Chapter 118
Chapter 118
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 118
Chapter Title: A Knight Who Knows Romance
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"More than I expected."
"Looks like they've come well-prepared, brother."
In truth, the empire's future could wait. I had to deal with the problems right in front of me first. With Wayne smashed, all that remained were Osland and Wisili. If I crushed those two setting up camp ahead of us now, I could return to a peaceful life.
After proving myself worthy of a count's title in the emperor's eyes and becoming a count, I planned to marry Lenia. That would be tantamount to creating a new noble house in the empire.
A house with one count and two viscounts under it, allied in marriage with yet another count. Marquis or duke positions were out of reach due to our short history, but a count's title was certain.
"The final battle is finally upon us."
I gazed at the armies of Osland and Wisili spreading their camp in the distance and murmured as much. What had driven me relentlessly this far?
Wasn't it to escape the impoverished, wretched life of a serf? For just over two years, I'd risked my life in countless battles to attain prosperity.
And now that I knew Ren was safe too, all I wanted was to enjoy the abundant life I'd built. Once this war ended, I planned to hole up in the mansion for a while, indulging in every luxury imaginable.
Order Oliver and the chef to whip up something like cola or fried chicken, expand the castle...
"You bastards who dare send a lowly bastard to steal another's title! Lu An has come! If you have any last shred of courage, come out and face my mace!"
The shout from the enemy camp snapped me out of my daydreams of chicken broth. Judging by the heraldry, it was a knight from Osland's side. Mounted and brimming with confidence, he charged out swinging his mace wildly as he bellowed.
"A duel?"
"There's still someone who appreciates the romance of it all."
"Well, not everyone's trash just because they're under trash, right?"
The knights even seemed fired up, subtly raising their weapons and glancing my way. From the vibe, they were itching to charge out and clash swords with him.
"If you want to go that badly, then go."
"Really? Ack!"
A young knight from Cligrove who still looked green spoke up, only for Sir Karon—his senior—to smack the back of his head.
It landed so hard it sounded like a helmeted bucket hitting the ground. He glanced at Edward and Sir Stendal nearby before speaking.
"Still, shouldn't a senior or the knight commander take the field?"
Even a hothead like him couldn't ignore seniority. Sir Stendal was a true veteran among veterans. Edward could only stand beside him thanks to pure skill and his knight commander title—seniority-wise, he couldn't compare.
As Edward quietly eyed him too, Sir Stendal cleared his throat under everyone's gaze and mounted his horse. Moments later.
Boom!
Sir Stendal, armed with an arming sword and shield, clashed in the field center against Osland's knight wielding a textbook one-handed mace and shield.
"Woooaaah!"
Conscript farmers dragged from their fields—when would they ever see knights duel again? Once battle started, they'd be too busy watching their own fronts. They raised their pitiful spears and cheered wildly.
Neighhh!
Trading blows with weapons and shields from horseback, the two soon realized it wouldn't end there and dismounted simultaneously. Then they clashed again.
They swung at each other desperately. Sir Stendal especially pressed with refined swordplay and shieldwork, but his age was the issue.
His opponent, though less skilled, was young and bold. The grueling five-minute duel ended in Sir Stendal's defeat. Endurance caught up to him in the prolonged fight.
Clang!
Sir Stendal's shield hit the ground limply. After taking several mace blows to head and body, he collapsed to his knees, gasping. The victorious Osland knight laughed heartily as he remounted.
"Hahaha! Is that all you've got? With knights like this under you, Viscount Lucas's reputation must be empty hype! Stop hiding like cowards and come out!"
This time, all eyes turned to Edward.
"Will you take the field, Knight Commander?"
He closed his eyes briefly, then touched his sword and spoke.
"No helping it. I'll..."
"I'll go."
But it was my turn this time. He'd insulted me personally—not just anyone—so I had to fight. If Stendal had won, fine, but as a noble enduring mockery and sending proxies twice? That'd bruise my dignity.
Merlin bucked excitedly, pawing the ground as I mounted. Cutter's voice rang out beside me.
"The lord's heading out! Make way, you bastards!"
"The lord marches!"
"Woooaaah!"
Soldiers and mercenaries raised their weapons, roaring at the sight of me. The romance of duels still burned in them.
Their own lord stepping up against the insulter—like something from a tale. Their eyes shone with expectation and trust. Not a hint they thought I'd lose.
"Finally, we get to see the lord's fabled skills for ourselves?"
"I heard he tore a werewolf apart barehanded... That cloak..."
"They say he yelled so loud Count Sarisa fell off his horse..."
Exaggerated tales, sure, but morale was soaring—no need to douse it. I spurred forward amid their stares and shouted.
"I am Viscount Lucas! How dare some nameless knight insult me!"
Pure theater. I circled once on horseback, adjusting my sword over my shoulder for show, and cheers erupted from behind.
"Woooaaah!"
"Long live the lord!"
"We knew it!"
Morale sufficiently boosted, time to fight. The provoking knight had lost his earlier arrogance, staring tensely. And then.
Neighhh!
A light nudge to Merlin's flank, and he reared nearly ninety degrees, slamming down with a thud before shooting forward like a bullet.
So fast the cheers from behind sounded sluggish. Merlin closed in instantly. The knight, stunned by the speed, belatedly dropped his visor and raised mace and shield.
The distance to the man who'd beaten Stendal vanished in a blink. Close enough for eye contact. I roared, swinging the sword from my shoulder.
"I am Viscount Lucas! How dare a nameless wretch insult me!"
Kwaaang!
He barely blocked with his shield. But that was just the start. I retracted and pressed relentlessly, giving no room for counter.
Horizontal slash to thrust. Normally, armor blocked such attacks, but he couldn't parry my blade with gauntlet or hand. He knew my oversized, heavy sword would wreck an arm blocking sloppily.
He tried mace or shield counters, but too late. His mace glanced off my blade; shield slid along my armor. Techniques drilled mercilessly by Lenia flowed naturally.
Snort!
And our horses were leagues apart. Merlin shoved forward aggressively, bullying the foe's mount. The panicked knight fought for control, but the cowed horse ignored him. Victory was sealed.
Thud! Boom!
My sword, like a bludgeon, cracked his temple. He wobbled atop his horse and tumbled off. Limp—he was out cold, if not dead.
As Merlin pranced over the unconscious knight, I stared straight at Count Osland's camp and bellowed.
"Count Osland! Hiding like a rat—who are you calling coward? If you have even a shred of courage, come face my sword!"
Double the insult received—that's true noble grace. I paraded slowly past their camp on Merlin, but no one emerged.
"Come out, you coward!"
"Hah! Does the Osland house only gather cravens?"
Knights and soldiers piled on the mockery, but Osland stayed hidden. Even as I paraded the fallen knight's helm like a trophy.
Not his actual head, but prime provocation: I could lop off your comrade's and parade it—still not coming? But...
"..."
Silence. Whether swallowing pride or lacking confidence, one thing was clear: their morale was plummeting.
"Coward Osland scum! Comfy in your rat hole?"
"Pity the soldiers under a rat-lord!"
Riding the momentum, other knights circled mockingly before them. A couple more knights emerged, deeming someone easier than me... but they picked Edward.
After two more losses, true silence fell. Three knights captured—not minor. One for Stendal, but two extra hurt.
Post-duel, prisoner swaps happened swiftly. The count—whose conscience he'd sold—proposed trading our three for his one Stendal, but I told him to shove it. He backed down to 1:1.
"My apologies, my lord."
Sir Stendal, Cligrove's top veteran and senior knight, bowed in shame at his capture. This might be his last war—his age was no joke.