Chapter 86
Chapter 86
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Cavalry Catching Cavalry Catching Cavalry (6)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
When Gerhard von Siegseil first announced he would personally enter the tournament, his retainers freaked out and tried to dissuade him.
But that was only because they feared a mismatch with lesser opponents might tarnish his dignity—it had nothing to do with worries over defeat or injury.
Their trust in Gerhard von Siegseil was absolute.
To the people of the Siegseil Duchy—no, to the Seil folk—their sovereign was an object of faith and worship incarnate.
In the past, the Seil had been little more than livestock.
True to their name, they were slaves bound and led by ropes.
That they had escaped such a fate and were now recognized as proud subjects of a great empire was all thanks to their Archduke.
Joining the ranks as a mere spearman at the tender age of thirteen, he racked up countless feats until he became the Emperor's most trusted knight. Then, boldly, he demanded independence for the Seil people.
The merciful Emperor graciously granted his request, bestowing the surname Sieg—meaning "victory"—and recognizing them as a duchy.
Even after becoming Archduke, he appended the shame-filled name "Seil" to the exalted "Sieg" granted by the Emperor, a deliberate reminder that he had not forgotten his roots.
It was only natural, then, that the people of the duchy revered their king beyond mere trust—worshipping him outright.
The spear tip of the Hermann Empire, conqueror who toppled two kingdoms.
Archduke Captive-Victory Siegseil.
The Black Knight Gerhard.
Gerhard von Siegseil was a powerhouse who had never known defeat, whether as a commander or a knight.
The people of the duchy harbored no doubts about their Archduke's victory this time either—even after the Crusher Knights had effectively suffered total defeat in the tournament, their faith remained unshaken.
"They're skilled, no doubt, but that's probably all they've got."
"Give us either the Crusher Lance or the Crushing Charge formation, and we could beat them handily."
"In real combat, they wouldn't stand a chance against our Crusher Knights."
They believed the Crusher Knights simply couldn't show their true prowess in a tournament like this.
And they were right—the gap in their skill with Crusher Lances versus without was like night and day, adult versus child.
And their hero, the Black Knight Gerhard, had records of besting renowned knights even without his Crusher Lance.
"So you're saying you couldn't perform at your best because it wasn't real combat."
The retainers jolted in shock. They couldn't fathom what in their careless words had provoked him—his voice was as cold as frost falling from the eaves.
"Is that the narrow-minded thinking you've fallen into?"
The Archduke swept a chilling glance over his frozen retainers before turning his reprimand on the Crusher Knights.
"Look at their shields. Recall how they gripped their lances."
His voice was so icy it sent the Crusher Knights—who hadn't even groaned through broken teeth and smashed noses—sweating bullets and trembling in terror.
"Tournament-inappropriate oversized shields, and Thracia's riders didn't even use the hooks on their breastplates to secure their lances."
Those who endured the clash's impact with raw physical strength alone, versus the Crusher Knights whose postures collapsed completely, backs bent double.
"They couldn't bring their full skill to bear either."
The Archduke continued in a voice like glacial abstraction.
"Are the Crusher Knights so feeble they can't claim victory on their own without relying on their weapons?"
The knights bowed their heads repeatedly under the Archduke's unprecedented fury.
Watching them, he scowled.
How had his subordinates—who had roamed battlefields with nothing but a single spear, no proper armor, driven by the sole will to cast off their chains and claiming victory after victory—grown so weak?
That they showed no frustration over what amounted to a gift of a draw, blaming only their weapons—it ignited true rage in the Archduke.
No, he knew the truth.
This anger wasn't aimed at the Crusher Knights.
It was fury toward those slippery Thracia bastards who kept upsetting the board.
He'd thought he had the reins firmly in hand, only to snap to and find them gripped by the wrong hands.
Yannick Schrelgrad Mjolnir.
Thracia's mastermind who had juggled the Astoria and Kazan forces like toys in his palm.
Nothing had gone according to plan since that man stepped to the fore.
The Crusher Knights, who dreamed of etching their name across the continent's east by crushing Thracia's heavy cavalry, ended up with faces smashed and defeated.
The collaboration with pre-recruited insiders was scrapped before it even began.
Had he seen through everything?
The timing of his cavalry's forfeits and the challenge to single combat was too perfectly coincidental.
As if he'd foreseen every twist that would unfold here today.
Impossible.
It was mere conjecture.
Thracia had no means to uncover their plans.
Yet Gerhard von Siegseil couldn't shake his irritation at Yannick's maneuvers.
Instinct told him this man would become a massive obstacle to the Hermann Empire's eastern advance.
That was why.
He'd answered the pathetic taunt from someone so beneath him—to eliminate a potential future variable at its root.
Not that it didn't piss him off a bit, too.
Obstacles were for removal, plain and simple.
As always.
-......!
Thracia's herald shouted.
Across from him, Thracia's cavalry captain lowered his visor and raised his lance.
Like the other Thracian riders, it was the classic couched lance position—palm up, lance tucked under the armpit, no hook for support.
Clank.
He lowered his visor and slotted the lance into its hook.
-...!
A muffled roar echoed from within the helmet.
Thud.
In that instant, the Archduke was already charging.
He gripped his lance tighter.
"...!"
The distance closed unbelievably fast.
Even amid the rush, he precisely targeted the opponent's armpit with his lance tip.
With their flimsy grandguard leaving the armpit relatively vulnerable, he planned to thrust through and end it in one go.
Up to the final moment, he glared at his foe—then the enemy's lance tip entered his vision.
The tip ballooned in size in an instant.
As expected, the enemy aimed for the head.
He tilted his head up slightly to shield his face from potential shards and the strike, tensing his neck to deflect the impact while leaning his torso back just a fraction.
All these adjustments synced perfectly with fine-tuning his lance.
Bang!
The impact hammered his face.
Heavy, but exactly as anticipated.
Two things, however, he hadn't foreseen.
Krunch.
The blow didn't end there—it kept shoving his face back.
Crack.
And the hollow feedback from his lance tip, transmitted up his arm.
"...!"
By the time awareness snapped back, he was half-sprawled across his horse's back.
Whoosh.
A metallic tang filled his mouth.
His foggy mind cleared in a flash.
He straightened his slumped torso.
Drip drip.
Hot liquid trickled down his philtrum, as if waiting for the cue.
The helmet filled with the reek of blood a beat later.
He didn't need to check.
Nose and mouth obliterated.
Even after bracing and deflecting—this much damage.
And the opponent...?
Only now did he spot Thracia's cavalry captain.
Astride a pristine white steed, he sat motionless, staring this way.
The lance in his hand was freakishly short.
Not snapped—the end had simply vanished cleanly, less than half its original length.
How the hell did he attack?
Questions chained in his mind.
They didn't linger long.
Flicker.
From the cavalry captain's helmet slits, elongated like eye sockets, a blue glow shimmered.
A feral gleam, reeking of bloodlust, like a beast met in the dead of night.
Shiver.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
How could human eyes...!
He recoiled, staring back at the captain.
The blue light was gone now.
Must've been an illusion from the torchlight all around.
"A new lance..."
He called to his retainers waiting opposite for a replacement.
No response, even after waiting.
He craned his neck, searching, head bowed low.
"Y-Your Grace..."
The retainer bowed apologetically.
Only then did he realize his own lance was pristine, like new.
"The Thracian rider deflected Your Grace's lance with his shield at a slant."
Memory of the clash resurfaced at those words.
The eerily hollow sensation at his fingertips.
He hadn't understood then—but now he did.
If the foe had angled his shield to glance the lance outward, there'd be no impact.
He understood, but couldn't accept it.
Deflecting a coronelled lance with just a shield. Without damaging the lance at all.
Meaning the enemy had perfectly redirected the attack without imparting even a scrap of force.
Impossible.
Unthinkable, the stuff of dreams.
Yet it had happened, here in reality.
Not just some figurehead, then.
He'd never underestimated the man's skill.
Even as a mere commander, he'd need real talent to rack up those victories.
At least enough to enter the tournament himself.
But now? Total misjudgment.
This man's mounted combat prowess rivaled—no, surpassed—the regular knights of the continent's western strongest order.
At minimum, on par with the Golden Fleece's leader. Maybe even the Holy Knight Order's captain.
How had someone with this skill stayed known as a mere commander?
The answer had been obvious from the start.
Thracia's cavalry captain possessed rare tactical acumen and insight.
Even the Empire's top generals had showered praise on his bold yet meticulously calculated army maneuvers.
Though some battles drew the opposite verdict.
"Charging an enemy host with cavalry alone, no infantry support? Sure, he prepped the field beforehand, but I wouldn't throw my riders into something so reckless."
"Oddly reckless streak. Youthful hot blood, probably. If it'd been Empire troops instead of Astoria, the outcome would've been different."
Not reckless. No hot blood.
He simply had the confidence to smash through formations and hordes with brute force.
Who could've known?
That the frontier cavalry captain, whose tactical genius left Empire generals in awe, was no mere commander—but a warrior-hero.
That in this remote backwater lurked a monstrous freak of nature, blessed with both stratagem and personal valor.
Who could've dreamed it?
Today, no matter what, that man had to be eliminated.
The path to the eastern continent was no longer an issue.
Fail to remove him now, and he'd become a future scourge.
Could he do it?
Huu.
He drew a deep breath.
He had to.
Fuuu.
He exhaled the air filling his lungs in a long stream.
He was the undefeated knight bearing both the lowly slave's name and the glorious conqueror's.
The charge signal dropped.
Proud spear tip of the Empire.
"The Black Knight, Siegseil."
He dug his heels into his mount and clenched the lance.
The gap vanished in a heartbeat.
"...!"
Through the slits in the onrushing foe's helmet, ghostly flames flared once more.
Grin.
The flames smirked like a crescent moon.
A chilling tingle raced down his spine.
Only then did he notice the opponent's posture had changed.
No longer the classic couched lance under the arm—it was the overhand lance hold, lance raised above the shoulder and angled down.
A stance for hunting beasts from horseback.
Even better.
Seeing the foe expose his vulnerable armpit fully, Gerhard von Siegseil微-tuned his lance tip.
He'd skewer and kill in one thrust.
Grip.
He tensed his grip and lifted his head.
That slight motion blocked his forward view, eliminating risks from the enemy's strike or shards.
Or so it should have.
Suddenly.
The lance tip, vanished from sight, reappeared right before his eyes.
How?
Before the question could resolve—
Krunch.
The enemy's lance exploded from the tip, brutishly forcing its way through the helmet's eye slits.
< 25장 기병 잡는 기병 잡는 기병(6) > 끝