A Victory Without Honor
So he must have thought it was perfect when that Guarding Knight used the mountain horse as an excuse.
The Crown Prince of Jeroli had undoubtedly nursed a rather vicious grudge over being refused.
The man snorted, as if the pathetic motive was plain to read. Hearing those words, Caironeia immediately began to blame himself.
Then it really is because of me. If only I had handled the situation a little more wisely….
It’s not your fault, Cairo.
We might have been able to turn quickly and avoid it.
I said it’s not your fault.
In the end, I’m the one who gave him the pretext, Commander.
Duke Farrow finally snapped at Caironeia, who kept digging himself deeper into the ground. He was a just man, but he had never been gentle.
Fuck. Listen when I’m talking to you. How many times do I have to comfort you before it finally sinks into that tiny ear of yours?
He smacked the back of Caironeia’s head with a steel-gauntleted hand.
In a thoroughly irritated tone, he pointed outside the tent.
Louis, go deliver the message again.
Yes, Commander. What should I tell them?
The Iron Horse Knights will all forfeit.
A few of the knights protested their commander’s decision. Kanne’s voice was the loudest and most discontented among them. Yet in the end, no one dared defy his will.
To forfeit the entire match just because they had lost a few horses for their saddles—it certainly looked as if they were tucking their tails in fear. Still, there was nothing to be said. Anyone who had ever heard the name Iron Horse already understood. These men had not stepped back because they feared defeat.
All the Iron Horse Knights forfeited?
Then how many matches are even left?
The crowd, which had been waiting with bated breath for the games to resume, stirred and whispered anxiously at the news.
Including Caironeia and Kanne, five Iron Horse Knights in total had vanished from the tournament bracket. Most of them had been top contenders who had crushed countless rivals to reach this stage. At the very moment when the most thrilling matches should have been reaching their peak, not only had people been killed and injured—now the central figures of the competition had withdrawn their feet.
The remaining bouts had shrunk from six to two. There would be practically no semifinals at all. The disappointment that swept through the spectators upon learning of the absurdly shortened schedule was immense.
It was not a matter that would end with mere regret over the reduced number of matches. Both the knights who had competed and the people watching them felt a hollow sense of futility. Even if someone managed to stand at the top of a bracket riddled with missing teeth, who would truly acknowledge that man as a genuine hero?
The atmosphere in the arena grew as chilly as the stands, which had fallen quiet after the earlier uproar. The matches resumed without any genuine cheers. The knights who had lost their opponents advanced toward the championship in a daze. Whoever won among them would face Zylas next.
After Caironeia, that Guarding Knight had only competed in one additional match. And he had won even that bout, which had propelled him straight into the finals, in the blink of an eye.
For those who had anticipated a heart-pounding, evenly matched duel, the outcome was unbearably dull and trivial. Some closed their mouths in disappointment; others booed and hurled stones.
It seemed as though everything was Zylas’s fault. The act of stabbing the mountain horse’s neck and causing trouble, the decision to exclude that special steed from the competition, and even the circumstances that had driven all the leading championship candidates to declare forfeiture—every arrow of criticism flew toward him.
Most of those arrows came from men. Men held no illusions about the face of the young and beautiful Guarding Knight.
In the midst of that seething outrage, Zylas stood at a loss. He was so ashamed that he could not even remove his helm.
Your Highness, my victory brings no honor.
The man approached the lord and the princess with a face flushed crimson. This was the position where he should have proudly received the sparkling Glass Rose and the prize money. Instead, he fell to his knees on the spot, legs trembling.
For Your Highness to place the Glass Rose in my hands now would be no different from locking me inside a humiliation I could never overcome.
The Guarding Knight declared that he could not accept this shameful and empty victory. His sorrow was plain in his despondent voice. The princess felt a similar resentment at being unable to bestow honor upon him.
This jousting tournament had been held to announce and commemorate her own wedding. To lose even the authority to select and praise the winner in an event meant to elevate her dignity—it was as if the wedding itself had been ruined as an afterthought. She found it difficult to maintain face before her husband, the Lord of Salt Castle.
Then what are we to do?
The princess held the Glass Rose crafted for the victor and turned to her brother with a troubled expression. The prince, too, trembled with fists clenched in utter humiliation.
Two guests of comparable status should have been seated on either side of the royal couple, yet one chair was occupied by the prince and the other remained vacant. That empty seat had been meant for Nyx Farrow. Instead of taking the place of honor rightfully given to him, he sat coiled inside that miserable tent.
The Pig Prince glared at the distant pavilion that housed Duke Farrow. The man inside was surely watching with delight as the festival he had ruined lost its vitality and withered away. Just imagining that loathsome, repulsive face made rage boil up inside him.
How dare he humiliate me like this?
It had been satisfying enough to use a personal grudge as an excuse to seize the mountain horses. But now that events were no longer unfolding as he wished, the prince ground his teeth.
Your Highness, I have not yet faced a sufficient number of worthy knights.
Zylas spoke to the prince, who was busy chewing over schemes of revenge. He looked as though he had reached a grave resolution.
I beg you to grant me the honor of crossing lances with Duke Farrow, commander of the Iron Horses.
You and the duke?
The prince’s ears perked up at the suggestion, while the princess gazed at Zylas with open admiration.
If I can stand against the man praised as the greatest warrior beneath the moon, I will be able to wash away this disgrace.
Strength gradually filled the Guarding Knight’s voice. The prince wanted to believe him. He shot to his feet as if ready to leap down from the VIP seats at once.
Very well. I shall arrange a duel immediately. Summon Duke Farrow. No—there is no chance that esteemed person would come simply because he is called. I will go myself.
The prince hurried off as though fleeing the ceaseless clamor. He wanted to silence those discontented mouths by any means necessary.
As he brushed past the Guarding Knight, he whispered.
A half-hearted resolve will not suffice. Face him with the absolute determination to win.
The Pig Prince wore a doublet that glittered ostentatiously with pink pig embroidery and golden buttons shaped like pig snouts. The pink pig—also the symbol of the Jeroli royal house—was regarded as an auspicious beast in Bigland. The Iron Horse Lord, however, detested pigs.
Take up your spear, Nyx. Only then will that heavy iron armor you wear all day long feel worth its weight.
The prince stood before the tent and spoke with a smirk. Despite the fact that the man showed him neither reverence nor any intention of stepping out from the shade, there was no trace of offense on the prince’s face. He simply intended to drag Nyx, who hated being the center of attention, out in front of the crowd and mock him.
Weren’t you sitting inside this tent because you secretly wanted to participate in the matches?
The man in black iron armor maintained a silence that seemed to swallow the provocation whole. The Iron Horse Knights bowed their heads to the suddenly arrived crown prince, yet they appeared far more concerned with watching their lord’s reaction.
Your former fiancée has come to grace the occasion as well.
The prince delivered the remark with particular slyness, as though he had been saving it. He strode into the tent with a triumphant flourish of his puffed sleeves and stopped before the crate where Duke Farrow sat.
Consider this your chance to earn points with her. Who knows? You returned from war covered in glorious achievements. If you show her a splendid figure now, perhaps Abigail will reconsider….
Duke Farrow rose from his seat while the prince was still speaking. That was all he did. Yet the man possessed the rare talent of cutting another person off simply by standing up.