A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

The stands on the slope were thronged with people; the Nobility, bureaucrats, wealthy magnates, and beautiful women of northern and central England had nearly all congregated here.

These distinguished spectators, dressed in a dazzling variety of colorful clothes, created a cheerful and opulent spectacle. Meanwhile, the grounds inside the arena were packed with well-to-do townsfolk and jovial freemen. Their plainer attire formed a subdued border around the magnificent circle of the wealthy, both tempering its brilliance and making it seem all the more radiant by contrast.

Before the tournament began, the heralds, as was custom, would bellow, ”Largesse, largesse, brave Knights!”

Showers of gold and Silver Coins were then thrown down from the stands.

According to tradition, the heralds were the guardians and recorders of honor, and bestowing generous gifts upon them was a magnificent display of Knightly Spirit.

They, in turn, would thank the spectators for their goodwill with a customary cry: ”Love from the fair, and death for the brave! Praise for the generous, and fame for the fearless!”

The common spectators immediately roared their approval, and a large troupe of trumpeters blew a majestic fanfare.

Once the noise subsided, the heralds jubilantly departed, leaving only two marshals at either end of the lists. Fully armed, they sat motionless upon their horses, like a pair of statues.

The enclosure at the northern end of the lists, though spacious, was already crowded with Knights eager to face the challengers. Viewed from the stands, it was a veritable sea of plumes.

Interspersed among them were flashing Helmets and upraised Long Spears. From the tips of most spears hung hand-span-wide pennons, which fluttered and danced in the gentle breeze. Combined with the constantly waving plumes, they made the entire scene all the more vibrant.

The ten Knights who subsequently entered the field began to seek their opponents.

Incidentally, most of them prudently avoided Eric. His frame was the largest among the entering Knights, and his mere appearance was daunting.

No one wanted to face such a formidable challenge right at the outset.

Each of the Knights chose to lightly strike the Shield of their chosen opponent with the butt of his Lance, signifying a friendly challenge.

Many of the spectators in the common stands, including numerous women, were disappointed by this.

Just as disappointment settled over the crowd, a middle-aged Knight, whose build was comparable to Eric’s, struck Eric’s Shield—and did so with the sharp point of his Lance.

The nearby spectators who witnessed this instantly broke into cheers.

The middle-aged Knight had a thick, bushy beard. He tossed aside the blunted tourney Lance he held and had a nearby Attendant hand him a war lance—sharp and deadly.

”There’s no need to be so serious, is there?” Eric sighed.

”Did you hear those cheers? The people love this sort of thing, and I’ve never been one to disappoint. I treat every battle as a war.”

”So, are you ready?” The middle-aged Knight couched his Lance and looked at Eric with a smile, raising his left hand. ”Of course, this is just a tournament. You have the right to withdraw. I don’t like to force a man to do what he is unwilling.”

”I don’t like forcing people either,” Eric said, pulling on his reins. He steered his Warhorse onto the field, moving away from the Attendant who was bringing him a war lance.

The middle-aged Knight followed suit, taking his position at the opposite end.

In Frankish tournaments, a barrier usually separates the jousting Knights to prevent collisions. But here, the field was open, like those in Germany, with the lanes marked out only by painted lines.

”Is this your first tournament? Or did you not hear the rules? You’re supposed to switch to a war lance.” The middle-aged Knight frowned.

”I don’t like to harm people without reason, nor do I like being manipulated by emotions—especially not someone else’s,” Eric said with a shrug. He couched his blunted tourney Lance under his arm, getting into position.

”Fine. You asked for this.”

The middle-aged Knight felt slighted and a trace of resentment flared within him. His grip on the war lance tightened.

”God teaches us to be peaceful.”

”But I am here to wield a sword.”

The very instant the middle-aged Knight’s words fell, horns and trumpets blared—the signal to charge.

This was followed by a roar of enthusiastic cheers from the entire crowd.

Both combatants spurred their reins, driving their Warhorses to charge at one another.

The distance between them closed with frightening Speed. The middle-aged Knight expertly tensed his muscles. With nearly twenty years of combat experience, such techniques were second nature to him—no, they were instinct, and instinct is faster than conscious thought.

Yet, just as he was about to level his Lance, a searing pain struck him square in the chest. Splinters exploded outwards, and a flying piece of wood grazed his temple.

The pain felt as if it would tear a furrow through his body. He clenched his jaw, struggling not to cry out. Though his body was forced backward, he desperately yanked on the reins. The sudden force tore at his horse’s mouth, and the Warhorse shrieked in pain.

However, his Warhorse did not topple. It managed to land on its hooves, right itself, and the Knight, through sheer will, remained in the saddle, not unhorsed.

The middle-aged Knight was stunned by what had just happened.

’What just happened?’

’Was I just hit?’

’It wasn’t a matter of being too slow... I didn’t even see it happen.’

’Is this a joke? How is that even possible?’