Of all the countries in the Arman Alliance, jousting flourished most in Libert, but Pendia was no less enthusiastic about it. After all, wasn't it the most martial of the five kingdoms, the country most enthralled by knights? Roden had even known the name of Feonil, the most decorated jousting champion in neighboring Libert—a testament to the Pendians' immense love of the sport.

As such, the joust held in the capital of Hasra was its greatest festival, barring a handful of major state occasions. People fiercely debated who would win this time, wagering a day's wages on the outcome.

“Hmm?”

Baron Rabayan, the royal household's deputy steward and the man placed in charge of this much-anticipated event, frowned at an application. An ordinary knight's entry was a matter for someone far below him to handle.

“What could possibly warrant bringing this to me...?”

Before long, reading the application made it clear why his subordinates had brought it.

Shan of House Barendil. Born in Libert. Invested by Princess Sherin of Pendia's royal house. Black hair, green eyes. Altoan.

‘An Altoan knight?’

His disbelief at such nonsense lasted only a moment. He contacted the records office and had them check the roll of knights, only to discover that a knight of that very name was indeed registered. Baron Rabayan immediately summoned the officials responsible and thundered at them.

“Why in the world was something this important not reported?”

“W-we apologize. Princess Sherin told us there was no need to trouble our superiors over the investiture of a mere knight...”

At that, Baron Rabayan lost the inclination to scold them further. He sighed and waved them out. A low-ranking official could hardly have dared defy the princess's “recommendation.” Though she held no official post, she had won the goodwill of the bureaucracy by identifying and overturning numerous unreasonable or unjust practices from a young age.

‘There'll be an uproar when the princes hear of this.’

When members of the royal family clashed, it was their immediate officials, men like him, who suffered. The thought of being caught between them made him sigh.

Still, there was no rule barring Altoans from entering—naturally, since there were no Altoan knights—so the baron slammed his seal of approval onto the application. If he was going to be cursed either way, he might as well follow the rules.

* * *

The joust took place in a historic gladiatorial arena built during the days of the old Arman Empire. Vast tiers of seats, designed to hold tens of thousands, rose in a circle around the field. Long ago, this place had been called the “Battlefield of Glory,” and it was famous for having once hosted the emperor himself as a spectator at its gladiatorial contests.

The stands, usually deserted, now teemed with spectators who had come to watch the joust.

“[Glory to the Goddess, loyalty to the royal house! The royal joust of Hasra will now begin!]”

Amplified by a magical device, the voice carried hundreds of meters in every direction, drawing cheers from the crowd.

“[Our first contestant! Sir Darmun of House Kalai, from the southern Kingdom of Luman! Invested by Viscount Schuld, lord of Beo Island, this mighty warrior hunted down a flock of sirens in the southern seas and defeated the Black Moon pirates!]”

Sir Darmun walked into the arena, raising a hand in acknowledgment of the cheering crowd.

The announcer continued reading the roster as contestants emerged one by one from the waiting rooms positioned around the arena. Then his expression briefly clouded.

“[Ah, this is... Our twenty-eighth contestant! Shan of House Barendil, from Libert! Invested by Princess Sherin of Pendia, this young warrior slew the man-eating troll of Ovilos and a cockatrice in the Demonlands! And he is also an Altoan!]”

The crowd hesitated for a moment, then erupted in cheers several times louder than before. The very man behind the cockatrice hunt they had heard so many rumors about lately was competing? Surely a knight would not be foolish enough to falsify his accomplishments in an application to a royal joust.

“He's smaller than I expected. I heard he was an enormous brute.”

“He looks like a child... No, look at his face. He is a child.”

“That stripling killed a cockatrice?”

“Come to think of it, I think I heard some nonsense about an Altoan boy killing it.”

“An Altoan knight? How does that make any sense?”

“Surely he hasn't lied about his rank—”

Religious issues aside, impersonating a knight was a serious matter. As unrest swiftly spread through the stands, Roden hurried over to the announcer.

“What on earth is going on?”

“This document of investiture states that Her Highness knighted him as an Altoan. Please see for yourself.”

The announcer gave a low groan upon seeing the paper Roden had prepared in advance. It listed Shan's name, his house, his coat of arms, and even his physical characteristics. At the bottom was the seal of House Hasra, certifying it all.

After officials went to and from the distinguished guests' seats several times, the announcer called out through the magical device.

“[An announcement! Sir Shan of House Barendil is an ethnic Altoan, a fact already sanctioned by the royal household! He is therefore fully qualified as a knight!]”

Protests rained down from adherents of the Old Faith, but the announcer resolutely called the next name.

Meanwhile, Shan raised and lowered the detachable visor fitted to his helmet several times, as required by the jousting regulations. It was a necessary precaution, given the considerable risk of splinters from a broken lance piercing his face. As he looked around, his expression seemed somewhere between overwhelmed and delighted.

“Whew. This is incredible...”

“Had everything not been settled so quickly, we would probably be sitting up there ourselves, Sir Shan.”

With others present, Roden, who had accompanied him as his squire, spoke politely. Shan grimaced at how awkward it felt, then turned his gaze back to the spectators.

Thousands upon thousands of eyes held curiosity, joy, doubt, hostility, even jealousy... The heat of all those gazes fixed upon him was so intense that it almost felt like physical pressure.

“A cockatrice?”

“What rubbish.”

“A mere Altoan, a knight!”

The spectators were not the only ones watching Shan and Roden. The knights standing nearby, listening to the introductions with them, also stared at the pair in disbelief. There were limits to boasting. What the hell was this stripling talking about, trolls and cockatrices, when he looked as though a single tap from one of the other strapping knights would send him flying? And to top it off, he was an Altoan. Of course, unless the royal household was full of fools, they would not have knighted someone on fabricated accomplishments, but the story seemed implausible no matter how they considered it.

“Is the armor comfortable enough? You haven't had much time to get used to it.”

“It's fine. It isn't that uncomfortable, either. It must be really well made.”

“It was made by a fifth-generation master of plate armor here in the capital.”

Shan nodded at Roden's words and looked down at his plate armor. This armor was a privilege reserved exclusively for knights: iron plates that fully protected every part of the body except the joints, with a sophisticated design and construction that made it little more restrictive than mail. A properly made suit of plate armor cost more than a respectable warhorse. He could almost have wept at the thought that, since he was still growing, he would have to commission another suit when he grew taller.

On top of that, this suit had been imbued with fairly powerful protective magic. Shan ran his hand over the softly gleaming armor.

‘I'll have to thank her when I see her.’

When the armor had been finished two days before the tournament and he had taken it to the Magic Society, the backlog had made it impossible to find a specialist enchanter. Other knights were already insisting that their own armor be enchanted, so there was nothing to be done. Then, without warning, several mages had secretly taken Shan upstairs and enchanted the armor he had brought. Naturally, it was because Princess Sherin, an influential patron of the Magic Society, had put in a word beforehand.

“Hmph. He's even decked himself out in brand-new armor.”

“Perhaps the cockatrice smashed his old suit?”

“Look at it! They've practically drowned the damn thing in magic!”

This, of course, was another reason the other knights regarded Shan with a mixture of jealousy and contempt. However well repaired and maintained their armor was, it bore unmistakable traces of countless battles. Shan's, by contrast, gleamed as though it had never seen a single fight.

Just then, the announcer's voice sounded in the distance.

“[Our thirty-fifth contestant! Sir Katra of House Dallik, from Rondo Gorge! Here comes the young hero who slew the banshee of the Lanche Plains, the possessed tiger of Korban Village, and the man-eating troll of Ovilos!]”

“Huh? Could it be?”

Shan brightened at the familiar name and accomplishments, and Roden nodded in agreement.

“Looks like it... I mean, I believe so, sir.”

As expected, the man who entered was Sir Katra, with whom they had once hunted a troll. The young squire beside him was familiar, too. The solemn-faced young knight looked around, then brightened when he spotted Shan and approached.

“I thought it must be someone with the same name, but it really is you! How in the world did you get here? Don't tell me you're already a knight?”

His tone suggested that an Altoan like Shan becoming a knight hardly surprised him. He was simply astonished that it had happened in only a year. Pleased to see a familiar face after so long, Shan smiled back.

“Yes. I happened to make the right acquaintance.”

“Are you acquainted with this young fellow, Sir Katra?”

The man who abruptly interjected was a middle-aged knight with a beard as thick as Roden's. Unlike Roden, however, he was far from robust. His gaunt frame gave him a somewhat gloomy air.

“Ah, Baron Ragol! It's been a long time. Yes, Shan here... Ah, you said you'd become a knight, didn't you? Sir Shan and I have some history. We hunted the troll in the city of Ovilos together. I nearly died, and he saved me.”

Just as he had said he would, Sir Katra freely admitted that Shan's help had saved his life. The other knights nearby looked disconcerted at such candor, so unlike a knight who lived and died by his honor.

“Huh. He really did kill a troll?”

“They even said the boy killed a cockatrice.”

At that, Sir Katra looked startled, as though he had forgotten something.

“Right! I meant to ask earlier, but it slipped my mind. You killed a cockatrice? Is it true? That stone lizard?”

“Yes. I didn't do it entirely alone. I had some help.”

“It's hard to believe... Though you could already fight a troll one-on-one before you'd even awakened your spirit. I suppose it would be ridiculous to doubt you. Still, I hadn't heard that one had appeared.”

“I was in the Demonlands until recently. That's where I killed it.”

“Did you happen to cut off its head and bring it back?”

“It's in the garden of the house where I'm staying.”

“I'd love to see it. If it wouldn't be an imposition, might I ask for an invitation after today's tournament?”

His face showed genuine curiosity about the cockatrice's head rather than doubt about Shan's claim. Understandably so: even knights who actively sought one might not see a single specimen in decades.

“Of course.”

“Thank you! Then I'd best get to my place. Let's have a good tournament.”

After offering those words of encouragement, Sir Katra moved away, and the looks the surrounding knights gave Shan gradually changed. Before, their contemptuous eyes had all but asked what on earth gave him the nerve to claim such accomplishments. Now they held a tentative suspicion: Could it be true? Noticing this, Roden whispered so no one else could hear.

“That's a shame.”

“Why?”

“If they'd underestimated you, you'd have had an easy first round.”

“I just have to beat them all fair and square.”

If his ability was such that he needed to lure opponents into carelessness to win, he could hardly dream of taking the championship in the first place. Roden chuckled in apparent agreement.

* * *

The announcer continued calling contestants until, at last, more than eighty knights had gathered in the enormous arena. After a count delivered some words of encouragement, the first match soon began.

“[Competing in the first match are Sir Ron of House Kacha and Baron Garn! Goddess, grant Your blessing to the victor!]”

“Win!”

“Kill him!”

Excited by the cheers from every side, the horses snorted and stamped their hooves. A moment later, the two knights charged toward one another at full gallop from opposite ends.

“Here they go, here they go, here they go!”

“Oooh!”

For several seconds, they hurtled forward with long, blunt-tipped lances tucked tightly under their arms. The instant they passed, a crash loud enough to echo throughout the vast arena rang out, and one knight was thrown from his horse.

“Ah!”

“No! Get up! Please!”

“My money...”

“Fantastic! I won! I won!”

Cheers and groans rang out from every direction, from acquaintances of the two knights and gamblers who had wagered on the match. The unhorsed knight had lost consciousness and was declared defeated. Healing miracles from the priests standing by soon brought him around.

“Did... did I lose?”

“You fought well, my lord.”

“Ugh...”

The knight grimaced and groaned, apparently hurting where the lance had struck his chest.

While Roden attended to his duties as squire by checking the horse's condition, Shan watched the matches through the window, spellbound.

‘Wow...’

He had seen knights duel on a battlefield before, and had even fought something like a joust against Feonil, but this was his first time seeing an actual tournament. Watching from the sidelines, he found it even more powerful than he had imagined.

Perhaps it was because they could shut out everything else and focus entirely on a one-on-one contest, but the knights' absorption and concentration felt altogether different. The cheers and groans from the stands whenever someone fell heightened the emotion, too. It felt as though, through this battle, a knight could command the hearts of thousands upon thousands at will.

“Don't spend too long watching.”

The knight across from Shan spoke quietly.

“Pardon?”

“Watching other people's matches will make you tense and stiff. You'd do better to spend that time settling your mind. Calm emotions make it easier to wield your spirit.”

Apparently, he had mistaken Shan's fascination with the matches outside for fear. There was no hint of mockery in his manner; it felt like genuinely well-meant advice, so Shan nodded and sat down. Closing his eyes and focusing inward, he realized that, just as the man had said, he was indeed overexcited.

Had he gone straight into a match in that state, his control over the release and withdrawal of his spirit would probably have been somewhat awkward. Not that it would have affected the outcome. Just as he felt his mind had settled, he heard his name called outside.

“[The next match is Shan of House Barendil against Garn of House Pinoir!]”

Shan sprang to his feet, and the man across from him, who had offered the advice, rose as well. They regarded each other awkwardly.

“Oh dear. So you're my first opponent...”

After briefly wondering how to respond, Shan gave a small bow.

“May we have a good match.”

“Indeed.”

A little later, Shan entered the lists, lowered his visor, and took up his lance and shield, one in each hand. Across from him, the knight who had just advised him was making similar preparations. Once they had taken their assigned positions, flags bearing the arms of House Barendil and House Pinoir crossed at the midpoint.

‘Ready...’

The flags swept upward, and the two warhorses began charging toward each other. Leveling his lance, Shan recalled the principles of jousting Sir Darkal had once taught him.

‘First, proper handling of lance and shield.’

Accurately aiming a lance at an opponent's head from a horse at full gallop was by no means easy. Yet compromising and aiming for the chest instead sharply increased the likelihood of being blocked by the shield. Even if the blow landed, it was difficult to deliver enough force to unhorse the opponent. Add the simultaneous task of precisely blocking the other man's lance with one's shield, and even three eyes would hardly suffice.

For Shan, of course, such skills were as simple as breathing. He could wield a different weapon in each hand; what was so difficult about thrusting a lance while defending at the same time?

‘Second, controlling the warhorse.’

Unlike tournaments in certain other regions, Hasra's joust had no barrier separating the knights. In other words, a rider could abruptly turn his horse midcharge and circle from his opponent's left to his right. Of course, anyone who lost the will to fight and fled would be disqualified by the referee.

The difficulty was that precise control of a horse was hard when both hands held lance and shield, leaving neither free for the reins. If the riders failed to read one another's movements properly under those circumstances, their horses sometimes collided. When that happened, a rider would be lucky to escape with serious injuries; with bad luck, he could die. The horses, needless to say, died instantly.

‘And third and last, regulating your spirit.’

This was truly the beginning and end of jousting, its most important element. Skilled knights often struck each other's shields with their lances, so at the highest level, victory frequently came down to how they divided the spirit they could muster at the instant of impact between attack and defense.

Indeed, simultaneously imbuing spirit with the opposing mental images of “attack” and “defense” was itself an advanced technique. Most therefore concentrated on one or the other. Since none of this was outwardly visible, a knight had to rely entirely on instinct and experience.

Would he concentrate a large amount of spirit in his lance, strike the chest first, and unhorse his opponent? Or focus his spirit in his shield to block the lance, while using a small amount to deliver a precise blow to the head and knock his opponent from the saddle? Or divide it evenly between the two, accepting some impact and thrusting at the same time, hoping his opponent had focused on offense? Becoming too absorbed in these choices, however, could lead him to neglect the fundamentals of handling lance and shield.

‘Which will it be...?’

Shan calmly watched the knight charging toward him, gradually dividing his spirit between lance and shield. The important thing was not to imbue the lance with the image of “piercing.” If a blow infused with the image of “striking” sent the opponent flying and he died from a broken neck or internal organs crushed by the impact, that was an accident. Deliberately imbuing a lance with the image of piercing to punch through shield and armor, however, was considered one of the most despicable methods of assassination.

At the moment of collision, Shan angled his shield to deflect the opposing lance precisely, while thrusting his own lance into the other man's helmet and driving it back. Knowing his blow would not be blocked by the shield, he had deliberately infused it with little spirit. Even so, the tremendous combined speed of the passing horses was enough to produce a resounding crash and throw the knight from the saddle. Had he concentrated all his spirit in the lance, the man's neck would probably have broken, killing him instantly.

“Oh, he won!”

“The boy knight won!”

Cheers for Shan's victory rose here and there.

Wasn't it human nature to thrill at the sight of the weak defeating the strong? Shan stood only about 160 centimeters tall, and the sight of him toppling a grown man clearly half a head taller than himself was enough to stir a cathartic rush. That was quite apart from his being a lowly Altoan.

When he returned to his place, Roden took the horse's reins with a smile.

“Well done, Sir Shan.”

“This jousting business is more fun than I expected.”

The difference between hearing about it and experiencing it firsthand was greater than he had imagined. Above all, he particularly enjoyed its strong element of psychological warfare, rather than mere physical exertion.

“Should we buy another suit of armor later and try it ourselves?”

“Please spare my life.”

Shan had only just begun chuckling at Roden's pained plea when his keen ears picked out a few cheers amid the murmurs and abuse.

“You're amazing, Shan!”

“Keep it up!”

“Win the next match, too!”

The voices belonged to the few Altoans in the arena. Since they could afford the fairly expensive admission to the joust, they were wealthy by Altoan standards, but still far removed from society's upper ranks. Yet there, in the arena below, one of their own—and a young boy at that—was shining more brilliantly than anyone. How could their blood not surge? How could they possibly hold these feelings in?

Seeing his fellow Altoans, Shan grinned and raised his lance high.