Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 010
Chapter Title: Knight of the Black Spear
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From time immemorial, there had been a staggering gap between infantry who walked on two legs and cavalry who charged on four.
If one had to draw a comparison, it was like a fight between someone crawling on their thighs with no shins below the knee and someone walking normally on solid feet.
Not only could the latter move at far greater speeds, but from their elevated position, they enjoyed a wide field of view, scanning the surroundings and always dictating a battlefield to their advantage.
And when you added a bow to the mix, it turned into a literal nightmare.
Archers were already a class designed to unilaterally slaughter infantry wielding swords and spears from afar. If those same bastards gained mobility on horseback, they could strike at will, forcing casualties without taking any themselves.
Despite this overwhelming performance, few ever mastered mounted archery—and the reason was simple: it was brutally difficult.
It demanded mastery of two utterly unrelated skills: archery and horsemanship. In a typical agrarian society, only a select few from privileged classes could afford to invest their childhood in learning to ride and shoot.
The western Horais folk, who rode horses from the cradle, might be an exception, but in the Libert Kingdom, the total number of people skilled enough to fire a bow accurately from horseback probably didn't exceed a hundred.
And even then, most could barely hit targets within twenty meters.
That was why, the moment Shan elegantly demonstrated mounted archery by sniping an enemy from about fifty meters away, the mercenaries who had charged out felt not just shock, but something bordering on terror.
"Mounted archer...!"
"Go call the horsemen! Archers, keep him pinned in the meantime!"
The mercenary captain's hasty order to duck behind large shields was remarkably spot-on, especially considering he'd likely never faced true mounted archers before.
After all, the natural counters to horse archers were foot archers and cavalry used separately.
Stationary archers on the ground fired faster and more accurately than their mounted counterparts, while cavalry could chase down and kill fleeing horse archers—something infantry couldn't match.
Unfortunately for them, Shan was on an entirely different level from your average mounted archer.
He pulled arrows from his saddlebag and loosed them in rapid succession. Three archers mixed in among the charging mercenaries dropped dead in an instant.
Unlike his first shot, not a single arrow missed this time—they struck true without fail.
Two pierced eyes and throats, sending their victims tumbling. The third managed a counterattack, but Shan casually swung his bow to swat the incoming arrow aside.
For someone who could deflect ordinary arrows from under ten meters like child's play, one coming from forty or fifty was no different.
"No way..."
"Is that bastard insane?"
The mercenaries who witnessed this faltered, their momentum crumbling to a halt. Seizing the chance, Shan wheeled his horse around them in circles, peppering them with arrows.
A few shots were blocked by hastily raised shields, but not everyone carried those massive things.
Those wielding two-handed weapons cowered behind the shield-bearers, trembling—until arrows found them, eliciting screams as they died.
"Hold out! Reinforcements are coming soon!"
True to his word, moments later, two cavalrymen spurred their horses from the main camp after spotting the chaos.
They weren't knights who could fight freely from the saddle, but simply being able to ride earned them several times the pay of foot soldiers.
"Captain!"
"You okay?"
"Does it look like I'm okay? Ignore me—take that bastard down quick! If we let him run loose, he'll be a nightmare!"
The captain bellowed, wiping blood from his cheek where an arrow had grazed it. He was ill-tempered at the best of times, and the focused sniping had frayed his nerves even further.
"Don't worry—I'll catch that scrawny nag in no time! Let's go!"
The cocky cavalryman spurred his horse alongside his comrade, accelerating hard to pursue the enemy who had fallen back at a distance.
As he said, their speed far outpaced Shan's.
Though his own mount was a subpar warhorse at best, theirs were proper cavalry steeds—while Shan's was just a decent riding horse.
But speed alone didn't decide the fight.
"Gah!"
With a pitiful whinny, one cavalryman's horse collapsed, throwing him.
Shan, who had turned tail to flee, had twisted at the waist mid-gallop and nailed the horse's head dead-on.
Poor as they were, they couldn't afford expensive barding like knights did.
"What kind of lunatic...?"
The watching captain muttered in stunned disbelief.
Firing backward from a full gallop? Was the kid some Horais half-horse archer or something?
Regardless, Shan didn't hesitate and dropped the second horse just as easily.
As he reached for another arrow, his hand came up empty from the saddlebag.
"Ah."
The dozen or so arrows he'd scavenged from corpses earlier were already gone.
It hit him anew: archery just wasn't his style, talent aside.
No satisfying heft to it, hard to target heavily armored foes, and the constant need to manage ammo.
No matter—when out of weapons, resupply from the enemy.
Shan reversed course, charging the cavalrymen who had just remounted after tumbling.
One lay dead with a broken neck from the fall; the other hobbled up on a shattered leg.
His target: the longspear the man was using as a crutch.
"N-no, stay back...!"
The panicked rider thrust out his spear in resistance, but Shan nudged his horse aside to shield it, then swept the blade away with his sword.
Grabbing the shaft with his free left hand, he slashed downward, severing the man's wrist.
A shake to dislodge the dangling hand, a grip on the spear—and just like that, a fine spearman was complete.
He finished the screaming, now unarmed rider with a thrust through the throat.
'Spears are way better from horseback.'
A one-handed sword felt awkward with the distance to targets opening up.
With his new weapon secured, Shan pressed the attack. The mercenaries formed ranks to counter, figuring a spearman was far more familiar—and beatable—than a horse archer.
They were wrong.
Shan kept them at bay infuriatingly close, butchering them unilaterally.
His growing horsemanship let him control the mount with his legs alone, freeing both hands to drive the spear home from beyond their reach.
"Urk—"
"Thrust at the spear!"
"The horse, you idiots—not the rider!"
"He blocks everything!"
Spear-wielders among them lunged at his horse, but Shan evaded every strike, riposting viciously.
The straight, sturdy shaft twisted like a serpent, piercing shields and weapons to tear into exposed flesh.
The only annoyance was his horse flinching at every clash of metal nearby.
Not being a trained warhorse, it was doing remarkably well as is.
As he yanked the spear from his fifth victim's face, Shan pulled back slightly and glanced aside.
A chilling premonition—like when he'd awakened to goblin raiders—washed over him.
'That's...'
Every soldier from the tents had mobilized, advancing on him.
Most seemed mercenaries by their gear, but two riders looked properly armored—squires, perhaps.
Leading them: a knight in full plate.
Unlike the leisurely pace of the others, he spurred full-tilt straight at Shan.
'Fast!'
Even burdened with a plated knight and barding of its own, the horse moved far more nimbly than the earlier cavalry mounts.
Dodging was impossible at that speed gap.
"Hya!"
After a split-second calculation, Shan charged right back.
He couldn't outrun it—better to accelerate into a head-on clash. His instincts screamed it.
In mounted combat, worst was letting a faster foe take your rear; absolute worst was halting to meet a charging enemy.
'His spear's longer and heavier—no straight clash. Parry inside the shaft and counter.'
It'd demand insane reflexes, but Shan had never lacked there.
As he fixated on the weapon, he realized the pitch-black spear looked familiar.
'Ah.'
Yesterday's battle: of the four knights with red plumes, two blocked attacks and fled, one fell to a spear and was captured by infantry.
The last died on first impact, chest pierced—and yes, that spear had been just as black.
The only blue-plumed knight capable of a one-strike kill—
Realization dawned as the knight drew back for the thrust, his motion slowing in Shan's sight.
From powering deltoids and shoulders to pivoting joints, elbows, wrists—every muscle and joint synced perfectly, channeling force to the tip.
True, proper motion—not the limp puppets he'd always fought.
Ideal form; Shan would've moved just like that in that build.
He barely parried the faster-than-expected strike, only to realize the spear didn't budge despite lifting from below.
Instead, gripped tight in both hands, it snapped his shaft like kindling and thrust at his chest.
Power from a weapon grip weakens further from the handle; thrusts are vulnerable to lateral force. Impossible even for a brute.
Sheer killing intent warped reality through sheer presence.
"Urgh...!"
In the crisis, Shan released his legs' grip on the horse.
The snapping shaft's rebound flung him back; the spear grazed chest to shoulder by a hair.
One arm and leg snagged the saddle mid-fall—he remounted just in time.
Luckily, the knight shot past in his momentum, no immediate pursuit.
'Almost died...!'
Underestimating him after seeing that idiot sprawl surrounded yesterday? Mistake.
First true brush with death since picking up a weapon—brain melting in terror and thrill.
But not unbeatable.
In the clash, the knight hadn't reacted to Shan's defense or evasion at all.
It was just superior gear and unexpected power overwhelming him.
Knowing the spear's force was beyond parrying, he could've planned around it.
Yet instead of charging again, the knight raised a hand, halting his men, and approached slowly alone.
At thirty meters, he sheathed his spear, removed his helm—revealing a irritable face in his mid-thirties.
Sharp, slitted eyes scanned Shan appraisingly.
"...Young. I thought you were just small-built."
The knight muttered to himself in a low, gloomy voice.
Not expecting reply, he continued by introducing himself.
"I am Peonil of House Alten, knighted by Count Varik himself. And you?"
"Shan."
It was still the only name defining him.
Unlike the bandit leader annoyed by curt replies before, Peonil just snorted softly.
"No house name? Or none to give? Doesn't matter either way. But did you pledge your spear to Morayen Duke's banner, by chance?"
Shan got the gist: servant of that duke guy? He shook his head.
Without chats with Roden, he'd have asked what that meant.
"No."
"Did Vito hire you?"
"No."
"Then why attack our unit, enforcing the count's blockade as ordered?"
"Your men tried to kill my friend."
The knight glanced back at Shan's blunt answer, then clicked his tongue.
A mutter drifted: 'Useless vulgar mercenaries.'
"I see. Got it."
Shan braced for rage at attacking over that, but the response was mild.
And what followed astonished even more.
"Then how about we call it here? We sparked it, but the blood spilled's no trifle. I'd say that's payment enough."
A ploy to lull and ambush? Objectively, they held every advantage—no need to stop.
But his eyes were utterly sincere.
As Shan alternated suspicious glances between him and the troops, Peonil added:
"One condition: no employment by Vito to oppose the count's army. Agree, and this fight never happened."
"I was heading to Pendia anyway."
"Good. Deal struck. By the Goddess's name, we won't bar your path."
Helm back on, Peonil wheeled about, ordering return. The soldiers milled back to camp.
Shan read bewilderment and discontent on their faces, but none dared demand the knight fight on.
Before leaving, Peonil dropped cryptic words.
"Hope next time we meet smiling. Better if riding side by side."
Victory felt unreal; Shan sat dazed a moment before riding back to the walls.
There, Roden gripped his parasol tight, facing down a crowd—with the Altoin troupe huddled anxiously behind.
"What's going on?"
Those glaring at Roden scattered in fright at Shan's voice.
Roden turned, gasping.
"You're hurt bad! Get down quick!"
Glancing down, Shan saw his chest soaked crimson.
The spear graze had bled profusely.
"Ah, explains why I'm beat."
He let Roden help him dismount.
Tension released—dizziness hit, vision blurring.
"I'll salve it—bear the pain. Couldn't see well midway; who the hell did this to you?"
"Peonil, he said..."
Roden choked.
"Black Spear Peonil? Damn—if I'd known that monster was here, I'd never have sent you."
"You know him?"
"Libert mounted joust champ, most wins ever. Name's known even in Pendia. Top three in lancework here, easy. Didn't know he was Varik's vassal."
Pain stung from the salved wound, but Shan smiled.
If even that guy was nothing, it'd be terrifying.
A fine obstacle to climb.
"Sir Peonil."
In the tent, sipping wine lightly, Count Varik's chief knight, Peonil Alten, turned at his squire's call.
His expression already telegraphed the complaint.
"Dissatisfied I spared the boy?"
"Not so bold as to complain, sir... but the mercenaries are muttering about taking revenge themselves."
"Desertion mid-operation is death. No exceptions—relay that. They caused this mess after I cut 'em slack once; they own it."
To the squire, it seemed more misfortune than fault, but contradicting his lord was impossible.
Peonil murmured watching him.
"Fighting to the end gains us just a child's corpse."
"Spare him, and we get nothing."
Saving the brat fueled their gripes.
No rebellion under Peonil, but morale mattered in war—better to kill and gibbet the kid, squire thought.
Silence, then Peonil's lame excuse—not like him.
"My honor's intact. Sparing a ragged boy in old leathers, wielding a stolen spear on a starved horse—without cruelty."
Then why strike first if honor mattered? Squire stewed inwardly but bowed obedience.
Dismissing him with a wave, Peonil touched his plate's side.
A deep gouge from something sharp.
'Confirmed—not imagination.'
In the clash, he'd felt the pierce land, yet the foe took mere graze—and Peonil a dull pain at his flank.
Incredibly, as the rebound flung the boy, he'd thrust the broken spear end at him.
Had it stayed longer, with more force and spirit, it'd have pierced plate.
Fifteen years as knight, countless foes—never seen such reflexes, instincts, battle smarts.
Another clash risked injury, so Peonil checked allegiance and ended it clean.
Morayen Duke's man? He'd throw mercenaries too to kill him.
Not? No need for dishonor or risk.
Especially with the two powers' armies clashing kingdom-wide.
'Still a shame.'
Rivals of equal skill for one-on-one were rare.
Especially at Peonil's level.
As a loyal knight and warrior, he couldn't help anticipating a future rematch.