Maximum Intimidation Knight In a World Full of Mages

Truth be told, I hadn’t meant to be out this far at all. I usually stuck to the dungeons near the township of Aurelienth, those with solid stone walls, predictable slime infestations, the kind of miserable routine a knight could rely on. Those dungeons were stable in their own way: every creature in them spawned straight from the aetherrealm, which meant they filled themselves again after a day or less. Don’t ask how the aetherrealm works; I don’t know myself. I just know that if you cleared a slime pit in the morning, by sunset it would be ripe for another swing or two. Reliable work for minimal thinking.

But Aurelienth was a big trading hub, which meant there would always be new crops of bright-eyed magi straight out of the academy, still smelling of parchment and arrogance, eager to prove themselves by ‘cleansing’ the same dungeons I depended on to eat.

Which led me here, in the middle of . . . somewhere, about thirty miles to the South of Aurelienth.

It turned out my navigation skill was still sound enough for use. The signs along the road were at least consistent in one thing: lying just enough to make me doubt myself.

The first one pointed ‘→ To Wensforth,’ though the arrow leaned down like it had given up on hope. The next said ‘← Town,” but ‘town’ had been scratched over with what might’ve been the word bandits. I took the middle path anyway, because nothing in life screamed ‘heroic destiny’ like ignoring both good sense and warnings carved in blood.

By some miracle—or the pity of Saint Merin himself—the third sign I came across was still legible and upright. Dunswell, 2 leagues ahead. That sounded vaguely civilized. I traced the faint groove of the letters with a finger, as if to make sure they were real, then glanced at Silvermane.

The path narrowed into a strip of dirt hemmed in by low, whispering grass. Birds called from somewhere unseen, and the wind carried the smell of possibly clean water. My shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

Every few hundred steps, I checked for new signposts, but they seemed to grow shyer the closer we got to the town. I had to rely on the ruts carved by wagon wheels and a scarecrow standing guard over a patch of corn to navigate myself.

Dunswell wasn’t a village after all. From a distance, it looked like a smudge of roofs and smoke, but as Silvermane and I drew closer, the walls materialized in our vision—real ones, not the low stone fences I’d been seeing all afternoon. The town had a gate. Two of them, in fact, with iron bands and guards who looked just self-important enough to make life difficult.

That was the thing about bigger towns: the more gates they built, the more rules they invented to justify them.

I got close and joined the line.  Farmers lined up with carts of grain, traders argued about tariffs, and somewhere behind the wall, a bell tolled like it was counting down to my next mistake. I counted myself lucky there were traders here. A place with merchants meant coin, food, maybe even a proper bed if the saints were feeling generous. It also meant I didn’t stand out too much, though I still drew a few looks for being the only one on horseback.

When my turn came, I got off my horse out of respect, and the guard looked up from his ledger once. It seemed like he was about to routinely glue his eyes on the ledger again, but my armor must have snatched his attention.

“Occupation?” he droned.

Okay, Henry. Just keep it nice and simple. There’s literally no way this Ceralis thing can twist your words if the only thing you intend to say is: Knight.

So I willed myself to say, ‘Knight’.

“Knight,” I said. Still, with a gratuitous amount of venom, but I’d managed to say what I was about to say.

That earned me a long pause and a squint. “Knight? You mean like . . . reenactment society?”

No, sir, I’m a traveling knight, nothing fancy, I willed myself to say.

I said, “I am the kind that makes reenactments real.”

[Persuasion Failed]

[Hostility Triggered]

What? No. I wasn’t even trying to persuade the man. I was just going to lay low and pass the gate without trouble.

“Right,” the guard said slowly. “And what brings you to Dunswell, Sir Reenactment?”

One word, Henry. Keep it simple. Keep it safe.

“Rest.”

He frowned. “Rest?”

“Yes.”

“Only certified adventurers and dungeoneers are allowed rest within the walls.”

That was obviously a rule he’d just invented, probably on the spot, but the worst part was that he sounded pleased about it.

I could’ve just turned around. I could’ve picked a ditch, or a stable, or even the blessed roadside. But I’d already said the word, and the gears inside my skull seemed to have taken it as a contractual obligation.

“I am certified,” I said. It came out exactly how I wanted it to for once: pissed off.

“Certified, are you?” the guard said. “Then you wouldn’t mind showing your Magus Seal, would you?”

“Magus?”

He smirked. “Only magi can be licensed adventurers. Are you a mage?”

I could feel Silvermane snort behind me, which, under the circumstances, was not helpful. I took a slow breath, trying to be knightly and civil. “There has never been a law denying rest to travelers,” I thought I said calmly.

What came out was, “You speak falsehood before the chosen one of Saint Merin. The punishment for deceit is the removal of one’s lying tongue.”

[Intimidation Successful]

The guard visibly flinched, stepping half a pace back. “What— no,” the guard said, recovering quickly. His tone steadied, though his hand stayed tight on the ledger. “Temporary rest is restricted inside the gates after dusk. You can stable your mount outside, if that’s what you meant.”

I see, I willed myself to say. It came out as, “Then you admit your crime. Speak your true reason before I weigh your worth.”

[Intimidation Successful]

He blanched. “What— what crime? There’s no crime! Look, sir, if you’d just present your . . . your identification, we can—”

“Fabricate law in my presence again,” my mouth declared, “and I shall carve the truth into your memory.”

[Intimidation Successful]

[Chained Intimidation Successful]

[Passive: Overwhelming Aura Activated]

The guard ceased to exist. His chest locked, his shoulders folded in like somebody had tightened a screw behind them. His eyes were open wide enough to show the whites; his jaw hung slack. He froze in place like a figure carved from the same stone the gate was made of.

For a second I thought he was playing possum. Then his hand—still clutching the ledger—went rigid. The ink on the page trembled but the quill did not. He looked less like a man and more like the statue of one somebody had forgotten to finish.

[Aura Effect: Paralyzing Pressure]

By the pancreas of the Saints, I can do that?

I waved a hand in front of his face, but he didn’t react. 

Panic prickled up my spine like gooseflesh. What if the man stayed like that? What if I’d turned him into a statue forever? 

Effect: AURA — OVERWHELMING DOMINION (Passive)

Secondary: Paralyzing Pressure — weak-willed targets

Estimated Duration: Five minutes

[System Clarification: Collateral intimidation not advised]

The words were a small mercy, but I didn’t have time to think through for the line behind me had already buzzed. People leaned away from the guards, eyes narrowed and nervous, but not daring to glance at me.  A child near the fruit cart squeaked and hid behind her mother’s skirt. The woman, pale as goat’s milk, pulled her close and bowed her head. Somewhere behind the line of merchants, a melon rolled off a stall and burst against the cobbles. No one moved to pick it up.

[SOCIAL PENALTY: Aura of Authority detected]

Sphere of Influence: Dunswell Northern Gate

Estimate Duration: 2~8 days

Carry on, good folk, I wanted to gently say, yet I knew better than to speak and let Ceralis twist my words.

The other guard, who’d been leaning against the post pretending not to watch, gave me the smallest, most professional nod: the sort you give when you’ve decided to de-escalate by pretending the strangest thing is ordinary.

Am I allowed through? I thought. I am going to slow the line.

“Let me pass,” my mouth intoned, “or the rest of you shall remember why queues move swiftly.”

The other guard swallowed, smoothed his tunic, and tucked the ledger further back. He kept his voice low and annoyingly steady. “Very well. We’ll let you pass, on one condition. There’s a fifty-kohn gate fee for mounted entrants, sir. Pay here, stable outside, or you can—” he glanced at the frozen man “—stand watch for a while, if you prefer.”

I fished out the coins, palms sticky and still smelling faintly of slime, and slapped them into the guard’s waiting hand. These weren’t even mine, but belonged to the villager. I felt awful about it, though guilt was fast becoming a luxury I couldn’t afford. I would have to pass through this town anyway, and such a grand one would surely have a proper pawnshop, or better yet, a dungeoneer guild quarter.

As the guard waved me through, I mounted up again, Silvermane’s hooves clopping against the cobblestone. If this kept up, I thought grimly, I’d end up a legend for all the wrong reasons. The Mad Knight of Dunswell. The Saint’s Hammer. The Queue Killer.

Maybe the best thing to do from now on would be just to stop talking altogether.