Chapter 55: The Selection of a Hero

  Even before the western war could begin, it had fallen into a strange stalemate.

  Countries surrounding the Barbarian Highlands had sent envoys; the capital had received several delegations in just a few days. Their requests were largely the same: they urged the imperial army to hold its fire, as many of their merchants had businesses in Oufu City. Some smaller nations had even recognized Oufu as a new independent state. No matter how fiercely the military advocated for war, this immense diplomatic pressure forced the emperor to order the western troops to refrain from any reckless action. Meanwhile, Oufu had kindly returned the goods stolen earlier, and anti-war sentiment had begun to grow among commoners and even some nobles. It seemed Sedros’s methods were truly effective.

  On the other hand, bizarre military reports arrived from the west: a massive undead monster had appeared in the wilderness. Priest Nagas had led all the mages in the army to destroy it, only to be completely wiped out. Such a heavy loss before a single battle had shocked the entire court. The military blamed the Erney family’s cleric for being overly ambitious; the Erneys, in turn, accused General Sanders of poor command. The Chancellor—grief-stricken over his son’s death—vigorously argued for replacing the general. The military refused to concede, and daily court sessions had devolved into shouting matches between the two sides.

  The Magic Academy, however, remained relatively calm. Ronis had rarely spoken up on state affairs before, but this time he advised the emperor to withdraw the troops. He seemed dissatisfied with his previous appointment of Priest Nagas, so he rejected both the Chancellor’s son and the candidates proposed by military ministers. Instead, he planned to appoint an unknown, ordinary monk to replace the fallen Priest Nagas and command the remaining priests in the army. This neutral approach aligned with the bishop’s usual style, leaving the ministers with no choice but to accept. As for why such an obscure person was chosen, the story went that the monk was devout—he had prayed for the dead day in and day out for years—and thus earned the bishop’s trust.

  Despite the tense atmosphere, the Paladin Order’s recruitment tournament proceeded as scheduled. And precisely because power struggles were raging, the tournament took on extraordinary significance.

  While imperial generals controlled the army, they never dared to abuse their power—all thanks to the empire’s core military force: the Paladin Order, which answered directly to the emperor and the Church. Though it had fewer than a thousand members, each was a high-ranked swordsman; the dozens of mages and priests within its ranks were among the empire’s elite. Their combined strength could intimidate an army of ten thousand, and their high mobility and combat prowess let them cut through ordinary troops like a red-hot knife through butter.

  The Paladin Order could only act on joint orders from the emperor and the bishop, so it was rarely deployed to the battlefield. Nevertheless, its status in the empire was unparalleled. To hone their skills, the Order’s captains were often assigned important roles in the military—a shortcut for the Erney family to gain influence in the armed forces.

  Naturally, selection for such a crucial unit was extremely rigorous. Thousands of knights from across the empire competed each year, but only a dozen or so who met the strict criteria were chosen. The key examiners were Roland, the Paladin Order’s commander, and Bishop Ronis. Roland, though aligned with the military faction, was famously strict, impartial, and disciplined—a perfect blend of military rigor and personal integrity. Together with Ronis, who was seen by many as conservative and old-fashioned, they ensured the empire’s core force remained free from political influence. No matter which faction one belonged to, joining the Paladin Order required passing fair, hard-fought trials.

  On the first day of the tournament, a series of preliminary assessments were held—equestrian skills, lance combat, knightly etiquette, piety, and more. Over a thousand candidates were weeded out like sediment in water, leaving only nearly a hundred elites. These survivors would compete in the next day’s tournament for the final dozen spots. The champion would receive the Paladin Order’s badge personally from the emperor—a great honor for any knight, and a stepping stone to promotion. Typically, the champion would even have the chance to become a captain in the Order, commanding several dozen members whose strength equaled that of a thousand-strong army.

  Each year, this tournament became an unofficial grand festival in the capital. Tall temporary stands were built around several open-air arenas to accommodate the crowds; the emperor even attended the finals.

  The square was so crowded that the word “many” barely did it justice—it seemed the entire capital had gathered there. Nobles and commoners alike chatted excitedly about the upcoming tournament. Betting odds had already been set: based on each candidate’s past performance and expert evaluations, everyone had their own odds, letting supporters show their enthusiasm with coins.

  The clear favorite was a candidate named Rodhart. He had passed all the first day’s tests with flying colors, and his skills and demeanor were deemed the best among all competitors by seasoned observers. Unsurprisingly, he had become the overwhelming favorite to win.

  Even though his odds had dropped below 1:1, people kept placing bets on him. The total amount wagered on Rodhart had exceeded a thousand gold coins—a staggering sum that reflected his massive popularity.

  Driven by both passion and money, bettors had even dug up every detail of the knight’s background. Rumor had it Rodhart was a graduate of Erathia’s Knight School—a place renowned for producing heroes and generals, adding a touch of nobility to his origins. A story had also spread among young nobles: this hero had single-handedly rescued Duke Mrak’s daughter from a horde of goblins—a brave feat that further cemented his reputation. Though he had no prominent family background, and had not become the duke’s vassal despite saving his daughter, Mrak had shown his gratitude by simply signing Rodhart up for the tournament. Some had even detected a poor regional accent from Aery in his speech. But this humble origins, combined with his rescue of the lady and his current achievements, gave him the aura of a young hero rising from obscurity—a perfect fit for the common people’s aspirations. Ronis’s integrity and Roland’s strictness had always guaranteed the tournament’s fairness, so betting on Rodhart—who might become the first commoner champion—felt even more meaningful. Unlike the glittering but small piles of gold and silver coins wagered by the wealthy, Rodhart’s bets were made up of mountains of copper coins from ordinary people. Just looking at them felt imposing.

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  Betting was about to close. The last bettor stepped up to the counter and solemnly placed three silver coins in the square marked “Rodhart”—a rare large sum for a commoner. She was a flamboyantly dressed young woman, wearing an off-the-shoulder floral dress that proudly revealed her shoulders and part of her chest, making the men around her salivate. Her naturally cute face was overly made up—not that one could blame her; it was likely an extension of her profession. This young lady, named Xuan, was a famous courtesan at the capital’s largest brothel.

  “Miss, the odds for Rodhart have dropped to 0.6:1,” the bookmaker called out loudly. “Why still bet on him?”

  “Because I like him,” the beautiful courtesan replied, twisting her slender waist. “He’s handsome, has grace and courage, and rose from poverty through his own efforts. That’s a real hero. Those nobles who rely on family connections? Pah!” She spat defiantly—a casual gesture no noble lady could ever mimic.

  Her words immediately drew cheers from the crowd.

  Emboldened by their support, Xuan smiled. She blew a kiss at the wooden board with Rodhart’s name, as if it were her beloved. Resting her cheek on her delicate hand, she sighed softly, “I wonder when he’ll come to see me.”

  “What a sincere sentiment!” the bookmaker shouted, writing it down in a ledger with great ceremony. “May our hero live up to our hopes and win us some drinking money! And may you, miss, win both fortune and the love of your heart!”

  This performance sparked catcalls from the men around them. “Will you give the hero a free night?” “Heroes are usually virgins—you’re in luck! Make sure to take your time!” “When will you give me a free night? I’m an aspiring young man too!”

  Amid the cheers, Xuan held her head high, soaking in the attention. As she passed a young man leaning against a wall and smiling at her, she gave his arm a playful pinch. The young man laughed and patted her head in encouragement. She then sashayed back into the crowd.

  The scent of Xuan’s hair oil still lingered on his hand, and lewd comments about her filled the air. Ethan felt as if he were back in the taverns of his hometown. He was just waiting for his official paperwork to be finalized before leaving for the west; today, he’d taken this last chance to watch Rodhart compete.

  Ethan headed toward Rodhart’s resting quarters, curious to see how the hero—now the focus of the public’s hopes—was preparing. Barring any surprises, Rodhart truly deserved the championship. After watching the previous day’s tests, Ethan realized his friend was a natural-born knight.

  Of course, it wasn’t truly “natural.” Rodhart’s excellence came from his lifelong obsession with the knight’s dream. When someone dedicates their entire life to a single dream, the effort they pour in and the achievements they gain far surpass those who merely “work hard” or “strive.”

  What mattered most was that Rodhart was no longer a child lost in fantasy. Maturity and composure of spirit were a person’s greatest wealth and strength. Only with calm demeanor and resolve could one fully unleash their abilities—and in Ethan’s eyes, Rodhart was already quite powerful.

  The candidates’ resting quarters were in an inn on the edge of the square. Soldiers stood guard nearby to ensure they could rest undisturbed, and ordinary people were not allowed inside. However, one officer recognized Ethan as the monk favored by the bishop; he immediately let Ethan pass, even politely asking if he’d come to pray for the warriors.

  Rodhart’s room was on the top floor, at the far end. As Ethan climbed the stairs, he saw a man enter Rodhart’s room. Several guard-like figures stood outside, looking aggressively vigilant. A few curious candidates tried to approach, only to be sharply chased away.

  This was no place for random visitors, and these knight candidates were not people to be dismissed lightly. Intrigued, Ethan glanced around, then walked to the end of the corridor. When no one was looking, he climbed out the window, clung to the outer wall, and slipped into the narrow space between the roof and the ceiling. The inn was upscale and relatively new, so the top-floor planks were sturdy—he moved across them without making a sound. Like a gecko, he crept above Rodhart’s room and peeked through a gap in the wood.

  Inside, a wealthy-looking middle-aged man sat casually in a chair. He lacked true dignity, but he exuded arrogance as he stared down at Rodhart, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. It was the Chancellor—Ethan had seen him a few days earlier at the Magic Academy.

  “Anyone who thinks they can succeed with just their own wits and strength is just a fool—too young to see beyond themselves,” the Chancellor said, his gaze condescending despite sitting down. “A truly smart person recognizes the times and adapts to them. I can see you’re a smart man. A really smart one.”

  “Thank you for your praise, Your Excellency,” Rodhart replied respectfully.

  “I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at, so I’ll be blunt,” the Chancellor continued. “This championship is useless to you. It will only matter if someone with real power wins it. Even if you get the emperor’s praise and the commoners’ support—without connections, without a background, do you think a man of your humble origins can truly rise in this volatile court? The political infighting here is more brutal than you can imagine. A man like you, with no backing, is just a pawn. We who hold real power can toss you aside, reduce you to a commoner again—even have you executed—whenever we please, or whenever the struggle demands it.” The Chancellor’s tone was authority，a deliberate attempt to impress the gravity of the situation on this “country boy.”

  Rodhart remained silent. Ethan thought the Chancellor wasn’t exaggerating—things really were like that.

  The Chancellor softened his tone, showing a magnanimous side. “I can see you’re talented. But talent alone is worthless. To join any faction, you need time to prove your loyalty and ability before you’re given important roles. I’m in need of capable people right now. If you slowly prove your worth and loyalty to me, you will definitely have a chance to rise. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Rodhart still said nothing. Ethan couldn’t see his face, but he noticed the Chancellor’s feigned calmness flicker with unease.

  After a moment, Rodhart spoke—his voice flat but firm. “I understand.”

  “Good,” the Chancellor said, his voice and expression relaxing with satisfaction. He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and tossed it onto the table; it landed with a heavy thud. “Here are fifty gold coins. I’ll give you more once this is done. And these are just crumbs— I admire young men like you: those who know the times, understand priorities, and get things done. I can promise you—if you work hard, your future will exceed your wildest dreams. As long as you don’t disappoint me now.” The Chancellor stood up, nodded majestically, and walked out the door.

  The door closed. Rodhart still stood there, motionless. After a long while, he walked to the table, picked up the pouch, and weighed it in his hand. He let out a sigh that sounded almost content, then pulled out a gleaming gold coin, flipped it with his finger, and listened to the clear, pleasant chime.

  Ethan climbed out of the ceiling space and returned to the corridor. He walked toward Rodhart’s room, but halfway there, he scratched his head. This was Rodhart’s business—his choices were his own. With that, he turned around and left the inn.

  Ethan suddenly thought of Xuan, the courtesan, and felt sorry for her three silver coins. Even if her money wasn’t earned through “blood,” it was earned through sweat.