Volume One: Knight of the Forest Chapter 64: You Should Enter the Tournament

As the knights stared in astonishment, a middle-aged woman behind the young maiden coughed loudly twice, then glared fiercely at Sir Sandyman and his fellow household knights, jolting everyone back to their senses. Berion, realizing it was improper to have been gazing so blankly at the girl, quickly lowered his head.

He heard the maiden speak gently, “Aunt Myra, it’s all right. They’ve seen me before.”

“Miss, the master and lady always teach that the distinction between servant and master cannot be ignored. These household knights must remember that at all times. But the way they stared at you was truly disrespectful,” the middle-aged woman, addressed as Aunt Myra, said sternly.

It was clear that Myra had been sent by the maiden’s parents to care for her, acting as a surrogate guardian in their absence. The girl seemed somewhat wary of her aunt.

Without further argument, the maiden strode straight to the bonfire, followed closely by Aunt Myra and a young maid. She reached the fire, smiled, and greeted Berion—not with the customary knightly salute she had used in her daytime armor, but with a lady’s curtsey, lifting her skirt gracefully. Berion hurried to return the gesture.

The maiden then seated herself with poise and looked at Berion. “Sir Berion, you may continue to address me as Sir Andy.”

Berion was surprised—she had revealed herself as a woman, yet still wished to be addressed in the masculine form. But as he was a guest, and she so insisted, he could only acquiesce, “As you wish, Sir Andy.”

“Today’s exciting duel was truly eye-opening,” she said, her tone full of admiration. “You can’t be much older than I, yet you incapacitated your opponent with a single move—many renowned veteran knights could not do as you have. I’ve seen plenty of jousts, but few knights possess your speed and agility. You give your adversary no opportunity to react; when you strike, it is always at the vital point. I am deeply impressed.”

Berion, hearing this, grew curious about her upbringing. “I didn’t expect a noble lady such as yourself to be so interested in combat—it’s quite rare.”

She smiled, “Though I am a girl, my father raised me as his son. He himself is not particularly skilled in arms, but he is passionate about tournaments, and so I developed a keen interest in battle and competition. From a young age, my father and the household knights taught me swordplay—I have some foundation.”

“Your father must be an exceptional nobleman,” Berion praised.

Andy did not respond directly to his compliment, but instead asked, “Sir Berion, why are you traveling with a merchant caravan? Are you here from your own lordship to participate in the tournament at Yanwicksho Castle?”

“I came to witness the grand spectacle of the annual northern tournament,” Berion replied truthfully. “When I was in Vallonbray, I was always on court guard duty and never had time to attend. This year, I finally have the chance to see Yanwicksho for myself. Gammji, the caravan leader, is a close friend—he suggested I come along.”

“Oh, I see. Will you be participating in the tournament? Your reputation has grown considerably this past year. Even if you don’t enter, you’ll surely be invited next year. With your skills, victory would be yours for certain,” Andy said, clearly hoping he would compete.

“Thank you for your suggestion, Sir Andy, but I do not intend to participate. There are two reasons. First, as a young knight and lord, I have drawn too much attention lately; nobles across Brick who have never met me know my deeds. Such notoriety is likely to bring unnecessary trouble. Second, as warriors, tournaments can hone our skills and strengthen our desire to win, but as knights who lead men into battle, we cannot focus solely on individual prowess.”

“My own skill, no matter how great—like my master, the Dawnblade—may suffice against a handful of foes. But when the enemy numbers are many, even mere bandits could overwhelm and kill you. Individual valor is limited in its effect. But if one can train a force of brave soldiers, the impact is far greater. Though I still have much to improve myself, in the long run, I should devote my efforts to training soldiers—to create more like myself.”

When Berion finished, Andy clapped her hands in delight. “By the Fire God! What a splendid philosophy. I must tell my father of this. One person’s greatness is only that—a single person. But a band of great people can accomplish much. Did your master, the Dawnblade, teach you this?”

Berion smiled and picked up a dozen slender branches from beside the bonfire. “Sir Andy, those are insights I have discovered through battle, though my master taught me similar principles long ago.”

He placed the branches before her. “Here are a dozen twigs. Please take one and see if you can break it.”

Andy, curious, complied—it snapped easily in her hands.

Berion handed her five twigs. She struggled a little, but with effort, managed to break them all.

Finally, Berion gave her the remaining twelve twigs. Andy, stronger than most girls, exerted herself but could not break them.

Andy tossed the bundle to the ground, realization dawning in her eyes. “I understand. People are like twigs—alone, they are easily broken. But together, even slender branches cannot be snapped so easily.”

Berion nodded with a smile. This simple lesson, so often repeated in books in his previous life, still proved useful in this world—he couldn’t help but feel a secret pride.

Andy seemed eager to continue, but Aunt Myra coughed again and said, “Miss, it’s getting late. You should retire for the night—staying up is not good for young ladies. Besides, we must leave early tomorrow.”

Though Andy was reluctant, seeing Aunt Myra’s uncompromising expression, she gave in and stood to leave, prompting Berion and the others to rise as well.

After walking a couple of steps, Andy turned back suddenly. “Sir Berion, if possible, I still hope you will enter the tournament. Not only will you win a rich prize, but your fame will attract many more, and better, followers—their loyalty to you will be greater.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Sir Andy. I will give it careful thought,” Berion replied.

After Andy departed, Berion shared a few more drinks with the household knights. Seeing their tight-lipped demeanor, he realized it would be impossible to confirm the maiden’s true identity from them. Moreover, Andy’s attentiveness toward him had left them feeling slighted, dampening the mood. Berion sensibly took his leave.

As he reached the camp gates, Andy’s maid stopped him, handing him a cloth pouch and explaining that it was a gift from Sir Andy. If he entered the tournament, he must carry it—it would bring him luck.

Berion thanked her, rode out of camp, and returned to his caravan. Opening the butterfly-embroidered pouch, he found inside a silk handkerchief, adorned with a fleur-de-lis.

Holding the handkerchief, Berion recalled the maiden’s image and smiled. He knew that in this era, when a noble lady gave a knight her handkerchief, it signified mutual affection. If the knight won great honor, he could court her.

But in this time, noble ladies often gave handkerchiefs to several knights, choosing among them based on their performance. Some even instigated duels between their suitors, with the victor winning their heart.

By the customs of the medieval world, Berion—almost twenty and unmarried—was an oddity. Among both peasants and nobles, marriage at fourteen or fifteen was common; anyone over eighteen and still single was seen as peculiar.

It was less problematic for men, but for women, reaching eighteen unwed usually meant being sent to a convent as a holy maiden.

Yet Berion had no plans for marriage at present. Norland Castle was still in its infancy, lacking even a proper fortress—where would his bride live? Moreover, he had antagonized the powerful Baron Raoul family, who sought revenge; until he dealt with that threat, he didn’t want to involve anyone else.

As for the tournament at Yanwicksho Castle, Berion was resolved not to compete. Though his skill was considerable, there were always stronger opponents. Every year these duels left men dead or maimed; Berion had no wish to risk his life for such a prize.

He had earned enough from this journey—the tournament’s champion’s purse was only ten thousand denars, hardly worth gambling his life for.

He intended simply to enjoy the spectacle as a spectator, not as a participant.

After this unexpected encounter, Berion found himself sleepless. Reflecting on his two lives, he laughed at his own cluelessness regarding romance.

He’d read plenty of transmigration novels in his past life, where the protagonist gathered women into a harem. Yet here he was, baffled by a single beautiful maiden’s ambiguous attitude—how amusing! The gap between people, it seemed, was wider than that between man and dog.

Lying in bed at night, he realized that idle thoughts only made sleep more elusive. Rather than tossing and turning, he decided to take a walk—perhaps he might find someone awake to talk with, someone to help analyze his situation, for often those involved cannot see clearly, while observers perceive the truth.

Berion climbed down from his caravan and wandered the camp. The moon was high; most people slept save for those on guard. But one person was still awake: Gammji.

Seeing the light in Gammji’s tent, Berion entered on a whim. Gammji was indeed awake, reviewing accounts. With Yanwicksho approaching, he needed to check and reconcile all transactions to avoid errors.

Upon learning Berion’s purpose, Gammji smiled, brought out a jug of wine, poured two cups, and invited Berion to tell him the whole story so he could offer his analysis.