Surviving as a Knight in a Trash Game

Chapter 7

"What in the world are they doing, and where?"

Baron Seymour of Bolido wore a displeased expression as he thought about the Northwind Knights, who still hadn’t shown up despite the promised date having long since passed.

There was only a week left until the scheduled attack on Tennesse, and yet there had been no contact from them at all.

"They may follow Count Calido's orders, but what kind of insolence is this…!" "Indeed. It’s true we need their help, but aren’t they acting far too arbitrarily?" "…Still, it’s frustrating that we have no means to reprimand them, given that they’re under the Count’s authority…."

Just as dissatisfaction was welling up within him, a soldier opened the tent flap and entered.

"Baron! One of the Northwind Knights has just arrived."

"…Is that so?"

Having already been anxiously waiting for news, Baron Seymour quickly rose to his feet.

However, there was something off about his expression—it wasn’t exactly a look of relief.

As he approached, he saw a knight standing in the middle of the camp, exuding the presence of a calm yet dangerous predator.

"Good to see you. I’ve been waiting to hear when you’d arrive."

Baron Seymour stepped forward and extended a hand for a handshake. The man silently reached out in response. Though his manner was somewhat lacking in etiquette, Seymour made no comment.

"Where are the others? Why did you come alone?"

"The rest are already lying in ambush near the Tennesse domain."

"I see. So they arrived ahead of time, scouted the area, and have already taken their positions. I suppose veterans of the holy war truly are on a different level."

Even though Seymour offered this slightly awkward compliment, the man before him offered no reply and maintained a stony silence.

Though his demeanor could easily have been taken as offensive, Seymour didn’t show any irritation and continued the conversation.

"When will the other knights join us?"

"Once the battle begins, we intend to launch a surprise attack from the rear. We’ve already identified a route into the enemy’s castle."

"I see… You must be tired from your journey. Rest up with a good drink tonight. Come to think of it, I didn’t ask your name."

"Basko. I have no surname."

Despite being the one leading this campaign, Baron Seymour didn’t offer a single word of complaint about the Northwind Knights, who were moving entirely on their own terms. This exchange made it clear just what kind of relationship he had with Count Calido.

"I’ll take my leave now."

"Go ahead."

Following a soldier assigned to guide him, Basko exited the tent. Meanwhile, Seymour’s close aides trembled with rage.

"My lord, will you really let that arrogant bastard act like this!? If you allow it, I will personally—!" "Restrain your anger. He’s Count Calido’s man—what choice do we have?" "But still…!" "Enough. That’s not what’s important right now. We need to calm the troops and finalize the auxiliary strategy."

Since even the person who had been insulted refused to dwell on it, the rest of the retainers fell silent. Their forces were overwhelmingly superior. Once the battle began, Tennesse would fall into their hands, and yet Baron Seymour’s expression remained grim throughout the entire strategy meeting.

"…Is there truly no other way?"

Those words, spoken at the end of the meeting, were a reflection of Seymour’s deeper turmoil.

"My lord… You must steel your heart. If we fail to take Tennesse here, we can’t know what Count Calido might do." "…He said we should execute the people of Tennesse as a warning." "It cannot be helped."

"…Can we truly enter Essus’ embrace carrying such sin?"

"That is a matter for later. For now, you must remain resolute."

At those words, Seymour stepped out of the tent and looked up at the sky. As he gazed silently at the peaceful stars shining above, he closed his eyes.

That night, Seymour didn’t sleep a wink.

As if to mock his unrest, dawn broke. And with it, Karl—using the alias Basko—along with all the forces gathered in Bolido assembled before Seymour.

Their numbers included five knights from Bolido, one hundred soldiers, and fifty more soldiers provided by Count Calido—a total of 150 troops. It was more than enough to wage a domain war against a small rural territory.

They had also been supplied with weapons and armor by Count Calido. Even the soldiers wore well-crafted gambesons underneath leather armor layered on top.

"Everyone, move out."

With Seymour’s heavy command, the well-equipped force began their march toward Tennesse Castle.

***

Thududududu.

The sound of galloping horses echoed. Clad in white surcoats marked with a red X, they were riding in haste.

"Captain, over here!"

Among the twenty or so riders, the man leading them was in his mid-thirties, with neatly groomed facial hair.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa."

They reined in their horses. The stench of rot filled the air. The corpses had been left unattended for quite some time—there were signs of wild animals and maggots swarming over the bodies.

"Judging by the maggots having pupated, it’s been about seven or eight days."

The man, who seemed to be their leader, had dismounted at some point and now examined one of the decayed corpses.

"All of them were killed by stab wounds. To cut through them so cleanly… just who could’ve done this?" "The culprit is at least Expert-level."

Most tracks had been erased with time, but the deep impressions left by strong footfalls remained.

"Captain, over here…"

Godfrey, the captain of the Holy Knight Order unit and even considered a candidate for the next order leader, crouched and studied the footprints, letting out a low hum.

The footprints formed a perfect circle—so precise it was disorienting. At the sight of them, a face suddenly came to Godfrey’s mind.

"Captain, I’ve only ever seen such perfect footprints on display in the knight order’s training hall—those of Sir Edwin."

Godfrey nodded at the remark.

"There’s only one person in this world who can do this."

"…Who would that be?"

"Someone from the East Continent. Or maybe I should say—was."

He recalled the events from the East Continent. A man who appeared when the knight detachment was on the brink of annihilation—who displayed terrifying martial prowess with just a single sword.

The Ghost of Chevalier.

"Captain, over here!"

As Godfrey was deep in thought, reconstructing the scene in his mind, a subordinate shouted urgently. There, lying on the ground, was a familiar face.

"Jenkins…."

He was someone I personally could never grow fond of, but at one time, he had been among those who fought against the heretic warriors of the East Continent—those called the Al-Khalidah.

He hadn’t been a member of the Holy Knight Order, but rather a volunteer operating under Count Calido. In truth, he had taken the lead more in looting than actual combat.

“By the way, Captain, the man we were tracking has disappeared—what do you intend to do? Are we returning?”

“You all return and report what we saw here to the Commander. Wooster, you come with me.”

“Huh…? Captain, why can’t I go back too?”

“Go back and what? Hit the tavern? The others have families to visit.”

“Damn… being family-less really is rough.”

“Stop whining and follow me.”

Godfrey recalled the footprints again. The flawless trace of Verdadera Destreza. That meant the Ghost of Chevalier had returned to the West Continent. Feeling a strange mix of tension and emotion, Godfrey gripped his reins tightly.

***

Baron Vito of Tennesse sat alone in a dark room, slowly sipping from a bottle of liquor.

“My lord, it’s time to rest.”

“Leave me be, Albert. There’s not much time left to enjoy a drink in the middle of the night, is there?”

“My lord… Please don’t assume we’re going to lose.”

“I know your loyalty well, but you’re also aware their number of knights is nearly triple ours. You know how this will end.”

“…We’ll be fighting a defensive battle. You can’t be certain of the outcome until it’s over.”

Albert, a knight in his 40s, met the baron’s gaze with unwavering eyes.

“My daughter, on her way to the monastery… may God protect her, she was ambushed, but it seems she fought them off and arrived safely. She must have hired a skilled Free Knight just before departing—very resourceful.”

“…Is that so? That’s good news.”

“Yes. If Selena can survive, that’s enough for me.”

“My lord!”

“I know, Albert. I speak these weak words only because it’s you. But I don’t intend to fight with the intention of losing.”

Baron Vito was a man of good reputation, even among neighboring domains, and his swordsmanship—honed over time—was by no means lacking.

“Still, those who wish to leave… should go. I don’t want any unnecessary deaths.”

“No one in Tennesse will turn their back and run from you, my lord.”

“Still, ask them again. As their lord, I must give them the choice.”

“…I will…”

Albert let out a sigh of sorrow.

“Abbot Frederic says it’s difficult for him to intervene… But he also told me that the will of Essus is with us, and that we should not give up hope. But I don’t know what that hope is supposed to be.”

“The Abbot said that?”

“He did. He said that while he cannot lend a hand, the light of Essus will surely be with us.”

“…That’s a strange thing to say. The Abbot isn’t one to speak empty words…”

“I found it strange too. But with the trial looming so close, that promise doesn’t bring me much comfort.”

Only three days remained.

In less serious cases, domain wars often ended with a duel between representative knights—but this was a full-on invasion.

Back when the emperor ruled the West Continent, a local lord wouldn’t dare engage in a domain war without permission or at least tacit approval.

But now, if a powerful regional warlord like Count Calido turned a blind eye, that was the end of it.

Baron Vito had worked hard to maintain good relations with Calido, but in the end, the greedy count had found some way to push Baron Seymour to draw his sword.

“I still don’t understand why Seymour took Calido’s side.”

“Rumor has it that Baron Seymour’s family is being held as hostages by Count Calido.”

“…That might be true. Perhaps he’s just another pawn on the chessboard. We powerless ones can’t do much.”

Vito drained the rest of his drink and staggered to his study chair.

There, he slowly lifted his hand and began writing a letter. He devoted the three days left before battle to pen what might be his final message to his daughter.

By the time the messenger carrying the letter to Fresco Monastery departed, Baron Vito had fully donned his armor.

When he finally flipped down his helmet and stepped outside, all the soldiers of the Tennesse domain were already assembled and waiting for him.

“Why has no one left?”

“My lord, thinking of all you’ve done for us—offering our lives is a small price to pay!”

“Leave? Leave for where? There’s no better place to live than under your rule!”

“We can win this!”

“Yes! We can win this!”

They shouted louder and rougher than necessary, trying to suppress their fear. Though their cries were filled with desperation, Baron Vito was sincerely grateful to these soldiers who declared they would fight for him.

To risk one’s life for another or to act in the name of justice—such things had less value in this world than a bowl of cold stew or a chunk of hard rye bread.

And yet, the soldiers of Tennesse were ready to risk their lives in the name of loyalty and gratitude.

“Make sure to survive. I don’t want to lose any of you.”

That single, short, and unembellished line stirred something deep in the hearts of the soldiers.

“For Tennesse, forever!”

“Long live Baron Vito!”

Their voices rang out, louder and louder—they had already steeled themselves for death.