Wayland felt as though he was walking through a thick fog, the mysteries of this world layering themselves one upon another.
Across the field from the earlier knights, a mismatched group of people in various tunics and tunics without any standard armor was starting to gather.
Wayland found a spot to wait for the trials to begin.
After a short while, a carriage slowly pulled to a halt in front of the crowd.
Under the protection of several official knights, a middle-aged man in a finely woven tunic stepped out.
He stood there for a moment without speaking.
A group of servants brought out several benches and a small, fifteen-centimeter-high platform.
The man climbed onto the platform and raised his chin, standing with his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat. "I am Baron Solon McKenning, the head examiner for this selection tournament. Butler, begin."
True to his word, the man had no intention of wasting time. His butler, seemingly accustomed to his master's style, gave a small nod and turned back to the crowd.
"The ten of you, form into lines."
Ten knights on horseback moved to the sides, forming two rows separated by three meters.
Several servants then brought out ten tables and chairs, each with paper and pens, placed in front of the knights.
"Since there are so many of you today, brave warriors, please divide into ten groups and register yourselves. The servants will record your names, and the knights will act as observers and judges. They will decide winners, maintain order, and anyone who breaks the rules will be disqualified."
By the time the butler had finished, the disorganized crowd had formed into a black river, flowing toward the various registration tables.
Wayland didn't rush. He waited until most of the others had registered before making his selection.
This was the era of King Arthur's legends. The glory of the Age of Gods hadn't yet faded, and the air was saturated with high-intensity prana--Aether.
Knights--or at least the pure melee magi--were coming into their own.
According to Wayland's understanding, it was simply due to the historical factors of this continent that knights were so prevalent.
Magi of the Age of Gods treated their prana as internal energy, integrating it into every fiber of their beings. Over time, that training resulted in formidable physical specimens.
In contrast, modern magi, facing a decline in ambient prana, had to be far more economical, focusing on projecting energy onto the surface of their bodies.
It was the difference between someone who could swim naturally and someone wearing a life jacket. Both could float, but their methods were fundamentally different.
After careful observation, Wayland chose to register in the ninth group.
The reason was simple: there were fewer "brute" types in that line.
Once the name was given, the tournament grounds expanded further. Each team marked out a large circle, roughly ten meters in diameter, in the center of their area.
"First match: Bates Jeffries versus Wayland."
Hearing his name, Wayland stepped into the circle.
In all honesty, Wayland wasn't afraid of modern magi. Once a fight turned to close-quarters combat, he was almost guaranteed victory. But against knights of this era, he knew he had to be cautious. His current frame, without reinforcement magecraft, would likely shatter after a single direct hit.
He took a deep breath. He couldn't afford to mess up here.
Slowly reaching out, he grabbed the projected spear that materialized in his hand. After a formal exchange of greetings, the air around them suddenly vibrated. The wind began to howl as his spear shot forward like a dragon emerging from the ocean, striking toward Bates.
The man's broadsword had only just begun to rise.
Wayland stepped forward, his body fluid and graceful as a butterfly. Just as his spear was about to strike the blade, he shifted his grip, moving his right hand an inch beneath the tip and extending his left.
Using the broadsword as a fulcrum, he leveraged his momentum to swing the spear around. The slender shaft slammed directly into Bates' chest.
A loud crack registered as the fabric and armor gave way to muscle.
Then followed a dull thud. Bates was slammed into the ground by the terrifying force of the blow. The momentum carried him another three or four meters across the dirt before he finally stopped.
Bates struggled for a moment, but he couldn't get back up. His eyes eventually lost focus as he succumbed to unconsciousness.
The surrounding crowd fell into a stunned silence, their collective gaze shifting from the fallen Bates to Wayland.
'Was the first match really that brutal?'
'No, no! I didn't mean it like that!' Wayland felt a pang of guilt.
Wait, really?
He had truly believed that knights of the Age of Gods would be incredibly powerful, so he had given it his all from the start.
Wayland stood there awkwardly as Bates was carried away. Once the judge declared him the winner, he walked back to his original position.
Those on either side of him immediately backed away, treating him like some kind of predator.
Wayland scratched his head and watched the second match.
It was far more civil. The two combatants exchanged several blows, mostly following the standard knightly conduct and stopping just short of causing real injury.
Wayland finally realized that he was in the era of King Arthur--the time known as "The Last Glory of the Knights."
"Tenth match: Darhan Boss versus Wayland."
Wayland took a single step before Darhan rushed to the center of the circle, his broadsword held firmly in both hands. His expression was one of extreme wariness, as if he were facing a deadly enemy.
Wayland wanted to say something, but he just let out a sigh. His mind remained calm and still.
Since the first time he had killed, he had found that his mind would become unnervingly steady before a fight. He didn't know why, but it was undoubtedly an advantage.
He began his advance.
The blood-red spear in his hand was a projection of Scathach's Gae Bolg Alternativa. While it looked identical on the outside, it was actually just an ordinary spear with no special properties.
Just as Wayland made the motion for a javelin throw, cracks of light appeared across the smooth shaft as prana filled it like liquid silver, glowing with a dense white light.
He released his grip. The spear vanished with a whoosh, transforming into a red streak of light that tore through the air.
The spear struck Darhan's broadsword head-on.
In that instant, Darhan felt as if he had been charged by a literal bull.
Beads of blood erupted from his palms as he gripped the hilt, and the vibration of the impact sent them spraying in every direction.
They held for only three seconds before the broadsword was ripped from his hands, burying itself deep into the dirt.
[Translated and Rewritten by Shika_Kagura]