Voluntary Retirement (1)
Two weeks after the incident in the County of Lorenz.
The small southern imperial city of Maxiburg. Even in a town with nothing noteworthy to see, the sunlight still arrives. Whether a donkey-pulled cart rolls along the rutted wheel tracks in the dirt road, or drunks start hiccuping and picking their teeth with their pinkies in broad daylight, or even if someone gets flung out from behind a tavern's wooden door—none of it stops the sun.
What visits the Empire equally is sunlight alone. Not order, not rules.
The man who rolled two meters away was unmistakably an old geezer, no matter who looked. "Aigoo, heavens!" the passersby rushed over, but once they realized he was an elder, they all let go and backed off in unison. In the midst of the collective silence, a gauntlet dropped with a thud at the old man's feet.
"I challenge you to a duel."
The man who tossed the gauntlet was a giant who looked over two meters tall. His face was thick with a beard like a wild bramble bush. His tiny eyes, practically buried in fat, gleamed with greed. Just one of his fingers pressed to the old man's thigh would leave the poor bastard bedridden for life—this brute was built like a fortress of muscle.
"P-please, spare me!"
"Do you accept the duel?"
The old man's jaw trembled. The onlookers passing by couldn't even bring themselves to speak. Not one pitied the geezer. Miser. Moneygrubber. Infamous for being the kind who'd get buried with his gold when he croaked.
But at the same time, the crowd was indignant. They'd expected something milder—like the old man getting royally conned or his house burning down—not getting beaten to death by a bandit knight.
"Hey, old timer."
The giant bent down.
"You stepped on my foot first, didn't you? I told you to apologize, but you just ignored me and kept going. I'm taking that as an insult to me, a knight of the Empire. So I'm challenging you to a duel. Got a problem with that?"
He pointed to the pauldon on his left shoulder. There, clear as day, was the white rose emblem of an imperial knight. The border color shifted depending on the angle—a sure sign it was genuine, designed to prevent counterfeits. Sure, he might've stolen the pauldon itself and slapped it on, but folks in backwater Maxiburg weren't about to suspect that much.
"I-I apologized! I bowed all the way down to my waist multiple times, but you still threw me…!"
"I demanded a sincere apology, not empty words."
"You didn't ask for all my fortune!"
"You tried to wreck my foot. I deserve that much."
The giant snorted derisively.
"Look, I'm a soldier who eats from the battlefield. If I injure my foot, how the hell am I supposed to fight?"
The old man clenched his fists.
"…Half."
"Huh?"
"Half. No more than that…"
The giant ground his teeth and seized the old man by the collar.
"Guh…"
"Let's do this like men. Like men. I don't need your filthy money. Let's settle it right here. By imperial duel law, you can find someone to fight in your stead. And if you want, I can even fight from inside a box with just my arms sticking out—I'll take that handicap."
The blood drained from the old man's face. His opponent was Goetz. The vicious knight. A knight in name only—a worthless thug. A money-mad dog who'd crawl under any gangster's heel for coin. But his cruelest trick was this very "duel."
He'd pick a mark he'd been eyeing for a while and pick a fight. Like now—waiting for the old man to pass, then sticking out his foot to make him trip. Then he'd flash his knight status and demand compensation. If they paid up, he'd call it a settlement. If not, he'd claim insult and demand a duel. Duels let you kill legally.
And no one in the capital could beat Goetz, or so he boasted. But he knew robbing just anyone would backfire on him, so he targeted folks with bad reps, hoarded wealth, and no muscle—like this old man. No one would fight for him. No one would take his side.
"Money… I'll give you money!"
The old man shouted.
"A quarter! A quarter of my fortune! My kids and wife died of the plague—I scraped it all together penny by penny! Please, anyone…!"
No one stepped up.
"A third!"
Knight Goetz crossed his arms.
"I'll count to three. If you don't make it clear by then, I'll take it as you accepting the duel."
"Half! Half!"
"Two."
Goetz's face bloomed with a grin. The onlookers' feelings were a tangled mess. Side with an old man they'd never pitied? Or just watch him get legally beaten to death in broad daylight? Was the geezer really that bad?
"One!"
Goetz's hand clamped around the old man's throat.
That was when it happened.
"I'll do it."
A man stepped forward from the crowd. Goetz's already beady eyes narrowed further. The old man gasped for air. A stranger. Of course, Goetz was an outsider here too, but in the near two weeks of prior scouting, he'd finished a basic rundown of the town with his men. He knew the old man was hated by all. And that this nowhere village had no real heavyweights.
Yet out of nowhere, some unknown warrior strolls up.
Bandit knight or not, Goetz made his living on the battlefield. He could tell from the walk. The gear. The stance. And the armament. A breastplate guarding chest and gut. No pauldrons—probably favored free arm movement. A kettle helm with a gorget. More like a deep hood flipped with a long eye slit. Underneath, brown leather garb top and bottom. Goetz, son of a tanner, spotted it instantly: supple, flexible buffalo hide that wouldn't tear easy. Damn rare. Damn pricey.
Sword at the hip: standard imperial straight sword. A bit short for two hands, a tad long for one—awkward grip. Rounded pommel. But the balance? Perfect. Same make as Goetz's own blade.
What really caught his eye, though, was the thing in the guy's right hand.
A staff. Plain as day. Not a six-foot training pole for squires. Not a spear trainer. A 90cm-to-1m water ash walking stick, like for a lame old codger. Iron-banded, sure.
"Why's a guy with good legs carrying a damn walking stick?"
That was part of the curiosity gnawing at him.
"By imperial duel law."
The man intoned.
"You can find someone to fight in your stead. And if you want, I can even fight from inside a box."
The actual text was longer and more convoluted, but Goetz gritted his teeth. The bastard was mocking him. Daring to mock Goetz.
"But your limbs look fine, and I don't fancy boxes. Or barrels. So I'll take the penalty."
"What penalty?"
Thok. The staff tapped the ground.
"I'll fight with the staff."
"You nuts?"
Goetz muttered for real.
"Cut the crap and draw your sword. Sword on sword."
"Staff."
"You know crazy bastards like you don't qualify under duel law?"
"Staff."
"Fucking lunatic…"
"Staff."
Goetz shook his head. There was always one like this. Beating them down wasn't satisfying and yielded nothing worth taking. Rotten luck, he thought—
"Scared?"
The staff guy blurted.
Goetz's brow twitched.
"What?"
"Makes sense. If you're whining about a broken metatarsal from one old man's step, your bones must be weaker than your parents' rotting in the dirt."
"You sayin' what now…"
"Deaf too? Too bad—Maxiburg's poor. Free kitchens are at least in Engelburg. If you can walk that far."
"You son of a bitch!"
Goetz flew into a rage. But the man just planted his staff.
"Livestock don't qualify under imperial duel law. Neither do dogs."
"Draw! Sword or staff, I don't care. Fine, I'll humor you! I'll piss on your skull today!"
"Whoa, hold up."
Goetz's muscles twitched—he couldn't take it anymore. The staff man pointed at the old man.
"You haven't hired me yet. So sit pretty and wait. No biting."
Goetz barked mad, but while the crowd and old man feared him, the staff man stayed cool.
"Gramps. You buying or not?"
"Can you… win?"
The old man swallowed. The staff man sighed.
"Gramps, do the math. I walk, you die to that bandit knight. Or hand over everything and starve. Hire me, you keep half your fortune and your neck. Win or lose. Math not adding up?"
The old man got it. The staff man pulled a rolled parchment, inkwell, and quill from his belt pouch.
"Sign here. Write the exact amount. Can't read? Dip finger in ink and thumbprint…"
"I can read!"
"Then write the exact amount."
The grumbling old man scanned the paper. Midway, he choked. Stunned, he gawked at the staff man. The man pressed a finger to his lips. The old man nodded frantically and signed.
"Contract complete."
No sooner said, he hurled off his helm. Clank. Unbuckled his sword belt too. Brown hair, black eyes, lean face revealed. Not a pretty boy, but sharp-eyed. A hunter's gaze.
The staff man hopped lightly in place. Thud, thud. Goetz cracked his neck.
They advanced to the middle of the road. The staff man pointed at a sturdy-looking fellow.
"You there. Sorry, but toss a pebble, yeah? You know the drill."
The man nodded fast, snatched a small stone. Law said it, songs and tales too. Duels needed a witness. Any passerby. One gives the fair signal: toss pebble 'twixt duelists. Fight starts when it hits ground.
Staff man and Goetz faced off, twenty meters apart. The pebble arced up.
Plink.
Surprisingly, Goetz didn't charge. Sword angled forward in guard. Opponent had a stick; he had a proper two-hander—no need to rush.
Opponent just stood, staff planted. No—left hand raised middle finger.
"Surviving with a girl's guts like that. Battlefield scavenger, huh? All bulk, no bite."
Onlookers snickered. Veins bulged on Goetz's forehead. He held back. Knew to stay wary. Used to taunts. But his right arm, waist, thighs screamed to lunge and decapitate the arrogant prick.
Right arm. Waist. Thighs.
The staff man nodded. Then bolted. Stupidly straight-on. Dead ahead.
Goetz bellowed, slashing horizontally. Stable, centered—more check than kill.
Staff guy twisted, dodging. As expected. He'd ditched helm and scabbard to stay light.
So Goetz fired his free left fist. Battlefield staple: pin eyes with sword, finish with fist.
"Die!"
Something felt off. Goetz's grin faded. Aimed at the face—but the guy tilted his head a hair. Fist grazed ear instead.
'He read it?'
Startled, Goetz ducked. Staff swept up from below, tip at chin. He yanked back.
Crack.
Size or pain-hardened body—Goetz stayed conscious. Shook his dizzy head, leaped back.
"That should've been solid."
Staff man scratched his jaw, baffled.
"More."
Goetz's knees buckled—one second. Body crumpling—another. Crack, forehead splits—third. Jaw smashed—fourth.
Goetz toppled. Staff pommel to throat garbled speech. Just gurgles.
"Bandit knight Goetz von Bearinggen. By the Imperial Anti-Sedition Law, you're under arrest. Per statute, all your assets are seized. Your men will stand trial."
"Wh… what the hell are… an imperial knight…"
Goetz strained to look up. Staff man flashed the scabbard. Goetz, imperial knight, knew it: twin-headed eagle, one dead, one rearing, over shield. Torch below. Security Bureau emblem.
"Civil servant."
In his final moment, Goetz glanced at a rooftop. Hooded subordinate backlit by sun.
"Tch."
Luckily, he caught the finger-waggling. Then blacked out.