.

I’d gone out of my way to ask the terrifying alfar for a favor because I knew my short-tempered mark would take the bait if I acted fast. With how flagrantly I’d humiliated him, the very thought that I continued to draw breath gnawed at the knight’s mind: he’d need to kill me, dismember the remains, and piss on my corpse just to regain his cool. In which case, setting up a basic ambush while he was still too livid to think twice was the easiest way to take advantage of his wounded pride.

I mean, what else would a man who went around buying tournament wins try to do?

“All right, let’s clean this up.”

With vengeance exacted, the killers moved in to rummage through my tent and let off some steam; I silently dropped down and began slashing my way down the line.

“Who—agh!”

“Where the—grah! My arm!”

“D-Don’t panic! Counteratt—augh, hrgh! Where...gh.”

In sync, Dietrich charged out of the foliage a little ways away and tore through their formation. She’d rolled her eyes when I told her not to kill any of them, but had quickly changed her tune when I added that “Shame is a penance only paid by the living.” Living up to her promise, she lightly smacked the daylights out of them with a simple stick—scaled to her size—making sure not to deal any lethal blows.

They’d lowered their guard after a “successful” hit and were working with only moonlight to guide them; we had the element of surprise. Lopsided numbers meant absolutely nothing. It was simple work: I just had to break a few limbs with the broad side of my blade, or knock them out with a blow to the head or gut.

Spooked by the one-sided violence, the two figures outside the main circle tried to flee. I stopped one with a dagger, then picked up a nearby stone to down the other.

“Man, these guys are wimps,” Dietrich sighed. “How pathetic can you get? I don’t even get the point of buying a win if you’re this weak.”

“Well, I think this is about what you should expect from someone who wanted to be the best without working for it—especially someone who rounds up a crew of assassins to attack at night after the fact.”

Marching around the groaning men, Dietrich was having trouble figuring out where to direct her anger. It was clear to me that being the best mattered a great deal to her, and she’d been seriously upset that anyone would dare sully the holy struggle of it all; tragically, however, the goons she’d scattered had been too fragile a set of vessels for her fury.

“The best,” she echoed contemplatively. “Yeah, you’re right. You can’t act like a loser if you wanna be number one.”

I walked over to the figure I’d downed with a throwing knife and kicked him over. He rolled off his stomach and onto his back, his headwear slipping off in the process; it was the man who’d bought the fixed match in the waiting room.

“Wrong one. Which means...”

Moving over to the one I’d stoned down, I kicked him over too, revealing the man I’d faced in the finals, his face twisted in pure spite.

Nice. I was hoping you’d want to come see my death with your own two eyes—less work this way. If he hadn’t been here, I would’ve had to waste time in a deep heart-to-heart with his retainer, and nobody wanted that.

“You bastard! Do—do you really think you’ll be free to walk away after this?! I’m—”

“Sir Lindenthal, do you think you can walk away after this?”

“Bwah?!”

Come on, buddy, you can’t go acting all shocked just because I said your name. I’d known he was young, but it looked like the boy hadn’t even been fully trained as a noble yet. Being able to shrug off one’s true name was practically a requirement of any highborn person living under a false identity. That way, he could’ve written off his retainer’s dagger as something the servant had stolen of his own volition and avoided any real scrutiny.

“To think the son of a viscount would go around stirring up trouble at regional tournaments, not to mention rigging the events. As rude as it may be to use your own words against you, sir, who exactly do you think you are?”

My fey-blessed eyes had a clear view as the viscount’s good-for-nothing son lost all color in his face. He’d already had a pale complexion as a privileged member of the elite, but he was now so white that he looked like a marble sculpture stripped of paint.

If nothing else, it was heartening to see that he at least understood his actions to be unfit for someone of his standing. I wished he would have taken a less dishonest path to earning a name for himself as a knight.

“I’m sure Viscount Lindenthal will be most disappointed to hear what you’ve done. And no doubt Count Ubiorum would be disheartened if she were to learn that one of her dependable vassals may have one less son worthy of her trust.”

“Wha—but how? Who are—”

“Please, take a look at this.”

I reached into my shirt and pulled out the tiny pouch I always left dangling around my neck. From it, I produced a ring; once it entered the moonlight, the twin eagles gleamed with unmistakable clarity.

“What?! Then you’re—mmph?!”

“Quiet, please.”

Dietrich was within earshot. I’d already explained to her that I had some connection to a noble household, but I didn’t want to divulge any of the specifics.

“First, you must atone for straying off the righteous path. A cowardly knight who flaunts talents he does not possess has no place by her side.”

“B-But I must make a name for myself, and soon. I have reason enough for my actions!”

“Those reasons being?”

The boy shut up, but that only confirmed my suspicions. He had the money to throw around buying glory, meaning his parents were fond of him; I doubted that he was to be sent away to be adopted by a lesser household or that he had personal debts that outstripped his funds.

“A girl?” I asked.

“Wha?!”

“To love is fair enough, and I understand that well-to-do ladies are often only wed to successful gentlemen. But please, take a moment to think: is she the sort of person who’d merrily take the hand of a fraudulent knight?”

“W-Well—”

“Say you earn yourself a knighthood and establish your own little clan. How long before the gilded facade peels away, once your enemies can no longer be paid to trip over their own toes? When you face other knights with influential backers, hungry to honor their lords with fitting displays of valor, what then?”

As romanticized as knighthood was, reality was harsh for knights. Though the taxes they earned as rural magistrates were enough to make a commoner’s mouth water, the profits were not as they seemed.

A few hundred drachmae in taxes a year hardly covered the military expenditures needed to keep a knighthood afloat. One needed armor and a horse befitting their own stature, as well as a pasture to rear the latter. At least five or so expensive, educated servants would be needed to keep face; five more trained cavalrymen were needed for similar reasons; and to keep the peace, ten or so foot soldiers would have to remain on payroll at minimum. If a gang of robbers set up in a knight’s territory, it was their job to have enough men to march over and crush them. This small force of permanently employed fighters was the bare minimum a proper knight needed to deter criminals from entering their lands and protect their citizenry.

That didn’t even get into the expenses of arming and equipping all of these soldiers, plus the eventual maintenance on their gear; nor did it account for feeding, clothing, or housing them. Sitting around and waiting for passive income was not a viable means of staying afloat.

Every knight in the Empire was always looking to prove themselves so that their lord might give them a bigger piece of the pie. Joint training exercises were taken as seriously as all-out war; paperwork was meticulously filed to show off just how attentive they could be if only they were entrusted with more responsibilities. What was more, diligence was perhaps more important now than it had ever been before: the current state of the Ubiorum county was a strict meritocracy.

The seat of a knight was not some cushy throne that allowed the sitter to rest with leisure. Once seated, one had to maintain perfect posture forever, lest their chair be reduced to naught but a bare leg.

“What will the lady in your heart think when you find yourself unable to keep up with those around you?”

“Then... Then what was I meant to do? She’s already of, well, suitable age. She’ll be married off to some other estate if I rest on my laurels—or worse, she might be forced to marry down!”

“And thus the panic, I see... May I ask who fed you this information?”

The boy’s eyes flickered toward the man I’d downed with the dagger; that answered that. I surmised that the malicious retainer had fanned the flames of his master’s insecurities—probably in the hopes that the boy’s quick success would give him a cushier position.

“In that case, Sir Lindenthal, you should have proven yourself not with dirty schemes, but with the integrity of the post you wished for. I take it that the viscounty does not have the resources to prop up a new knighthood for you at this time?”

After a moment of silence, he admitted through gritted teeth, “That’s right. We don’t. Shifts in power might open up a position soon enough, but any opportunity like that will be taken by my brothers first. My chance will come too late.”

“Then you should have simply asked your father to refer you as a retainer.”

“A retainer?! I’m a viscount’s son!”

“Not just any retainer. The shifts in power you mentioned have left the accomplished knights under her command quite understaffed, you see. I imagine you would have had plenty of opportunity to prove yourself if you served one of them as a retainer-cum-soldier.”

Lady Agrippina hadn’t relocated that many people to “more scenic positions,” but the chain reaction of those who’d lost their peerage had been far-reaching. Relatives of houses that had been totally wiped away had been universally laid off so as not to become a burden on the host lineage.

For my former employer to go through the hassle of executing people, they had to really deserve it: without exception, the ruined houses had made themselves fabulously wealthy off their ill-gotten gains. It followed that their influence was widespread, and many members of those clans had been working throughout the county as servants or knights for other nobles. With how many openings there were, the Lindenthal boy didn’t even need to go search: the seats would have come to him, begging to be sat in.

“Make a name for yourself under a notable knight, and you wouldn’t have needed this farce to carve out your own place in the world. The coming restructuring of the county would have opened plenty of paths to independence.”

“Then...”

“And if you were to promise to return for your sweetheart in the not-too-distant future as a respectable knight, I doubt they would have put up much of a fight. In fact, with the backing of your father, I would imagine your chances of being accepted for any vacant knighthood would be far greater than your average peer.”

“Then what have I been doing until now?!” Kneeling on the ground, the boy slumped his shoulders.

I extended a hand and preached to him the virtues of chivalry: diligence, sincerity, honor, and pride—but not so much as to become arrogant. If that scoundrel I called a master had been here, she would have stuck out her tongue in disgust at these high-minded ideals; yet even she accepted that these were the qualities that made for a good subordinate.

To go one step further, I was willing to say that the madam was genuinely considerate to those who worked well (that is, handy pawns who lessened the amount of work she had to do). Although her expectations were catastrophically high, the rewards she bestowed for a job well done always exceeded what was due—a comfortable collar to keep her favorite slaves willfully at hand, no doubt.

“I advise you to rethink what it means to be a knight—no, to be a fighter. You may not have been a match for me, but your swordplay was well grounded. What you lack is the spirit to stake your life in battle.”

“My life?”

“Yes. To land a fatal blow, you must accept that you will be in range for your opponent to do the same. Only when you’re willing to shoulder that danger will you understand what it means to truly win.”

I pulled the knight to his feet and walked over to the retainer, whose face I tilted up into the moonlight.

“You would do well to rid yourself of unfaithful servants and start again with a fresh slate. Do that, and I will keep this episode to myself.”

“Truly? But I acted exactly against the chivalry you just spoke of.”

If I was being completely honest, it would’ve been way easier to just “happen across” his corpse than to go with this whole schtick about mending his ways, and I’m sure Lady Agrippina would also have appreciated having one less point of potential trouble. Alas, he was a viscount’s son, and, well, handling him on my discretion alone posed more problems than it was worth. Hedging against the one-in-a-million chance of word getting out with a hackneyed soliloquy was the safer bet.

I nodded, and he bowed his head and kneeled at my feet.

“You have my sincerest apologies for everything I’ve done. I’m deeply, deeply sorry. I swear to never cast a shadow on my family name again—and I will go ask for my maiden’s hand with my head held high.”

“Then I shall petition the God of Trials and all His kin that you might succeed. And most of all, I pray that your efforts might lessen her burdens.”

“Thank you, Sir Secret Blade.”

Back on his feet, the knight ordered his men to wake up and head home. A few of them literally couldn’t get up, but we’d gone easy enough on them that their pals could probably drag them back alive.

Come to think of it, were these all the viscount’s men? I was surprised his son had brought so many along with him. Maybe this little journey away from home had been intended to expand the boy’s horizons safely.

“Pride, huh?” Dietrich had been listening to our conversation, and she lined up beside me with a thoughtful expression.

“I swear it’s important. Not the self-flattering kind of pride, but the dignity to respect yourself and what you truly stand for. Fake fronts don’t ever help either—they only hurt.” Watching her contemplate, I added, “Sometimes, the long way around can be the shortest path to your goal. For example, if that guy had just worked honestly from the start, he could’ve saved his money and spared himself from looking like a damn fool. It wouldn’t have been easy, but I’d say it would’ve been better than bearing the kind of shame that leaves scars in the heart that never quite mend.”

“Never, huh?”

“Yeah. Even if everyone else forgets...you’ll always remember.”

Dietrich raised her hand to her neck, grasping at air: the lingering remnants of her own shame were tangible in the empty space that had once been home to her hair. She, too, had been chased out of her homeland for putting up a big front. Now that she was genuinely confronting her past mistakes, the end of her soul-searching might be in sight.

Taking that first step to reexamine oneself was much harder than anyone gave it credit for. I would know: I’d only thought twice about what it meant to pursue my dreams when my baby sister started bawling in my arms.

“Hey, by the way,” she said, switching topics, “who is ‘she,’ anyway?”

“Well...” As we watched the failed assassins fade into the night, I turned to her with a playful finger on my lips. “That’s a secret.”

[Tips] Just as many lower nobles will spend time serving higher-class households to round out their education in etiquette, those who wish to pursue military careers will often find temporary employment as martial retainers and bodyguards. Having an intimate view of how the most elite carry themselves is a tremendous privilege, and it is not uncommon to discover that the hired help of a powerful family are, themselves, of impressive peerage.

“I’m proud of you for telling me the truth.”

The knight who’d rigged the Wisenburg tournament sat in the Lindenthal viscounty’s inner parlor room. Across a table lined with teaware was a graying man: sipping on his cup, the sitting Viscount Lindenthal savored the bitter, sour, and yet strangely sweet sentiment settling into his heart.

The viscount had sent his fourth son to wander so that the boy might learn something of the world. Imagine his surprise when, with no warning, he had returned, requested a private audience, and confessed to his wrongdoings out beyond the realm of the Ubiorum county.

The boy laid out all his misdeeds in detail, bracing himself for the punishment that was sure to come; yet with them, he lowered his head and begged his father for a chance to redeem himself.

As ashamed as the man was to discover his son had done wrong, he caught a bubble of joy surfacing in his soul: that his boy knew what he’d done was wrong and was earnestly trying to right himself was a point of pride.

However, the boy’s growth was all the more reason not to go easy on him.

The viscount stripped his son of his allowance and most of his many attendants, and barred him from commanding the family’s personal troops. In exchange, he promised to refer him to a knight with whom he was close. Friends though they were, the viscount knew that the knight would not go easy on his son: directly serving Count Ubiorum, the established warrior had free rein to treat a nobleman’s son just the same as a farmer’s. If the boy didn’t put in the effort, he’d be kicked home in no time.

To offer a second chance was a parent’s love; to impose a demanding trial was a noble’s obligation. Both of the man’s duties came through in the decision, and his son was filled to the brim with gratitude.

Despite having to grope their way through the uncertainties that would no doubt come, the pair enjoyed the rest of their tea, basking in the warmth of their mutual understanding—until, on a whim, the son changed the topic.

“By the way, I was very surprised to discover that the count’s personal dagger was the one to set me back on the right path.”

Both the College and Rhinian pantheon were involved in the conservation of imperial emblems, and faking a noble’s crest in the Empire was a tall task. Faking an oral or written commendation aside, physical symbols engraved with a coat of arms were so heavily safeguarded that even if it were hypothetically possible, the risk wouldn’t be worth the reward.

Erich was of the understanding that he’d just been given a fancy ring with the official Ubiorum stamp of approval. Yet the father and son knew just how arduous the hoops and hurdles of the process to make it had been, and correctly discarded any semblance of doubt that the ring might be fake.

“There’s no mistaking him,” the father agreed. “I saw him once when visiting the count. A slender mensch boy with a dainty face, barely of age or thereabouts; long hair, blond, and blue eyes. There must be a good number of people who match that description throughout the Empire, but surely not that many.”

Having been worked to the brink of death at the time and socially unfit to speak directly to the nobles he dealt with, Erich remained unaware that Count Ubiorum’s Secret Blade was well known throughout the territory. Swaths of meddlers and ne’er-do-wells littering the lands had snapped beneath his heel, and no one could even count the number of nameless hitmen who’d disappeared after trying to take him as their last mark; give it any thought, and it would’ve been stranger if he hadn’t been a major topic of interest.

“But to think the rumors were true...”

“What rumors, Father?”

“You’ve heard that Lady Agrippina has put together a crew to seek out rare tomes and fables, I assume?”

“I have. I remember seeing literary scholars applying to the recruitment drive, excited to put their studies to use.”

“The truth is, I’ve been given word that the program is one big cover.”

“A cover for...”

Seeing his son’s confusion, the father laid out their new lord’s master plan.

To begin, it was a given that behind her charming smiles was an ice-cold pragmatist, fully intent on clearing out the rot in her territory so that she might steer the future of high society with her influence. There was simply no other explanation for the ruthlessness she’d employed in her dealings with Viscount Liplar—who had thrown around the weight of his strong outward connections so much that few in the county actually missed his presence—and his entire bloodline. That wasn’t even to mention how quickly the rest of the worst offenders had been hanged shortly after.

This was a field where accurate intelligence and careful preparation were king: anyone with half a brain knew that the good count had to have an impressive network of spies.

“The count claims that the tome-searchers were a gift from His Majesty—a reward tailored to her personal interests for a job well done...”

“...But Lady Agrippina would never do something so frivolous?”

“Precisely. The rumors were that she’d managed to secure a legal loophole to dispatch her agents everywhere—even abroad. Now that you’ve come into contact with one part of the puzzle, it seems safe to say the rumors were true.”

No one with any stake in the county had taken the news of the Secret Blade’s retirement at face value. The count had no reason to let go of him, and he had no reason to abandon a post in which he was so thoroughly trusted.

The viscount stared off into space, prompting his son to ask what he was going to do with the information. They could share the intel with their allies or even sell a favor to a neutral third party—the weight this news carried meant it was a powerful tool.

The chaos of the Ubiorum county appeared to be cooling down on the surface, but a mad scramble to prepare for a new world order was taking place just below. Its long history as a territory of the crown meant very few local lords could claim a totally clean slate, and among them, many had to assist their less scrupulous relatives to not risk a domino collapse.

Agrippina’s distaste for vested interest and immunity to bribery were well-established facts at this point. Any bribe that arrived at her doorstep was invariably sent back with an added “reward” just to drive the message home; those who tried to plead with government agents for favorable treatment were curtly notified that the person in charge of their inquiry had changed. It was glaringly obvious that the old Ubiorum ways would not be enough to survive.

Earning favor with the pitiful souls who were desperately trying to stay afloat was a good opportunity; using them to stave off Agrippina and preserve his own lineage was even better. Ready to put his plan into action, the viscount made up his mind to send the message to his allies.

“Call for a bard.”

“Uh... A bard?”

“That’s right. We’re going to share the discovery by way of song. Let’s see, what should the piece be titled?”

In a strange twist of fate, these were the circumstances behind a play that would go on to withstand the tests of time. Depicting a strict, yet passionate count, Her Excellency Rights the World told the tale of a wandering hero, stamping out injustice throughout the lands with her merry band of helpers.

[Tips] Her Excellency Rights the World is a theatrical play written in the first half of the sixth imperial century. Following a kindhearted count and her small crew of unique retainers, the tale regales their efforts as they hide their identities to bring justice to the struggling peoples of the world—though, if you were to ask a certain blond mensch, you’d be told the story isn’t all too novel.

Prior to its release, “The Goldene Krone” was a commonplace name for retailers throughout the Trialist Empire of Rhine, but the connection with the villainous and greedy merchants of the story (who ran a business under the same name) forced almost all of them to rebrand.