The Strongest Knight (4)
Gallerhead was born in a small rural fiefdom. His parents were tenant farmers, and the lord was your average sort—oppressing just enough, enjoying just enough. It wasn't a great life, but it wasn't terrible either.
One day, amid that middling existence...
"What the hell is that?"
Something strange entered Gallerhead's vision. Lines. On people walking by, on objects. Lines etched into everything he saw. Their lengths and thicknesses varied wildly. Some had multiple lines, others faint traces barely there.
"...No clue."
Gallerhead paid it no mind and helped his father with work. At his young age, there wasn't much he could do, but one task was splitting firewood. Even that wasn't easy. He always admired how his father sliced through logs without much effort.
That day, he swung at a log alone.
"...Huh?"
That's when he grasped the meaning of the lines. With one visible before him, he instinctively struck it with the axe—and the log shattered absurdly easily.
"Ah, so this is the line for cutting wood clean. Then... what about the lines on people?"
He was curious but didn't experiment. He wasn't mad or bold enough to swing an axe at someone.
Being able to split firewood perfectly was enough for him. It'd keep him fed and alive just fine.
"Father, you don't have to work so hard. We're not starving or anything."
Unlike Gallerhead, his father lived harder than anyone despite being a tenant farmer. After field work, he'd haul water; he'd cut sleep for odd jobs.
"Kid."
His father ruffled young Gallerhead's hair roughly and grinned.
"I'm done for, but you? You gotta break free of this damn tenant life. Go read books. Or pick up a sword. Talent? Don't need it. Any free mercenary on the frontier's gotta be happier than a tenant farmer."
Gallerhead didn't get it. For a tenant farmer, knowing fields and splitting logs was plenty. No more was needed.
But his father always said:
"You've gotta dream. A man's gotta let big ambitions be his compass."
And then, on a brutally harsh winter day.
"Hic... snif..."
Gallerhead's father died. Cause: tax evasion. Drought hit; no food left. He skimmed even the tax share—and the lord found out. The lord's knight beheaded him without a second thought.
His mother, witnessing it up close, wailed for days before hanging herself.
Gallerhead was alone in an instant.
"Tch, didn't think she'd off herself too. What a waste of a face—such a shame."
"Gotta say, I was surprised. Who'd actually scrape together that amount?"
"Shocked me too. Believed I'd really let him go? Why'd I gut the golden goose?"
Overhearing this at the lord's manor, where he'd been summoned.
—Just gather 5 gold, and I'll free you from tenancy.
His father's life-or-death belief was a blatant lie, the lord's scheme.
"You take over your father's fields for me."
"Yes."
On the way back, no thoughts came. Ears ringing shrill.
When he snapped to, he stood before the knight's house—the one who'd killed his father. Axe in his right hand.
"What? Ha, here for revenge?"
The knight sneered at Gallerhead. Then his face twisted demonic as he slammed a kick into his gut.
"Filthy trash like you!"
Gallerhead couldn't react. Strength gap? No. Even now, he pondered.
The line on the cursing, kicking knight. Thick, vivid single line—strike it with the axe or not?
"You know?"
Done venting, the knight pinned his throat underfoot.
"Why your mom died."
"..."
"After your dad croaked, her crying got me hard. Fucked her a few times. Told her I'd kill you if she didn't perform—she shook her hips like mad."
The knight spat on him and grinned.
"Tasty."
Strange. The single line splintered into countless, engulfing the knight. No human shape left—just tangled threads of lines.
That should be fine.
The knight's voice didn't register. His form vanished under lines.
Gallerhead swung the handaxe without hesitation.
Splat!
The knight cracked wide, shattering into chunks on the ground. Just like a log.
"...Strike the line on a person, and it ends like this. Nothing special."
Gallerhead clutched his pounding heart. Emotions stirred, but indefinable.
One clear thing—relief.
Truth was, he'd long itched to test a human line. Now that primal urge was sated.
After, he left the fief. Lived on without desires. When broke, he'd mercenary a bit, recalling his father. Lines showed on beasts too—strike them, they all shattered.
Drifting aimlessly like that.
He met a man on the street. First without lines.
"You."
Gallerhead stared blankly.
The man approached slowly.
"You've got talent."
Turned out, he'd heard rumors—a Windsor Knight named Chiron.
"Sorry, but."
Gallerhead moved to refuse.
Chiron tossed him something. A white cape.
"Be a knight."
"...?"
...Oddly curt, saying just enough. Bafflingly so.
But somehow, Gallerhead felt at ease around him. First time.
"I can't be a knight."
He'd have ignored anyone else, but he tried persuading.
"I've killed plenty. Still a fugitive."
He spilled his tale. Chiron heard the tragedy stone-faced.
"Murder can't be justified, whatever the reason."
"Yeah."
Chiron led him somewhere. No explanation, mid-sentence even.
Still, Gallerhead followed. Felt like he should.
They arrived—at the lord's manor.
"But sometimes, it is."
Chiron beheaded the lord without pause. Showing, not telling, that killing didn't bar knighthood.
"Now, be a knight."
"..."
Honestly, absurd. Those three words took a month and two weeks.
"There, can I dream?"
"Dreams..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Not saying the rest?"
"Be a knight."
Do it if you wanna hear more.
So Gallerhead joined Windsor. Curiosity about Chiron's next words hooked him.
And three years ago—twenty years after that.
"You dreaming?"
Chiron finally said it. No wonder he held back then. Probably figured Gallerhead needed to live it first.
Took twenty damn years, though.
What an idiot...
Funny thing. Without that method, he'd never have become a knight.
Because it was Chiron. The one man without lines—now called gaps.
Curiosity pulled him in.
But even in Windsor, he stayed the same. No thrill, no drive. Never dreamed.
"Too many missions. No sleep."
"Insomnia, huh."
"...You're starting to sound like Sisilia."
Chiron had changed. No smiles, barely two words. But meeting Sisilia loosened him—now he laughed often.
Chiron was the one man Gallerhead respected. Grateful to.
So he wanted to be like Chiron. Feel joy. Change.
"I'll sort my thoughts. Might take five years at least."
"Right."
Chiron approved his leave. Gallerhead headed east—least beasts.
Settled somewhere, pondered a year. First, split firewood. Seemed his happiest memory.
This suits my nature.
But he knew that already.
...Not much change, huh?
He wanted to dream like his father said. Understand even a bit.
Why ditch a decent tenant life for endless toil? For kids, sure—but what about his own? What joy, what hope there?
Gallerhead still didn't get it. So he'd rest till he did.
"Still active, huh."
...But not easy.
Gallerhead opened his eyes. Sisilia approached with a faint smile.
"Sorry. Blinked, and you slipped away."
"...Slipped?"
"Yeah."
"Lying more these days."
No gaps on Sisilia. Like Chiron.
Chiron showed none—always alert, prepared.
Sisilia too. Playful, yet disciplined.
No way she'd slip.
"What lie?"
She beamed. Gallerhead sighed at her denial-denial.
"Sorry, my mind's set. Five-year break's approved by your father."
He refused again. She'd tested his strength—meant to drag him back.
Unlike Sir Chiron, she's smart too.
Let Naetae go, arrest on-site—no excuses. Leave was "sick leave" anyway. Healthy? No grounds to refuse.
Plus, he couldn't win verbally against Sisilia. Few more words, he'd cave.
Why? Chiron's sole daughter. His one weakness.
"But if you insist on dragging me."
So he went all-in. Beat her persuasion pre-emptively.
"Beat me and take me."
Beatrice panicked. The strongest knight, Gallerhead. With Four Heavenly Kings subjugation looming.
Fighting here? Bad idea.
But.
"Okay."
Boom!
Sisilia swung without a hint of hesitation.