Knight Syrg: A Born Thug
Syrg was a natural-born thug of a knight. From the moment he was born, he was extraordinary. Weighing in at a super heavyweight 4.8kg as a premium baby, he grew into a rapid porker by stuffing every living thing that moved into his mouth.
If there existed such a thing as a fat-gaining master in this world—someone who packed on pounds just from drinking water—Syrg was undoubtedly born with one clenched in his teeth. A human pig who ballooned at the mere sip of water. Syrg embodied ham human himself; he was simply fat and enormous.
From childhood, Syrg had no patience whatsoever. When he was hungry, he ate. When he wanted to sleep, he slept. And when he wanted something, he took it.
"Auntie! Syrg stole my kid's bread again!"
There was no item in the neighborhood that the heavyweight kid Syrg couldn't snatch. Extorting snacks from kids his age was just baby submission—twisting a child's wrist.
Tired of the neighborhood mothers' complaints, Syrg's parents called him over for a stern scolding... but they didn't bother, brushing it off lazily instead.
"So what do you want us to do about it? Your weakling kid got robbed—why blame our Syrg?"
"What the—?"
True to form as the mother of a natural thug, Syrg's mom was already demonstrating the principle of might makes right to him firsthand. If she'd been born in a murim demonic cult instead of this medieval fantasy world, she'd have risen to great heights.
Syrg was deeply inspired by his mother's creed of might makes right—though he'd later use it to beat the crap out of her.
"Aigoo! Syrg, what am I supposed to do if you take all the bread from the house?!"
"The strong take everything... Wasn't it you, Mom, who taught me that?"
"What kinda bullshit is that?!"
The big, burly, fat Syrg showed tremendous martial talent from a young age. Grandiose as it sounds, true martial genius in fantasy or wuxia isn't some divinely inspired gift. It's just... if your physique is monstrous, that's genius enough.
How do you handle a 100kg super porker bulldozing you by weight class? Sure, in professional combat, things might shift a bit. Add swords and spears, and it changes again. But even with weapons and armor, your innate strength doesn't vanish.
By age 15, Syrg had grown into a beast who could thrash every adult in the neighborhood. Following the logic of might makes right, he set out to forge his own destiny.
"I'm gonna be a knight."
He started as a mercenary, swinging weapons and slaughtering people. Enemy blades couldn't pierce his thick belly fat. Neither could spears or hammers. Naturally, he became a famous sellsword.
And at some point, Syrg started calling himself a knight—and no one dared object. Impatient, delighting in blood and plunder, indulging in gluttony and drunken binges—a madman who was, by all accounts, the perfect knight!
Whoa! Look at that build! A guy that strong must be a walking mountain!
Syrg was arrogant. He'd never known defeat in most situations, and even when he tasted it rarely, he just ignored the lesson. Like right now.
It was a sure win... What a shame.
Syrg smacked his lips. Victory had been within reach(?)—until that damn Black Knight ruined everything.
Not much consolation, but Syrg was the last bastion of the count's army. Personality aside, he was genuinely a skilled knight in battle.
Once Syrg retreated, the front lines crumbled uncontrollably. Countless soldiers died because of his withdrawal... but that was none of his concern.
To Syrg, soldiers' lives weren't even worth calling "life"—they were insignificant trash!
Nobles, priests, wizards, knights... those counted as human. Commoners? Farmers? Soldiers? EXP bags. Walking wallets. Punch 'em, and they spat out coin and EXP.
(Note: EXP meant Execution Points. Rack 'em up, and you evolve into a heartless slaughter machine on the genocide route.)
So even with hordes of soldiers dying, Syrg didn't give a damn. His only thought was how to grab the count and bolt.
As long as I've got the count, I can start over.
In Syrg's eyes, the count and Lucy were just money shuttles, soldier farms.
"Over here!"
"This way! The count's this way!"
They'd fled hard, but soon the count's group had pursuers on their tail. Nobles weren't exactly speedy anyway.
"Your Excellency, don't worry. I'll hold them here!"
"Oh! Sir Syrg!"
As enemies swarmed, Syrg boldly planted himself in their path.
"I am Syrg of Goose! As long as I draw breath, not a finger shall touch you, milord!"
The soldiers flinched at his roar. Not because of some tattooed pig stew vibe—but because an enormously built knight blocked their way.
"Syrg of Goose?"
"Who's that?"
The enemy whispered. Proof Syrg's name wasn't famous yet. But hustle hard, and he might become a star knight someday.
"Enough chit-chat—hand over the count!"
One soldier charged Syrg. Calmly, Syrg swung his mace, smashing the man's skull.
Quiet down!
Thwack!
The soldier convulsed and collapsed, brain scrambled from concussion.
The enemies' eyes changed. That knight's strength matched his massive frame!
"Any who wanna die, come at me one by one!"
Syrg bellowed excitedly. He'd realized he was king of this moment.
But the pursuers weren't mindless. "Bring out the crossbows!"
"Yes, sir!"
They unpacked their prepped crossbows. Some writers call 'em arbalests—nice ring, but really just stone-flinging bows. Crossbows, or bolt-throwers: mechanical bows, aka crossbows.
Syrg paled at the sight and bellowed.
"You cowardly bastards! Daring to shove beast-hunting bows at an honorable knight?! If you're men, fight fair and square!"
In medieval melee, knights were monsters. Sturdy plate! Heavy armament! Chainmail and shields made them unstoppable slaughter tanks.
But historically... monsters feared bows. Knights too.
"Fire!"
The crossbows loosed a volley of bolts.
"W-Wait! I surrender! I surr—!"
Syrg hastily raised his shield, but too late. Bringing crossbows meant they had no intent to ransom him—just kill.
Had he been from a famous house, maybe different... but a butcher-knight's name meant squat.
Syrg fell under the bolt rain.
"You killed plenty of our brothers, huh."
One spat on the ground. Unlike the ragtag count's army, Greim's forces were tight-knit. Syrg's EXP-farming sprees had earned him their hate early.
"Alright! Count! Time to surren—"
Ignoring the kneeling Syrg, soldiers advanced on the count. They figured him neutralized, even if alive.
...But they'd underestimated Syrg's body fat.
"U... URRRRRAAAAAAGH!"
Bolts studding his body like a giant cactus, Syrg lurched upright!
"What the fuck!"
"That's no human!"
Enemies cursed, aiming crossbows. Fatal mistake.
"Wait! The count's behind him...!"
Unlike the first calm volley, the second scattered wildly—Syrg charging made it worse.
"No! Don't shoot! You'll hit the count!"
Wise words, but impossible to heed. Abandon their only weapon against a half-orc hog warrior charging?
Seeing crossbows, the count paled too. "Sir Syrg! Protect me!"
Though fleeing, he assumed he'd survive. He started the war—nobles don't die, right? Weird logic, but normal for them.
Capture him alive for negotiations or stealing Lucy. He had to live.
But crossbows? Not capture gear. Lethal. Wooden bolts don't spare nobility!
"RRRAAAAA!"
Best case: Syrg snaps to and shields him. But rationality never his strong suit—now half-mad from wounds, no chance.
Pain-crazed Syrg charged the foes. As the count cursed and dodged the firing line—
Ping!
A soldier's crossbow fired. Syrg ducked the bolt. The stray shot... sank deep into the count's neck.
"...!"
"...!"
"...!"
"Uncle!"
Lucy screamed. Time froze; no one could process.
"Wha... what?"
"Shit!"
The count's guards panicked and fled. Syrg, eyes rolled back, was busy massacring. Only Lucy rushed to the fallen count.
Soldiers fended off the human-skinned monster, no time to check him.
"Uncle... Uncle!"
Lucy wept hot tears. She called to him repeatedly, but only gurgles escaped. No final words.
"Uncle..."
Grief crushed Lucy gazing at him. He'd led an army solely to help her... only to die like this.
"I'm... sorry..."
She sobbed. His death felt like her fault. Without her plea, he'd live...
Meanwhile, Syrg's brawl raged.
Thud!
Syrg hit the dirt. Impressive he'd moved after so many bolts. Soldiers pinning him down sighed at the dead count.
"Damn...!"
Things went south. They needed him alive, but water under the bridge. No choice—crossbows or die.
Pursuers moved to grab Lucy at least. But then—
"O Darkness!"
Lucy's eyes flew wide. That voice. That unknown tongue...!
"Ian!"
Mage Ian Raven. The dim forest plunged into invoked darkness, visibility zero.
Hoofbeats rang. Someone scooped Lucy onto a horse. Though faceless in shadow, the arms cradling her made her heart pound wildly.
A brand-new sensation, the first in her life.
"Lucy! What about the count?!"
"...He's gone!"
"This pisses me off so fucking much! Goddamn it!"
The horse burst from the darkness. Lucy finally saw Ian's face—holding her tight, urging the mount forward.
"The Black Knight's tailing us now!"
"Wha, Black Knight?"
"Yeah! Gotta shake him—head for the river!"