Knight Tournament (8)
A full fourteen days.
That was how long Group 12 had endured on Penna Mountain.
When they finally returned to the entrance, they looked like utter beggars.
Tattered armor, soot-blackened faces, matted hair, and nails caked with grime.
The event staffer who had approached to chew them out for taking so long ended up pinching his nose and scrambling back in disgust.
"These... insane, tough bastards."
Curiously, Calix looked relatively clean by comparison.
He approached the waiting staffer and handed over a round metal token.
"Here's our marker."
"...You do know Group 12 came in dead last, right?"
"Oh? Is that so? That's surprising."
"What?"
"I figured everyone would be combing the mountain like mad to rack up points by hunting monsters, but I didn't see a soul. Guess the other groups aren't that hungry for scores."
"You think everyone's as twisted as you?!"
"Hmm? Did I break any rules?"
"Common sense-wise..."
"Common sense doesn't put food on the table. Bring 'em out!"
At Calix's shout, all five group members hauled over heavy sacks.
The sacks themselves were crudely stitched from animal hides.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The five sacks lined up before the judges, and the sound alone was ominous.
"Dump 'em!"
"Yes, sir!"
On Calix's command, the group flipped the sacks over in unison.
Goblin fingers, troll fangs, orc noses... proof of countless monster kills spilled out in a heap.
Calix crossed his arms with a smug grin in front of the pile.
"So, what's our score... nah, our ranking?"
The judge, who had been glaring daggers at Calix, ground his teeth.
"...With this much, you're probably first place."
The group erupted in cheers, flashing white teeth.
"Woooah!"
"Raaargh!"
Some watched the scene with gritted teeth.
Rublin Lander, who had rushed over upon hearing the news late.
Spotting him, Calix raised a hand in mock welcome.
"Hey! Been waiting for me?"
"...You slimy prick."
"Hahaha, thanks. Whoever rigged the groups did me a solid—got me some great teammates and snagged first. Guess the one who made the lineup has zero eye for talent. Handing me such an easy setup, and from mixed backgrounds too. Heh heh heh."
"Don't think this is over. Part 3 is still ahead."
"Oh? You really think you can beat me? What was it—some punk blubbering and pissing himself from the neck up...?"
"When did I ever blubber?!"
"Never said it was you. Got a guilty conscience or something?"
"Grrrah!"
Rublin snarled, face flushed red.
"I'll be waiting in the tournament finals. If you even make it. Though I sure hope you do—means I get to crush you in front of everyone."
"Heh, give it your best shot if you think you can."
"Hmph!"
Krout muttered as Rublin stormed off, stomping the ground.
"Looks like he's got something up his sleeve."
"Eh, we'll find out soon enough."
Calix brushed it off.
He'd been backstabbed countless times in the game anyway.
Human imagination was surprisingly limited—truly novel schemes didn't pop up often.
'Too risky for them to get their hands dirty directly... so they'll probably exploit personal connections or weak spots.'
Two days later, the scores for Part 2 of the Knight Tournament were announced. Along with the list of 64 advancing to the Part 3 tournament.
His group members sought out Calix to express their gratitude.
"Thank you, sir. This is all thanks to you."
"Honestly, I never dreamed we'd make the tournament."
Groups usually had minor individual score gaps in the second evaluation, but Calix's team had dominated the third so thoroughly that no one else could catch up.
"Hate to rain on this festive parade, but realistically, none of you are likely to place well in the tournament."
Their reactions were surprisingly calm.
"We know. Group fights and one-on-ones are worlds apart. Besides, these results are basically all your doing, young master. We're plenty satisfied."
"Same here! Oh, and I checked my condition yesterday... my mana reserves have skyrocketed. Must be from the Penna Mountain training, right?"
"Pushing your body before awakening mana leaves aftereffects, but once you hit Class 4, it's better to train brutally until your mana bottoms out. The more you drain it, the stronger it refills. Take my word for it—personal experience."
"Got it. Thanks for the advice."
They nodded, each lost in thought over their gains.
Calix gave them a moment to process before continuing.
"You all did great. Beating out all those hotshot candidates to crack the top 64 nationwide? No one's gonna look down on you now. Good luck out there."
"Couldn't do it again if we tried."
"Kekeke! Yeah, yeah. Holding in a shit was the worst for me. Monsters were nothing. Should've at least given us bathroom breaks, right?"
"You filthy bastard!"
The group burst into raucous laughter, celebrating their victory.
Reality ahead wouldn't be kind, but they'd crash into it head-on when the time came.
That's what they figured.
A few days later.
Lance woke to an eerie chill.
Still pitch black—must be the dead of night.
He scanned his surroundings slowly, spotting a black shadow briefly eclipsing the moonlight.
He drew his sword from beneath the straw bedding.
Shing!
"Night visitor?"
"Hey, easy now."
"Gotta check if anything's missing first. Strip."
"Tsk tsk. What're you gonna do with a peek at my ugly naked ass? Let's talk instead."
Lance's hackles rose at the intruder's unnerving calm.
'He knows me—came specifically. And he's not even fazed with my sword out. Means he could take me barehanded. Tsk, not some run-of-the-mill thief. Lady Luck's screwing me tonight.'
Lance slowly lowered his sword tip.
The guy wanted to talk, so no immediate threat to his life.
But he stayed wary.
His voice came out sharp and edged.
"What's your business?"
"Catch."
The black-clad, masked man pulled something from his bosom and tossed it.
Lance flinched back, and it hit the floor with a soft thunk.
Looked like a small wooden stick.
"What's this?"
"Nothing dangerous—pick it up and see."
Eyes locked on the mask, Lance knelt slowly.
Poised to spring like a coiled spring and swing.
He picked up the stick.
Up close, it wasn't just wood—a small knife in a wooden sheath.
Short blade, bronze—more ritual item than assassin's tool.
He shot the masked man a demanding look, but got nonsense in reply.
"You'll face Calix Szczecin in the tournament."
"What the—?!"
"Stab him with that then. Even a graze is fine."
"Why the hell would I do that?"
The man tossed a slim booklet instead of answering.
"Mana Breathing Method. Work hard, hit Class 5 easy. Real talent? Could make you a Sword Owner. Skeptical? Take a few days to test it. Big edge in the tournament too."
Lance swallowed hard.
"What if I grab this and bolt?"
"Heh, think an outfit handing out toys like this can't handle one punk? Don't try it."
Lance stared at the little bronze knife, murmuring.
"What's so special about this...?"
"No need for details. Just stab him like I said. No confidence? Twist the hilt end and hand it over. It'll slice his fingers drawing it."
"...And if I refuse?"
"Sorry, gotta shut you up then."
"Heh!"
Lance gave a bitter smile.
Not from lack of choice.
The lack of choice brought relief.
Like absolution.
And self-loathing for it.
Bitter taste in his mouth.
"Fine... deal."
"Good. FYI, we'll know the second you succeed. No faking it."
"Got it—now scram."
"Heh heh, kid. Manners might serve you better."
Slap!
"Guh!"
Lance clutched his cheek.
But the black-clad man was gone.
Beyond Lance's eyes to track—a true master.
Fuming, he ground his teeth and bowed his head.
The mana breathing method lay there temptingly.
He snatched it up, glaring for a long moment.
Desire and conscience warred fiercely.
"Damn it!"
Spitting curses, Lance flipped open the first page with trembling hands.
The round of 32 in the tournament ended.
Calix's first opponent: a baron's son candidate.
One-sided beatdown.
Not a single successful attack from the foe.
Returning lightly from his easy win, Krout handed Calix a towel.
"Everyone but Lance is out."
"Yeah?"
"You saw that coming?"
"Nah, opposite. Thought they'd all drop."
"Can't say much without seeing Lance's fight, but duels turn on daily condition."
"Sure, upsets happen. But not Lance."
"Not following."
"Lance uses one-handers mostly. Nobles' bread-and-butter weapon. Lowest odds of the five to pass round one, honestly."
"Ah... right."
"I could be wrong. But worth digging into—who he fought, how it went."
"Understood."
"I'd shrug it off, but bracket says if he hits quarters, semis against me. Feels too neat."
"Got it. I'll check that too—and watch his quarters personally."
Calix nodded grimly.
'Wish I was wrong this time... but probably not, damn.'
Unfortunately, Calix's quarterfinal opponent was Lance.