Chapter 56: The Birth of a Hero

  The tournament officially began, and the noisy, fiery atmosphere was enough to stir even the most sluggish worm in the trees by the roadside.

  Rodhart—the hero in the common people’s hearts and the favorite to win—sliced through his opponents with superb swordsmanship and skill, winning each match with remarkable ease and grace. His extraordinary presence and demeanor amplified the already thunderous cheers into a deafening roar. Living up to the crowd’s expectations, he advanced to the finals without a hitch.

  A grand procession arrived at the square. The already packed crowd immediately cleared a wide path. The door of an extraordinarily luxurious carriage in the center opened, and everyone in the square knelt to greet Bishop Ronis and His Majesty the Emperor, Grafenhardt XVII.

  Many ministers had come along too. The emperor was always in a good mood at such semi-civilian events, so being by his side was never a bad thing—especially when it was the perfect time to curry favor. The Chancellor, His Majesty’s closest advisor, was naturally among them.

  “Where is Duke Mrak?” the Chancellor asked, glancing around.

  “No one’s seen him these days—probably swamped with official business,” an Erney family minister replied. “If they really plan to replace the general, he’s the most likely candidate to take over from General Sanders. Preparing early makes sense, but he’s missed a chance to curry favor with His Majesty. Bold but not wise, huh?” The minister chuckled. “Still, if Strunk wins the championship and gets a foot in the military, we won’t have to rely so much on that Mrak fellow.”

  Noble families clung fiercely to the idea that “blood is thicker than water.” Given the chance, they would fill every position of power with their own kin. Even allies like Duke Mrak had to be bound by marriage—so that his descendants would carry their family’s blood, turning him into “one of their own.” It was as if the only reliable foundation for trust and unity was this physical, blood-based connection.

  The Chancellor frowned and nodded slightly. Mrak had a reputation for being good-natured, well-liked, and capable—yet uninterested in political scheming. But the Chancellor had never liked this seemingly amiable, easy-to-manipulate man. Though Mrak never openly plotted or schemed, the Chancellor’s intuition as a politician told him something was off about the duke. Worse, this man who now bore the “duke” title had come from humble origins—climbing to his current position through little more than ability and seemingly good luck. Even now that Mrak was “one of their own,” he wasn’t worth much trust or reliance.

  Rodhart was said to have ties to the duke, but the “country bumpkin” had been too focused on official duties to take advantage of this talent. Otherwise, the Chancellor would never have been able to bribe Rodhart so easily. Bribing a tournament candidate was a huge risk—if word got out and the military faction seized on it, the consequences would be disastrous. The Paladin Order was the empire’s core force; its selection process allowed no fraud. A charge of nepotism that undermined the empire’s foundations would be catastrophic. But the current situation had left him with no choice but to take the risk. Out of nowhere, the bishop had appointed someone to steal his son’s cleric position. If war broke out in the west, it would be a golden opportunity to earn military merit—a key to winning the political struggle. So he’d gambled, secretly meeting with Rodhart. Luckily, the outcome had been satisfying.

  The emperor, the bishop, and Commander Roland took their seats, followed by the ministers. The final match began.

  First to step onto the arena was Knight Strunk. His bulging muscles were exposed between pieces of his armor; his fierce expression made it seem as if even his face was dominated by brute strength. He hefted a massive greatsword—deadly even with its protective sheath. His appearance was highly unusual for a knight.

  Apart from cheers from a few ministers, Strunk was greeted mostly by boos from the commoners. The noble brute had a terrible reputation in the capital. He’d run amok for years, only toning down his behavior in recent years to train rigorously for the tournament—hiring countless tutors to polish his skills. He was determined to win the championship.

  At the boos, Strunk glared furiously at the crowd and let out a low growl. He was a classic meathead—all his energy seemed to have gone into building muscle, leaving none for his brain.

  Next came the hero, Rodhart. His flaxen curly hair and handsome face gave him a softer look, lacking the ferocity of a typical knight—but this slight lack of grandeur made him more approachable. His calm demeanor and eyes that betrayed quiet resolve make up for his masculinity, and a warm, charming smile never left his face. He looked exactly like the idol in every boy’s heart, the prince charming in every girl’s dreams. Dressed in simple clothes with a light leather breastplate, he looked like a common warrior—as if he didn’t take his opponent’s attacks seriously. In fact, no opponent had landed a hit on him since the tournament began.

  Thunderous cheers and applause poured down on the people’s hero.

  Rodhart’s grace made Strunk’s brutality seem like a deliberate contrast. Strunk stared daggers at Rodhart, eager to charge forward and hack the pretty knight to pieces. Even though he knew Rodhart was supposed to lose to him, he already felt like a loser—a rage that oozed from every pore.

  “Common filth,” the Chancellor thought disdainfully at the sound of the cheers. These insignificant lowlifes, wallowing in their own delusions at the bottom of society. Unwilling to be controlled by power yet too weak to resist, they clung to fantasies of heroes who could defy authority, of geniuses who could overthrow the system. They had no idea that everything in this society—faith, passion, lifestyle—was dictated by the powerful elite. Even this hero, who embodied their dreams, had been manipulated by power behind the scenes. In this world, only those who held power were the true heroes.

  “He’s quite a knight, isn’t he?” the emperor said, surprisingly interested. “I’ve even heard he charged into an orc den alone—rescued Duke Mrak’s daughter and wiped out a thousand of those savages. Impressive! A true young hero. And he’s a commoner, too—remarkable.” By the end, the emperor’s expression had turned odd, almost envious.

  Grafenhardt XVII was twenty years old. His soft, almost effeminate face revealed his character—he still believed in and admired heroes who rose from obscurity. He was ill-suited to rule a country; the comfortable, peaceful royal life had left his mindset as naive and shallow as an ordinary young man’s—if not more so. As a child, he’d even snuck out of the palace to join a circus. Rumor had it he’d sneaked into a capital casino just a few nights earlier and gotten into trouble.

  Born into a position he couldn’t control, he’d been forced to become emperor—but he cared nothing for the role. Obsessed with trivial pleasures, he saw politics and military affairs as a burdensome disaster, hastily passing them off to the Chancellor, who was eager to “solve his problems.” This was why the Erney family held such unchecked power in court. Without the loyal old guards in the military and the Paladin Order protecting the Grafenhardt lineage, he would have been deposed long ago.

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  “Your Majesty is wise,” the Chancellor said, seizing the moment. He looked around at the ministers. “Since Your Majesty recognizes his talent, I’ll place a bet—ten gold coins on this young man to win. Does anyone dare take me up on it?”

  No one responded. The military faction ignored him, while his allies knew he was up to something.

  “Knight Strunk is your nephew, isn’t he, Chancellor?” the emperor said, ever sympathetic. “Even his own uncle doesn’t favor him—how pitiful. Let me cheer for him, then. I’ll bet ten gold coins on Strunk to win.”

  “I’ll thank Your Majesty on his behalf,” the Chancellor replied. “May Your Majesty’s boundless fortune bring him luck.”

  “Hehe, I always have good luck when I bet against you, Chancellor,” the emperor laughed naively.

  A gong sounded, and the match began. The stands and the ground erupted with chants of “Rodhart!” Buoyed by the thunderous support, Rodhart quickly gained the upper hand.

  Ethan sighed. He hated to see the crowd’s great hopes turn to crushing disappointment. He was about to leave when he spotted a short, big-headed man struggling through the crowd. The man squeezed under a person sitting on a low wall, tugged at their leg, and said, “Give me your spot.”

  The person with the prime spot was clearly unwilling to give it up. “Why should I?” they snapped, glaring.

  “Because you want this.” The short man flicked a silver coin between his stubby fingers. The person immediately surrendered to this persuasive argument, jumping down from the wall and respectfully offering their “throne.”

  Few dwarves had such presence—and no other dwarf had such an oversized head or a voice as harsh as a duck’s quack. Ethan pushed through the crowd to greet him. “Lord Bolgan, good to see you.”

  “Special Envoy! What a coincidence.” The Bracada official hadn’t changed in the two months since they’d last met. He nimbly jumped onto the low wall. “You’re back from that cursed orc city already?”

  “I’m not a special envoy anymore—just call me Ethan,” Ethan said, stopping below the wall. “I was just about to leave. I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

  “Leave? Isn’t that your friend up there?” Bolgan asked. “Don’t you want to watch him win the championship?”

  Ethan managed a faint smile. “Unfortunately, I’d bet he won’t win.”

  “No way!” Bolgan’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “He looks like a sure winner to me. Let’s bet a few coins, then. I already put money on him over there.”

  “I don’t want to win your money,” Ethan said.

  “Shame—I’d love to win yours,” the former Bracada official grinned, revealing a set of yellow, even teeth.

  In the arena, Rodhart was pressing Strunk with a flurry of rapid sword strikes, leaving Strunk with no choice but to defend. Without the blessing spells Strunk had cast on himself at the start, he would have already been defeated by Rodhart’s speed. The high-priced mages he’d hired—motivated by gold—had finally managed to drill a few basic spells into his thick skull. It was, admittedly, an impressive feat.

  Rodhart had no such luxury—he couldn’t cast any support magic—but the tidal wave of cheers from the crowd more than made up for it. Every strike seemed to carry the hopes of his supporters, making it hard for Strunk to block. Still, Strunk was no slouch; with the help of his spells, he might have even stood a chance against Rodhart in a fair fight.

  Their similar strength made for a thrilling, hard-fought match—so convincing that even Ethan couldn’t spot a single flaw in their moves. He had to admit: Rodhart wasn’t just a natural knight—he had the talent of an actor, too.

  Strunk’s defense slipped for a split second. Rodhart risked a blow from the greatsword and kicked Strunk square in the face. To the crowd’s deafening cheers, the muscle-bound knight tumbled to the ground. When he stood up, blood streamed from his nose, matching the fury in his eyes.

  Humiliation and pain pushed Strunk over the edge. He roared and swung his greatsword wildly at Rodhart, fighting like a man possessed. The gusts from the blade even stung the faces of the spectators below. But Rodhart remained calm, dodging and retreating slowly toward the left side of the arena—clearly conserving his strength. No one missed that Strunk’s wild assault couldn’t last long. Once Strunk’s momentum faded, Rodhart would strike back. But Ethan knew that counterattack would fail—thanks to an “accident.”

  It was a perfect script: the wise, brave knight goaded his opponent into a reckless, exhausting rage. Then, just as he prepared to strike back, he’d stumble slightly—just enough to let Strunk land a “lucky” hit. He’d lose with a minor injury, and later, everyone would discover a loose floorboard. “What bad luck for the hero,” they’d sigh. The result would be unchangeable.

  Ethan began to think Rodhart had a talent for writing novels or plays.

  Rodhart had retreated to the edge of the arena, the greatsword’s cold wind nipping at him. Even a layman could see Strunk was running out of stamina. The crowd held its breath—waiting for their hero’s winning counterattack.

  But in that electrifying moment, the hero stumbled, his balance gone. Strunk—ruthless as ever—didn’t waste the chance. He swung his greatsword in a murderous arc toward Rodhart’s waist. The crowd screamed.

  Ethan’s heart jumped. Even with the protective sheath, that blow could break bones—even kill. This wasn’t part of the script. Strunk, furious beyond reason, was trying to kill Rodhart. Ethan was too far from the arena, too many people in the way—he couldn’t stop it in time.

  But to his utter shock, Rodhart’s waist suddenly bent backward, his upper body arching like a bow. Half his body hung over the edge of the arena, but his feet stayed planted on the floor. The deadly blade only grazed his abdomen.

  Strunk stared, dumbfounded. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go—he’d expected Rodhart to fall. For a moment, he froze.

  Rodhart seized the chance. He snapped his body upright, slamming the hilt of his sword into Strunk’s face with a dull thud. Strunk tumbled backward again. But when he stood up, clutching his bleeding face, Rodhart’s sword was already pressed to his neck. The match was over.

  “You’ve had good luck today, Chancellor,” the emperor said, smiling at his advisor. “You finally beat me.” The Chancellor’s face was ashen—this unexpected “luck” filled him with shock and rage.

  “The champion of this year’s knight selection tournament—is Knight Rodhart!” an official announced, drawing out his voice for drama.

  Cheers and applause erupted. Rodhart lowered his sword from Strunk’s thick neck, bowed politely to his defeated opponent, then turned and knelt before the emperor and the bishop’s viewing stand.

  Strunk stood like a statue. Confusion, anger, and humiliation swirled in his head—overwhelming his already slow mind. He couldn’t make sense of what had happened. But when he saw Rodhart bow to him in a mocking gesture, smiling triumphantly before turning his back, Strunk’s resentment and hatred boiled over. He lifted his greatsword and stabbed at Rodhart’s back. The stands and the crowd screamed.

  Naturally, the hero wouldn’t be defeated by a cheap shot. Rodhart dodged sideways, then struck back with an elbow—seemingly in self-defense—slamming it into Strunk’s face. Strunk let out a boar-like howl, drowned out by the crisp crack of breaking bones. He flew backward and lay motionless on the arena floor.

  The Chancellor stood up, his face livid. But his self-control and reason were far greater than his nephew’s. He slowly sat back down. The emperor frowned and shook his head. “Losing is one thing—but this? No knightly honor at all.”

  “Your Majesty is right,” Commander Roland said coldly from beside the emperor. The empire’s greatest swordsman had a lean, scholarly face—save for the occasional flash of sharpness in his eyes. His gray hair and beard made him look older than he was. “This violates the very spirit of chivalry. It proves his heart is corrupt. A man lacking even basic morality is unfit to join the Paladin Order—a noble and vital force. I hereby revoke his eligibility for the Order.”

  The Chancellor’s body trembled slightly. He’d gambled and lost—and if Rodhart decided to turn the tables and expose him, he’d lose everything.

  Ethan felt his eardrums would burst from the cheers. Bolgan grabbed a few silver coins from his hand and shouted to make his duck-like voice heard over the roar. “Why did you think your friend would lose?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” Ethan said, stunned, shaking his head.