Volume One: The Knight of the Forest Chapter 71: Wagering on an Enemy

The first novel of my life, written in a rather obscure genre, hasn't performed very well. Though I began with the mindset of writing for fun, there is still a tinge of disappointment. Today, however, I received affirmation from “Sword of Peace” in the comments section, and it made me quite happy—thank you!

It was precisely this high cost that led to the system of fiefdoms on the continent of Velin, relying on stable vassal relationships to maintain elite military strength, much like the feudal system of medieval Europe in Berion’s previous life. Yet Berion knew the trajectory of history: with economic growth and technological progress, large standing armies would eventually replace the knightly system.

Berion pondered, though no one else knew his thoughts. At this moment, Gamgee and Bran were wholly absorbed by the fierce contests on the field. The shattering of lances, the shrill cries of warhorses—the clash of power against power was truly exhilarating. Bran, a young lad, watched with flushed cheeks and clenched fists, eager to cheer for the victor.

After two and a half days of competition, a knight from Nudaburg emerged as the finalist. He would challenge last year’s champion after a period of rest—Sir Sorg, the lord of Riverside Town and an old acquaintance of Berion.

Last time in Amandine, Berion had bested him in swordplay, but Berion knew that in mounted lance combat, he was unlikely to prevail, for his mentor, Sir Logan the Dawnblade, was famed for swordsmanship, not for lance fighting on horseback.

Berion had received some lance training, but knew his rudimentary skills would not suffice in battle—he’d likely be unseated in the first round, perhaps even lose his life.

When the afternoon’s contest began, the challenger from Nudaburg entered first. His squire delivered a stirring speech, painting him as an invincible, benevolent hero, prompting another round of cheers from the assembled crowd.

He was a knight in his thirties, born to a knightly family, rich in combat experience, and had previously been runner-up at the tournament in Vallonbray.

In the past two days, his performance was impressive. In two matches, his opponents were unhorsed in the first round; one, unfortunately, broke his neck and died instantly.

However, since these were formal duels, victory depended on one’s skill and the favor of the Fire God. This meant the deceased’s family could not use the outcome as a pretext for revenge.

Gamgee and Bran held high hopes for the challenger, convinced he would defeat Sir Sorg, especially since Sorg had been swiftly beaten by Berion at Amandine’s governor’s mansion, causing them both to look down on him.

“Berion, I want to bet on the challenger,” Gamgee said excitedly, turning to Berion.

Berion nodded. “This challenger from Nudaburg is indeed a formidable knight. He has a fair chance, but I still intend to bet on Sir Sorg.”

“Ah!” Bran exclaimed. “Master, how could you bet on your enemy?”

Berion laughed. “Silly boy, I am betting on the outcome, not the man. Besides, what enemy? He merely harbored resentment after losing to me; it’s nothing serious. How can you call him my enemy?”

Bran, hearing Berion’s warning, quickly bowed in apology. He knew the true cause of Sir Sack’s death must never be spoken or even guessed; his slip about “enemy” might well arouse Gamgee’s suspicion.

Fortunately, Berion took up the conversation, and Gamgee had deep ties to Norlandburg, so there was little cause for worry. Still, Bran would have to be much more careful with his words from now on, never again making careless remarks in front of outsiders.

Gamgee, after a moment’s hesitation, gritted his teeth and said, “I’ve decided. I’ll trust my own judgment and bet on the challenger from Nudaburg for this final round.”

Berion smiled silently. After signing the bet slip, he had Bran take five hundred denars to place the wager.

For this challenge, the Central Tavern offered odds of one to ten, since Sir Sorg’s defeat in Amandine had left most people doubting him. After all, what skill could a former champion have, one who’d been bested by an unknown young knight with just a few moves, to defeat a fierce challenger?

Once their bets were placed, Sir Sorg entered the arena. According to Gamgee, Sorg, who in previous years had his squire loudly proclaim his heroic deeds, chose not to have any speech made this time. The more he kept a low profile, the more the crowd dismissed him, convinced he lacked confidence and could not defend his title.

After exchanging formal greetings, the challenger from Nudaburg and Sir Sorg faced off. Both charged with lances at each other; with a resounding crash, both lances struck their opponent’s shield, sending each man reeling backward under the force. The spectators gasped.

In the first round, the two were evenly matched; neither unseated his rival.

Switching positions and picking up new lances, they charged again. Once more, their blows struck the shields, but this time both shields splintered, unable to withstand a third impact.

Seeing their shields destroyed, neither called for replacements. They discarded them, took up fresh lances, and began the third round.

Without shields strapped to their left arms, both knights now faced great danger. A strike could mean broken bones or death.

But at this critical stage, both men were fiercely determined—especially the challenger from Nudaburg. After two rounds, he felt Sorg was nothing special; in the third, he was sure he could win the championship with a single blow.

With unwavering confidence, the challenger charged at Sorg for the third time. Sorg met him head-on, and as they neared, Sorg’s lance suddenly shifted an inch to the left, aiming for the challenger’s chest.

The challenger, caught up in excitement, failed to notice the change and kept his lance pointed at Sorg’s left shoulder, where the shield had once been.

With a thunderous crack, Sorg’s lance struck the challenger’s chest. The knight from Nudaburg was flung into the air by the force, but his legs, still in the stirrups, dragged him hard to the ground as his horse galloped forward, pulling its fallen master until the guards halted it with their spears.

Sorg, before impact, had boldly shifted his body and thrust his lance forward rather than waiting passively for a strike.

This unexpected move left the challenger from Nudaburg no time to react; he could only watch helplessly as he was struck.

After falling, his squire quickly helped him up. His upper body was protected by thick linen padding, chainmail, and three layers of iron-plated armor, providing good cushioning. Though his chest was directly hit, his injury was not severe.

But his lower body fared worse. The tremendous force snapped the bone in his left leg, causing him to faint from pain on the spot.

With such an injury, this knight from Nudaburg would likely never ride into battle again—a fate more bitter than death for a knight.

After his squire carried off the fallen knight, Sir Sorg removed his helmet and calmly waved to the crowd. The spectators, who had initially scorned him, now erupted in thunderous cheers and applause.

Sir Sorg’s victory meant he had defended his title at the Northern Knights Tournament for three consecutive years—a rare feat on the continent of Velin. Almost no knight had ever managed three successive championships, but Sorg had done it.

The crowd not only cheered but tossed colorful ribbons and flowers into the arena. These had been meant as gifts for the challenger from Nudaburg, but now served to congratulate Sorg—an irony not lost on anyone.

Still, Sorg smiled and acknowledged the crowd, nodding toward the noble box in the stands.

After securing the championship, Sorg withdrew to rest and change into formal attire to receive his prize from Count Gree and prepare for tonight’s grand banquet at the count’s estate—an honor reserved for the victor, who would be the center of attention.

To the victor belong the spoils; to the vanquished, disgrace. This truth holds in every era. Victorious knights win honor, wealth, fame, and their opponents’ armor and equipment. Losers slink home, nursing their wounds amid others’ scorn, honing their skills for the next contest.

But those knights who die or are maimed can only return to their own lands, spending the rest of their days in bitter regret and rage at their own helplessness.

Before the championship ceremony began, the proprietor of the Central Tavern visited Berion’s box for the third time, announcing that Berion was one of only three who had bet on Sorg, and had placed the largest wager—winning five thousand denars in a single stroke.

Overjoyed, Berion tipped the owner a hundred denars. The tavern keeper expressed his desire to befriend Berion, whose insight was unmatched, and proposed collaborating next year during the Northern Knights Tournament to win more money.

Berion neither accepted nor declined. This year, he attended mainly for the spectacle and had no intention of joining in such gambling, but since the offer had been made, he couldn’t refuse outright—after all, to win so much and then reject the organizer would be rather impolite.

Berion replied, “Of course, it’s a fine idea. Gamgee knows that last year, Norlandburg was nothing but woodland and meadows. There’s much to develop and build, many expenses. If there’s such a good opportunity, I’ll certainly come.”

The tavern keeper left smiling, and soon after, a squire from the Central Tavern delivered two fine jugs of Sarlion wine, both in copper pitchers—clearly valuable. Gamgee remarked that the wine and pitchers together were worth at least a hundred and fifty denars, showing a genuine desire to win Berion’s favor.

In high spirits after winning over seven thousand denars, Berion had Bran carry the wine, then took Gamgee’s advice on a good tavern to treat everyone to a feast.

Gamgee warned that the tournament’s end meant the taverns would be packed and suggested they dine at home instead. He had pigs and sheep at the trading post and would slaughter one of each for a hearty meal.

Berion agreed, instructing Bran to buy food and fresh beer with two of the guards once they returned home, as their party was large and would need plenty to eat and drink. After all, having won, he wanted to host a lavish evening.

The four of them then left the arena via the nobles’ passage guarded by Count Gree’s men and rode back to their lodgings. By then, the streets of Yangwickshuo were as crowded as Berion remembered after major football matches in his previous life—packed with people, doubling their travel time before they finally reached home.