The Royal Tournament continued in full swing.
Meanwhile, in the guest seats, Belegar was engrossed in writing. Holding a quill, he scribbled furiously, paying little attention to the events unfolding in the Lion's Ring.
"Dwarven Calendar, Year XXXX, Month X, Day X: Today, Bretonnia held its Royal Tournament. My brother, Ryan, sincerely requested me, the true King of Eight Peaks, King of the Angrund Clan, and last scion of the Rune Kings, Belegar Ironhammer, to attend as a guest. Considering the earnestness of his request, I agreed."
"To be honest, I find it rather disrespectful that Ryan did not allow the dwarves to participate in the tournament!"
"But Ryan explained that if dwarves were to compete, their overwhelming strength would easily disrupt the balance of the tournament. We must give others a chance to showcase their abilities."
"Ryan was absolutely right! Dwarves are indeed too powerful, and it's only fair to give other races a chance. Ryan truly understands dwarves."
After writing for a while, Belegar felt something was amiss. He pondered for a moment and added, "But no one understands dwarves better than I do."
Satisfied with this addition, Belegar nodded approvingly, stroked his white beard, and closed the heavy book. The elevated chair he was sitting on made him somewhat uncomfortable. When he finally looked up, he noticed the situation in the Lion's Ring had changed. Amidst the cheers of the crowd, a Bretonnian knight and a White Wolf Knight were preparing for the final duel.
"That's last year's tournament champion, Leofric Caral. He's facing off against an Imperial White Wolf Knight!" the spectators exclaimed. Recognizing Caral, Belegar focused his attention on him. They had fought side by side during the reclamation of Mousillon, making them familiar allies.
In the Lion's Ring, the young kingdom knight, Leofric Caral, was panting slightly as he observed his next opponent.
The White Wolf Knight was draped in a snow-white wolf pelt, clad in silver full plate armor, with a thick beard and long brown hair, making it nearly impossible for Leofric to identify him—most White Wolf Knights looked the same, with their long hair and bushy beards. Such knights were common in Middenland and Nordland.
This was his twelfth consecutive victory and his thirteenth opponent.
Leofric Caral, unlike his adversary, was adorned with numerous ladies' garments and undergarments draped over his armor and tied to his sword. These items represented the blessings and favor he had received, symbolizing Bretonnia's tradition.
Before the match, Bretonnian knights would ride around the arena, requesting "favors" from noble ladies and maidens. If a lady liked the knight and wished to cheer him on, she would throw down part of her attire from the stands, a gesture believed to bring good luck—often true in a world with gods, magic, and faith.
Although this tradition sometimes drew unsavory comments and glances from the peasants, it persisted as an honorable custom. In some cases, an unmarried knight was expected to marry the lady who had granted him a favor.
Leofric Caral's wife, Helen, the daughter of Duke Hubald of Carcassonne, had chosen him in this manner at the last tournament, leading to their marriage.
However, this tradition also caused some of the most beautiful ladies to be overwhelmed by knights' advances. Occasionally, a lady might run out of garments to offer as blessings, prompting many unmarried maidens to wear veils to avoid unwanted attention. For example, the Lady of the Lake herself, seated in the royal box, always declined such requests coldly, even to the point of seeming inhuman.
But that was the Lady! That was our Lady! She was always cold and ruthless, offering only arrogance and indifference to her followers until they had earned the Grail. Only those knights who proved their virtue through victory and sacrifice could earn even a fleeting glance from her.
With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Leofric took a deep breath. The fatigue in his limbs and the numbness in his hands told him he was nearing his limit.
But the tournament would not pause for exhaustion. After a brief rest, the duel resumed. With the help of their squires, the knights mounted their horses and prepared for the charge.
"Forward! For Ulric, for Middenheim!" the White Wolf Knight unleashed the unique savagery and ferocity of Middenlanders. He swung his warhammer, charging at Leofric with unstoppable force atop his speeding warhorse.
"For the Lady! For Bretonnia! For Winford!" Leofric released his fury, raising his lance. The two knights charged towards each other down the Lion's Ring track, their forms blurring with speed as the crowd roared in anticipation.
"Clang!" The White Wolf Knight roared, his warhammer shattering Leofric's lance. The kingdom knight leaned back in his saddle, narrowly avoiding the hammer that scraped sparks off his shoulder plate, nearly knocking him off his horse.
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"
"Long live Ulric!"
"The power of the White Wolf!"
The Imperial guest seats erupted in cheers, with Karl Franz himself rising to applaud.
"In the first round, the victory goes to the White Wolf Knight Captain Bernard Strobel of the Eighth Company, Middenland!" called the tournament's arbiter, Grand Grail Knight Calard. Though his face showed displeasure, he impartially declared the White Wolf Knight the winner.
"Prepare for the second round!"
Leofric Caral panted heavily, discarding his broken lance and gritting his teeth as he drew his mithril knight's sword, blessed by a prophetess of the Lady.
There was only one chance!
With shouts of "For the Lady" and "For Ulric," the knights charged again. Leofric's mixed-blood elven warhorse adjusted its stride, galloping with thundering hooves as the kingdom knight's figure blurred into a streak of lightning, barreling towards Bernard.
The White Wolf Knight could sense that his opponent's horse was faster than his own. Middenland steeds couldn't compare to Bretonnian horses in terms of ability, but it didn't matter—they had strength and faith on their side!
With his warhammer raised, Bernard aimed a crushing blow at Leofric's shoulder plate. Spurring his horse, the White Wolf Knight prepared to end the kingdom knight with a decisive strike.
In the next instant, Leofric's sword suddenly emitted a blinding holy light! The light was so intense that Bernard, focused as he was, found his vision swimming, his eyes stinging. He was forced to squint, and in that split second, Leofric's sword hilt struck Bernard's temple, sending the White Wolf Knight crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. He did not rise again.
"One, two, three… ten! The match is decided! The winner is Sir Leofric Caral of the Duchy of Winford! Let us cheer for him!" Calard, having confirmed Bernard's inability to continue, promptly announced the victor.
"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"
"Long live the Lady!"
"Bretonnia is the strongest!"
"Glory to the Lady, victory to Bretonnia!"
The stands erupted in deafening cheers, the roar of the crowd nearly lifting the roof. Flags waved furiously, and peasants shouted Leofric's name until their hands were sore from clapping.
"Leofric! Leofric! Leofric!" It was Leofric's thirteenth consecutive victory. In the guest seats, Duke Hubald of Carcassonne proudly stroked his goatee, while his daughter, Helen, stood and applauded her husband.
The victor was entitled to all the defeated knight's equipment and horse—unless the defeated opted to pay a ransom. Leofric's squire quickly collected a heavy bag of gold marks from Bernard's squire, adding it to the cart already filled with various treasures.
The Lady of the Lake nodded slightly, acknowledging Leofric's performance. Her approval nearly drove the crowd to madness.
Honor, courage, faith, and virtue—this was Bretonnia, this was the Kingdom of Knights!
By now, only three contestants remained in the Lion's Ring: Elector Count Marius, Duke Bodrick, and the Wood Elf Lord Estel. Each had defeated all their opponents. Now, they looked up at the royal box, awaiting the Lady of the Lake's instructions.
But the goddess remained silent. Instead, Ryan stood, walking to the front of the platform. "Raise the dueling stage!"
"Let the final three contestants enter the dueling stage! The final match begins now!"
"You will determine the winner on the dueling stage."
"The last one standing will be crowned the champion of this Royal Tournament!"
"Champion! Champion! Champion!" The crowd roared like a tidal wave. In their frenzy and excitement, they were ready to witness the birth of a new champion.
Duke Bodrick of Bordeleaux, the Sea God Mannan's chosen champion, wiped the blood and grime from his face with a towel handed by his squire. He looked up at the sky, now nearing dusk, but the arena remained brightly lit by the Lady's divine power and magical lamps.
Brighter still was the Grail placed before the royal box, the holy cup encrusted with countless gems, radiating an irresistible allure. It awaited the victor, promising unmatched glory.
The Grail! My Grail!
The old duke's hand tightened around his trident.
Just a little longer, and I, Bodrick, will claim you!
_________________________
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