Chapter 83
Chapter 83
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Cavalry-Catching Cavalry-Catching Cavalry (3)
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A jousting tournament was decided on the spot, and we headed to the grounds on the outskirts of the palace.
The tournament field, once alive with knights galloping their mounts in thirst for honor and glory, had long been forsaken. Under the Trakieri royal family's policy to cull the nobility, the number of knights had dwindled right alongside it, leaving the place untouched by anyone.
Weeds choked the ground, and the tilt barrier—the central divider meant to prevent horse collisions—hung in such disrepair that a mere touch would likely reduce it to dust.
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The Zikjail contingent whispered among themselves upon seeing the field. Their twisted smirks said it all without words.
They were probably spouting nonsense like how the state of the grounds spoke volumes about our level.
It didn't bother me in the slightest.
It was the truth, after all.
Thracia barely had any knights to begin with.
Maybe five, counting me.
Of course, I thought it foolish to judge a knight's or cavalryman's skill based on something like this.
But I had no desire to argue with people whose language I couldn't even understand.
"Let's see here..."
I crouched down to inspect the surface of the field.
A handful of sand I scooped up held together in my palm without crumbling finely.
It wasn't powdery—it was damp.
Sharp pebbles littered the area here and there, too.
The condition suggested we couldn't expect much shock absorption in case of a fall.
Tak tak.
I brushed the sand from my hand and stood.
While I checked the grounds, the Redcoats bustled about the perimeter, scanning for any potential hazards.
Every so often, they'd shoot me a glare, as if resenting me for stirring up trouble and making their lives harder.
The Redcoats' suffering was the Bluecoats' joy.
I welcomed their stares with a cheerful heart.
Soon enough, my ordered Bluecoats began arriving at the field one by one.
"We suited up in the new armor as instructed, but..."
Captain Ramir and the other Bluecoats wore the freshly bestowed "Stalnoi Grom" plate from the royals. Unlike their plain old sets devoid of ornamentation, these featured fluting along the edges and seams, giving them a striking, ornate look.
Those ridges were said to be quite effective at preventing the plates from bending or warping, too. But the fluting alone doubled the price, so I'd never tried it myself.
"Looking sharp."
At my words, Captain Ramir playfully rattled his helmet's bevor.
With the full kit on, they didn't look like heavy cavalry anymore—they resembled knights from some elite order.
The Bluecoats preened in their new gear for a moment before faintly frowning. Their eyes roamed the field, clear distaste on their faces.
"But a real joust here?"
"Why bother playing around with these clowns?"
But that hesitation lasted only a moment.
"It's a match against the Empire bastards."
The moment they heard their opponents were knights from the Zikjail Archduchy, the Bluecoats' expressions turned fierce in an instant.
"Ah, if that's the case."
"But if these envoys get hurt..."
The sight of them, brimming with unshakable confidence that they yielded to no one on horseback, was profoundly reassuring.
"Don't worry. Just crush them."
I watched them with warm satisfaction.
King Igor had promised to handle all the fallout anyway, so there was nothing to hold back.
The snag came from an unexpected quarter.
"Huh? Why are those pricks out there?"
"No way the toy soldiers are joining in too?"
True to their words, five fully armored Redcoats were mounted and trotting about the field, testing the ground.
Surely the toy soldiers weren't actually competing.
But that "surely" turned out to be exactly what happened.
"This match concerns the kingdom's honor, so we'll take it."
The grizzled general in the flashiest Redcoat uniform—one of Thracia's two marquises and commander of the Royal Guard Cavalry—declared it outright.
I was dumbfounded.
There were limits to meddling where you didn't belong.
What could a bunch of pampered toy cavalry with zero combat experience even do?
"Since you're already here, why not just watch? I'll handle His Majesty."
No. Was this guy serious?
I stared at the marquis silently.
His arrogant expression belied a flicker of inexplicable anxiety in his eyes.
Aha.
Now I understood why the Redcoats were pulling this stunt at this exact moment.
Bluecoats and Redcoats had always been rivals.
Among the clueless, plenty claimed the Redcoats were the kingdom's true strongest cavalry.
That they'd outshine the Bluecoats the moment they saw real battle, or that they were the kingdom's hidden blade.
Total bullshit from our perspective.
Still, they'd positioned themselves as our chief rivals, vying for first and second place.
But over the last two years, their prestige had plummeted to absurd lows.
At the Rosenritter Club, a single company of Redcoats had been utterly smashed by just two platoons of Bluecoats—most of whom were wounded to boot.
Their overhyped facade was laid bare for all to see.
Meanwhile, we'd spearheaded the suicide squad, shattering an Astoria force twenty times our size and earning massive renown. Lately, unified under the Stalnoi Grom banner, we'd grown into the kingdom's first and largest cavalry regiment.
No Thracian compared us to the Redcoats on the same level anymore.
It wasn't surprising for their commander to feel the heat.
Of course, that didn't mean I'd sympathize and risk national embarrassment.
"That's odd."
I tilted my head, feigning confusion.
"They specified mounted 'heroes' from Zikjail..."
I trailed off, eyeing the marquis.
Don't those guys lack any feats worth calling heroic?
The marquis's face twisted savagely.
"...You may know battlefields better, but friendly matches like this are Redcoat territory."
He rattled off more drivel.
I couldn't hold back and burst out laughing.
"...What's so funny?"
What was funny?
"Friendly match..."
Marquis, that's why you can't beat the Bluecoats.
Representatives from different nations, fully armored, lances clashing—and you call it friendly?
"This is war."
We were staking our lives on this joust.
"And the Bluecoats have never yielded or missed a battlefield target to anyone."
"I respect the soldier's mindset, but this is diplomacy, not war. The Bluecoat way doesn't fit."
Ah. Damn, the barking was starting to grate.
"Looks like it'll be a bit before His Majesty arrives."
Even inside the palace, security was paramount during festival season. King Igor and the envoys wouldn't arrive until the Redcoats finished clearing the area.
"That should be plenty."
In my mind, it was more than enough time to school these clueless Redcoats on reality.
"Here's what we do."
Bluecoats versus Redcoats first. Winner faces the Zikjail knights.
Of course, dueling beforehand to sap our strength wasn't ideal.
But no matter how I crunched it, sending the Redcoats out fresh seemed worse. Even if it tired us a little, stepping out after crushing them would boost our odds against Zikjail by dozens of times.
And honestly, I doubted the Bluecoats would even break a sweat jousting the Redcoats.
"First to three wins takes it."
The marquis pondered briefly before accepting.
"Let's see. Isov. You're up."
As the marquis called over his Redcoats to set the order, I named just a single Bluecoat.
"Why me?"
Lieutenant Isov scowled at being singled out.
"You're the rookie."
"I've got two years as a Bluecoat. Add my lancer experience, and it's at least five..."
He went on at length, but the gist was that tussling with toy soldiers bruised his pride.
"How many years was I again?"
"Who counts that crap? Don't even remember."
"Green as grass. I used to be like that. Young and full of fire back then. Heh."
As the Bluecoats reminisced, the self-proclaimed seven-year veteran Lieutenant Isov looked like he'd tasted shit.
"Ugh, you old fossils."
"What'd you say, punk?"
"Nothing."
Isov snapped down his visor and took position on the field.
And with just five passes—one clash per Redcoat—he unhorsed all five.
"Man, this armor's the real deal. Way easier to move in than the old stuff."
Isov chattered about the new armor's performance, utterly unmoved by his victories over the Redcoats.
"I-Impossible!"
The marquis looked utterly lost, struggling to accept what his eyes had witnessed.
I got it.
A few years back, the gap wouldn't have been this wide.
But the Bluecoats had endured brutal, back-to-back battles in hostile terrain like never before. What started as regiment-sized had dwindled to just 150.
The rest were retired wounded or dead.
The survivors had grown that much stronger in turn.
"That settles it, then."
I glanced at the dazed marquis, then at the Zikjail group.
The ones who'd been gloating like they'd already won upon seeing the sorry state of the field were nowhere to be found.
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Their faces were frozen like stone.
"Looks like the Thracia boys are squaring off first."
"At least we've got something to report to Archduke Zikjail."
The archduke's retainers sharpened their gazes at the sudden turn.
"But why five from the guard and just one from them?"
The question didn't linger.
"The guards suck, or that side's too strong."
"The Royal Cavalry weren't lacking. That one was just overwhelmingly superior. Thracia heavy cavalry's reputation holds water."
"No point reporting to the archduke now."
The bout had ended in a flash.
"Was that guy their best?"
"Vibes say yes."
"He'll come last, then. Tell the Crusher Knights to watch for him."
Just then, Thracia's king and the archduke arrived at the field.
"Your Grace the Archduke, beware the one you see there."
The retainers eagerly reported the recent match.
"Exposing their strength before the fight even starts. As the Astorians say, Thracians' belligerence knows no time or place."
Archduke Gerhard von Zikjail eyed Thracia's famed cavalry with cold detachment.
"That much confidence, eh?"
His sweeping gaze settled on the young man standing nearby.
Thracia's victories these past two years all somehow involved that fellow, rumor had it.
Even half the tale rang true, and it marked him as a rare talent.
"No slacking. That's Thracia's heavy cavalry, whose fame echoes to the continent's far shores."
Such a man wouldn't act rashly.
"Ragtag peasants not even worthy of knighthood at best. No match for our Crusher Knights."
The archduke nodded at the Crusher Knight's bold claim.
The Crusher Order he'd personally forged had never lost a cavalry engagement.
"Mark my words: had Thracia lain in the west, they'd never have gained such renown. Time to show these frontier hicks how vast the world truly is."
The Crusher Knight's assurance rang solid in the archduke's ears.
"Make it so."
These stiff-necked folk, ignorant of the empire's might, needed softening up.
"Once kings of this narrow realm learn of greater worlds beyond, they'll heel a bit better."
After one more exhortation to his favored Crusher Knight, the archduke took his seat among the envoys' pavilion.
Soon after, the joust was declared underway.
"Why him?"
The archduke frowned at Thracia's cavalryman facing the Crusher Knight.
There stood the Thracian ace who'd felled five guardsmen alone.
"Clever move."
Sending their strongest first—it caught them off guard.
Unexpected, but the archduke wasn't fazed.
The western continent teemed with renowned knight orders.
Some, like the Holy Knights or Black Lancers, were as ancient as the empire itself.
Others, like the Golden Fleece Order or Teutonic Knights, brimmed with masters.
The Crushers had been created to shatter them.
From lance length to armor and shield design.
Every aspect of the Crushers was forged solely to destroy plate-clad knights.
Knight order hunting knight orders.
Cavalry-hunting knights.
And in shattering countless orders and cavalry alike, "Crusher" became a name synonymous with terror.
Now it was the east's turn.
Thracia was just the beginning.
Soon the entire east would tremble at the Crusher name.
The archduke believed it utterly.