Chapter Nine: The Knight of Service, the Games of Contest, and the Backroom Meeting

Fallen leaves had reddened in the Kingdom of Gracis, graced by the touch of an autumn breeze. The training grounds within the castle were teeming with much more life than usual. These grounds where soldiers and knights trained every day were transformed twice a year, in order to host the Games of Contest. The audience was filled with nobles and common folk of the castle town, eagerly awaiting the commencement.

The Games of Contest were a public event that any soldier or knight could compete in. Placing well in the Games would open doors for promotion—soldiers had the chance of becoming a knight, a position that usually required graduating from the academy. Knights, as well, had the chance of rising to the rank of royal guard, or even general.

Amidst the crowd of contestants brimming with hopes for the future, there stood Octavian Aldis, Prince Herscherik’s new knight of service, sticking out like a sore thumb. The son of the Marquis Roland Aldis, the retired “Blazing General,” Octavian had slightly curly gold-tinged orange hair anda nervous gleam in his downturned sapphire eyes. Most of all, he already looked worn out by the jealous glares from everyone around him.

Why am I here...? Sitting on a bench, wearing his flashy white knight’s garb—the uniform of a knight of service—with his jacket pulled back to reveal his sword, Oran stared into the distance and tried to think of something else.

It all began the night the king visited Herscherik while the young prince was on bed rest. His coworker and butler of service, Kuro, had declared out of the blue, “Hersch’s reputation is hurting because everyone thinks his knight of service is the useless Sir Delinquent of Meathead-ville, who barely graduated the academy. Go prove them wrong already.”

“Did you just call me useless?”

Oran’s protest fell on deaf ears while Kuro one-sidedly scolded Oran, practically tossing him straight into the biannual Games of Contest. Oran, who utterly detested being the center of attention, continued his steadfast protest against competing until Herscherik, having recovered from his bed rest, heard the news.

“You signed up for the Games of Contest, Oran? I can’t wait to see you up there!” Herscherik hammered the nail in the coffin, showing an age-appropriate smile that brightly contrasted the sunken expression he’d been wearing since the incident.

Recalling Herscherik’s smile, Oran cracked an embarrassed chuckle. Then, he heard a voice standing out from the crowd.

“Tsk. The hell is Rich Boy doing here?”

In fact, it had been said loud enough for Oran to hear. He let out another chuckle. An hour in this place had acclimated him to the comments made behind his back that he was nonetheless intended to hear. He let out a sigh. I’m not the only rich boy here.

However, just because he was used to it didn’t make him impervious to it. Oran wasn’t saintly enough to simply laugh off those comments forever. Some of the contestants were from noble families who were far richer than Oran’s. In fact, the Aldis family ruled no land and ran no business, and thus was not as well-off as most other marquises or counts, despite holding a title. That being said, the Aldis family had always produced highly decorated and successful generals and knights, making them much better-off than the average commoner. That didn’t mean Oran was sheltered, though. In fact, he’d been practicing the sword from a young age, and he’d been trained harder than most soldiers in the castle by his father, his sister (a woman just as fearsome as her father), and his brothers, who had served as knights on the frontline.

“He’s the knight of the, what... Seventh Prince? I didn’t even think we had a Seventh Prince. He won’t last.”

Oran’s chuckle faded. He glared in the direction of the voice and pulled his sword closer to his body, resting his hand on the hilt. The soldiers and knights who were making those comments noticed that Oran, who hadn’t reacted at all toward any of their comments, had finally made a move. With an uncomfortable look on their faces, they scurried out of the waiting room.

Oran watched them leave and lifted his hand from the hilt of his sword. If you’re going to run at the first sign of a nasty look, don’t start anything at all... They have no respect for the royal family. Oran silently grumbled... despite his actions during his own tryouts.

At this point, Oran realized what Kuro was trying to say. Just as Kuro had said, their view of Oran was quite negative, and that directly affected the reputation of Herscherik, his boss. Herscherik was only five years old. With no patrons or actual life experience, Herscherik practically didn’t exist to most people. Despite all this, Oran knew that Herscherik was willing to suffer in order to hold the world to his ideals. He knew how much Herscherik was willing to grind down his heart for the sake of others. As far as Oran was concerned, those who didn’t know anything about him, and didn’t even try to know, had no right to demean him. Oran closed his eyes. He remained like that until his match began.

The royal booth hosted the best seats for watching the Games of Contest and was reserved for royalty and their entourage. A match had already begun in the training ground-turned-arena, the contestants engaged in furious clashing of swords.

There were three guests in the royal booth: the First Prince Marx, who had just delivered the commencement in place of the king; the Seventh Prince Herscherik at his first Games of Contest; and the prince’s butler of service, Kuro. Kuro, aka Schwarz, finished setting the side table with tea and a light meal before taking his place behind Herscherik to stay out of the way.

“Do you think Octa can go all the way to the top?” Marx jokingly asked. He actually had complete faith in the knight.

“Easy,” Herscherik confidently answered. There was no way that someone who could go toe to toe with Kuro would lose to just any fighter.

Snacking on the sweets that Kuro had prepared, Herscherik watched the matches proceed, waiting for his knight to take the field,

When Oran was set to come out for the match after the next, Marx turned to Herscherik. “Thank you, Hersch. For helping Octa and I work things out.”

After the incident, Oran stopped avoiding Marx. In fact, albeit a little awkwardly, they began having normal conversations. They were beginning to recover what they had lost two years ago. Marx had always considered Oran, who never treated him any differently because of his title, his one true friend. He had hoped that Oran would serve him as his knight when he became king and had almost come to assume that would happen.

After the incident two years ago, however, a rift had grown between them. In particular, Oran avoided Marx from that point on. Marx considered Oran’s actions to be, in part, motivated by compassion. Oran, whose reputation had been destroyed by his egregious behavior and academic performance, could have hurt Marx’s reputation by association. But, because Marx had coincidentally bumped into Herscherik and Oran on that summer day and gotten involved in solving the case, his relationship with Oran was beginning to improve.

“I haven’t done anything,” Herscherik answered with a chuckle. Marx and Oran’s relationship was their own business, as far as Herscherik was concerned. Herscherik had only asked his older brother for help. He might have been the inciting incident, but he hadn’t done anything else noteworthy. Besides, Oran was an intelligent man.

“I’m sure Oran knew, logically, that none of it was your fault, Marx.” At the time, Oran had to hate someone in order to carry on. By distancing himself from Marx, whom he had always been close to, he kept his sanity. That’s just my guess. Herscherik couldn’t help but smile, thinking about how Marx and Oran would become close again.

Then, nervousness flashed over his face, and he asked his brother, “Are you all right, Marx?”

“Hm? What do you mean, Hersch?” Marx tilted his head.

While his each and every move was picturesque, Herscherik reminded himself that this wasn’t the time to be entranced by his beauty. “At the moment, both you and I have targets painted on our backs.” The drug incident, with Marx at the helm, had been closed as far as the public was concerned. Because of that, the popularity of the First Prince was skyrocketing in the nearby town, improving the reputation of the royal family as a whole as a result. That in of itself was welcome, but Herscherik was concerned that they had caused too much of a stir.

“This case isn’t over... We haven’t been able to make any antidote.” The process had already begun, based on the samples of the drug they’d been able to acquire from its dealers. However, the lack of any actual documents on the drug’s composition suggested that the development of the antidote would be an onerous task.

Even the examples they’d seized were significantly watered down versions of the original concotion’s power. The only way to develop an antidote was to first calculate the extent to which the drug had been diluted, then concentrate the sample before analyzing the drug’s composition and properties. That process would take an exorbitant amount of time. Besides, there was another problem to consider. Right before his death, Baron Armin had spoken to Herscherik. His words had been completely unexpected.

“Church... Be careful...” Armin had said. Judging from those words, it was entirely possible that the Church, the center of spirituality in this country, was behind the whole string of events regarding the drug. First the minister’s forces, and now the Church? The ministers apparently weren’t the only ones Herscherik had to worry about. Of course, even Herscherik couldn’t predict everything with such limited information. The best he could do was work with the knowledge he had.

“It’s a complex situation,” Marx agreed. In this world, “the Church” referred to the Church of Light, a religion that worshiped a variety of gods, including one known as the Creator. The Church spanned national borders, reaching all over the continent. It was separated from national governments, although it was undeniable that a religion so widely worshiped by the people influenced politics considerably.

“But it’s all right. We know about it now.” Marx gave a reassuring smile. The fact that they were now aware the Church may have a dark secret was huge. In exchange for the risk of exposure, they had unmistakably gained an advantage.

“I’ve always been unsure, Hersch...” Marx continued, watching the contest. “Ever since father told me all those things two years ago.” Herscherik guessed that his brother was talking about the same things his father had told him when he was three years old. Except, he imagined that his father didn’t present Marx, the future king, with the same choice he’d given to Herscherik. “If I do as Father did, they won’t come after our family, so the status quo would remain. If I resist, they’ll come after me. There are six more who could take my place, after all.” Marx’s voice lowered. “I will never let them take advantage of my brothers.”

Unlike Herscherik, who was a woman in her thirties on the inside, Marx was only seventeen. The young, inexperienced prince, without anyone to give him advice, couldn’t make a decision. “In the end, I’ve lost two years to uncertainty.” The more he thought about it, the more quickly time seemed to pass. Should he uphold the status quo for the safety of his family or fight against corruption for the sake of his country?

Under the guise of reconnaissance, Marx had attended party after party, or thrown himself into work, almost to escape the reality he was faced with. Before he knew it, two years had passed. “But that night, when you asked for my help, I felt like I finally saw the path I want to follow.” After Marx had tagged along with Herscherik, he became certain. “I love this country. I love Father, Mother, all of my family. I love the citizens of this nation, too. From the bottom of my heart, I want to protect all of them... That’s why I can’t let things remain as they are,” Marx said, with an embarrassed smile. “It took me a long time to find it, but that’s my choice. You may think I’m a coward, Hersch...”

Herscherik shook his head. He actually felt joy swelling within him, knowing that his brother felt the same way as he did. “Hersch, don’t worry about me. I can protect myself, with both sword and magic. And I’m the First Prince—it will be difficult for them to reach me. You’re the one who must be careful.” Herscherik, the youngest prince without any patrons, would be easy to get rid of. “Do your men of service know?” About the stain on the royal family and the threat that it faces, Marx was implying.

Herscherik had told both Kuro and Oran everything. Kuro had taken it without batting an eye, while Oran had to mull it over for a while. Seeing that he was still serving as his knight of service, Herscherik felt secure in his alliance. “I’ll be all right,” he reassured his brother. “I have Kuro. And Oran, too.” He returned his gaze to the arena, where his knight of service had just appeared.

The Games of Contest were wild, both above and below ground. Above, there were the actual matches taking place in the arena; “below”, there was the secret gambling ring. Gambling ranged from simply guessing the ultimate champion to predicting the outcomes of individual matches. Naturally, all the participants had access to all kinds of information on the competitors.

Both the above- and the below-ground audiences collectively shouted in amazement at the sight before them. Oran’s white, tailor-made knight’s uniform fluttered in the breeze. This young man, the third son of the Marquis Aldis, who had barely graduated the academy and was widely assumed to have gotten his current position just out of nepotism, had been taking out his opponents the instant the match began. If they managed to clash swords even a couple of times, they fought a good fight compared to the others. Most fell to the ground without even getting the chance. He was the darkest of dark horses—not a single person had expected this.

Octavian soared to the finals without even breaking a sweat. And after that, even the final match ended with an easy victory. Not only was his knight’s uniform still spotless by the end of the Games, it was still in perfect order. Everyone could see that he was on another level than his opponents. Those in charge of running the event suddenly found themselves in quite the situation—the Games had concluded much too quickly. Meanwhile, the “house” of the gambling ring suffered a major loss paying out to those who bet for Oran to win all the way, and their shock was intense.

There were three groups of people who were assured of Oran’s victory from the start. The first were Oran’s brothers, watching from a section of the audience reserved for military officers. They knew that Oran had no chance of losing a contest like this. If he did, in fact, he would be welcomed home with the Aldis Signature Training Session, which was as terrifying as it sounded. His brothers knew that Oran was more talented than them, but they weren’t jealous because they knew that he worked harder than anyone to increase his skills. He had all the right talents and the drive to be a knight, and furthermore, he was more dedicated than anyone else they knew.

After losing his fiancée two years ago, though, their brother had lost that drive. For everything, in fact. He continued his training, perhaps out of habit, but he became visibly unmotivated to do anything in his life. His brothers tried to light some kind of spark within him over the intervening years, all to no avail. So, when Oran finally found a place where he could use his talents, his brothers were overjoyed.

“He looks good,” Oran’s oldest brother said in relief.

His other brother nodded. “I think so, too. But he has a lot of work ahead of him.”

They watched their brother stand in his first spotlight with joyful smiles. No matter how much talent he had or how old they got, Oran was still their beloved little brother.

The second group was Oran’s parents and younger sister, seated in the general audience. They, however, were more critical than his brothers. Both his father and sister were quite critical of his technique—too late on this attack, too slow with that draw. Beside them, his mother simply smiled and watched. He’s finally all right, Roland thought, letting slip a relieved smile.

Roland had had a good reason to stop Oran from leaving the city. If Oran had been the type to find joy simply in improving himself, Roland would have sent him off with no hesitation. But, he knew that Oran wanted to better himself for the sake of others. Furthermore, Oran was weak, mentally speaking, without someone to protect. In a confrontation with someone of equal strength or stronger, mental strength would be the ultimate deciding factor. Roland was concerned that, if he’d sent Oran out as he had requested, his third son would have died without ever making it home.

Roland’s wife, now smiling beside him, understood that, too. In fact, she had opposed Oran leaving more than anybody. She was also the one that convinced Roland to send their oldest daughter off instead.

“We have much to look forward to, don’t we?” Roland’s wife called to him, as if she’d read his mind. Roland nodded in agreement.

The final group assured of Oran’s victory, of course, was the two princes in the royal booth. “One in a thousand, ba-byyyyy!” Herscherik thrust his fists into the air in glorious victory. His uproarious excitement seemed far out of character for the young, mild-mannered prince.

“Hersch...” Marx looked at Herscherik, incredulously. “Did you borrow money from me to...?”

Before the Games began, Herscherik had asked to borrow some money from Marx. It wasn’t every day Herscherik asked for a favor, and he promised to pay him back, so Marx had lent him about fifty silver coins.

“Yes. Don’t worry, I had Kuro put in the bet for me, so no one will know. Now I have some money to work with. Oh, and please don’t tell Father about this,” Herscherik said and leaned out of his seat to wave at Oran below. Oran returned a knight’s bow in return.

Good. He better have blown through a contest like this, Kuro thought, watching his gleeful master. Of course, he showed none of it on the surface. There were two reasons he’d put Oran into the Games of Contest. The first, as he had explained to Oran, was to showcase his talents to the world. Oran knocking out soldiers and knights like he was taking candy from a baby would surely stick out in everyone’s memory.

The second was intimidation. Without any patrons, Herscherik was in a much weaker position than the other princes, which could potentially be inviting for anyone with nefarious intentions to try and take advantage of him. So, Kuro figured that Oran could act as a grand castle wall out in front of the prince, while he himself could remain behind the scenes. Hersch doesn’t know how much he’s worth. Kuro silently sighed. That was precisely why he felt so protective of him. But as a former spy with a questionable background, there was only so much he could do. That delinquent knight... He gets on my nerves, but he knows what he’s doing. Kuro wouldn’t dare say he trusted Oran. Anything but that.

“Does Octa know about the bet?” Marx asked.

“No, he doesn’t. But I knew he would win,” Herscherik answered with a spotless smile.

Elsewhere, there was a dark room used for secret meetings, where a very specific process had to be performed to enter. The interior was only lit with a few candles here and there, dark enough that no individual face could be recognized.

“...and the royals got in the way?” A man’s voice slinked into the room. His tone showed no emotion, only confirming the facts.

“Yes... the youngest prince,” another man answered. “His men are quite the fighters.” He sounded slightly older than the first.

“The youngest prince... I thought he only turned five this year. You’re sure it was him?”

“Yes, it was clear even from a distance. Small stature, gold hair. One of his men addressed him as ‘Hersch.’ There’s no mistaking it. Although...”

“Yes?” The first voice urged the other to continue. It wasn’t often that he hesitated to report something.

After a beat, the older voice kept speaking. “The prince seemed to take notice of me, even when I had completely concealed my presence.”

“Your presence?” There was some emotion in his tone, for the first time. “Interesting.”

“What should we do...? He might have caught on.”

“It won’t be an issue,” the voice declared with confidence. “We gathered plenty of data for the improved iteration. Let’s move on to the next step. But...” The man smirked, unseen in the darkness. “Put the information on the prince out there. We’ll leave it up to them to clean up.”

The conversation ended there, and the candles flickered out.