"Match over!!!"
"As expected of the three-time champions, the Black Knight took all the points in just 34 minutes, without waiting for the time to run out!"
"Let's congratulate the winner of the first division!"
"Black Knight --!!!"
A deafening cheer Kazimierz. Ignoring the microphone that was brought close to his face, Jian's figure completely disappeared into the passage.
"It's worse than we expected."
Watching the figures on the arena being carried away one by one, the Courier sighed:
"However, with the Black Knight leading the way, the other contestants will probably be more restrained."
"Most of those participating in this competition are blind gamblers. We can only hope that the Black Knight's restraint won't mislead some people."
Gnosis turned his gaze away from the window and began to peruse the books he had brought.
Without keeping everyone waiting long, the second match began quickly after the venue was cleared.
With the Black Knight as a warning, the match started off much more restrained.
The seeded players, marked by special flow, spontaneously united to secure the elimination of the remaining knights.
Compared to the excitement of the previous match, this solid style of play clearly failed to satisfy the audience.
Discontented shouts could be heard intermittently as restrictions during the competition drew ever closer.
Just when everyone thought the matter would end peacefully, bloodshed still occurred.
The united seeded players turned on each other when one player attacked his teammate from behind. Although the attacker was immediately eliminated by the others, the fragile alliance had already begun to crack.
Unable to completely eliminate the other players, internal strife broke out within the league.
The audience began cheering again, and the knights gradually lost their composure amidst the cheers.
When Mob announced the end of the match once again, the result was unexpected.
The player with the highest score was not a member of the alliance, but an unknown competitive knight.
This player never joined the melee, but instead focused on finishing off opponents in the crowd, until the very end when he finally defeated a seeded player from the alliance, winning by a margin of 3 points.
This stark contrast drew criticism from many viewers, but some cheered at the unexpected turn of events.
Only--
Courier: "Judging from his appearance, he probably won't be able to participate in the subsequent matches either, right?"
The winner launched a surprise attack on a seeded player at the end, but was stabbed in the abdomen by the opponent's lance in the process.
Jeston: "That's for the best. I'm too lazy to waste my time on such insignificant characters."
Courier: "Mr. Jeston should also be careful, after all, your match is the last one, and everyone will be on high alert."
Startled for a moment by the Courier's well-intentioned reminder, Jeston instinctively wanted to retort sarcastically, but then he saw Saria turn her head away.
"Tch... Got it!"
... It still needs polishing.
Postponing her planned retirement, Saria turned to look down.
"It's time for us to make our appearance."
As the cleaning staff left the platform, the screen hanging high above flickered again.
One by one, the knights left the passage, but not a single spotlight shone on them.
"Dear viewers! I'm sure two battles weren't enough to satisfy your appetites, but don't worry, because--"
Mob strummed the guitar at his waist, the shrill music echoing throughout the venue.
"The third battle features a very special guest!"
The music suddenly stopped, like spotlights focused on a single point as they searched for a target.
A knight.
Plain-looking armor, unadorned warhammer and shield, and dazzling blond hair are nothing unusual in Kazimierz.
But all the ordinariness was shattered by Mob's words.
"As a proud Kazimierz, it is my honor to introduce this player to you."
"In the past war with Ursus, a hero led his knights across the collapsing battle lines, and they were just a hair's breadth away from killing an Ursus general."
"To this day, that hero's portrait still hangs in the highest place in the hall of fame!"
The noisy square gradually quieted down, and the older people began to tremble.
"And now, that hero's granddaughter has come to this stage!"
"That's right! Standing before us now is the eldest daughter of the younger generation of the Nearl Family — Margaret Nearl!!!"
The deafening cheers seemed to pierce the dome. Some young people stared in astonishment at their cheering elders, not understanding why they were so excited.
"[Kazimierz curses!] Does this Mob even know how to speak?! With so few lines, how can he be worthy of Lord Cyril..."
Bang--!
The Silverlance captain slapped his subordinate's head to the side, then said irritably:
"Patrol? You're watching the game instead?"
"But she's Lord Cyril's granddaughter!"
The Silverlance, having been struck, shrank back, but its gaze remained fixed on the advertising screen.
"And what kind of introduction is that? Lord Cyril has so many glorious achievements, yet he just picks to talk about that one defeat!"
The other Silverlance nodded silently, clearly equally displeased with Mob's explanation.
The captain didn't say anything. In the eyes of these "young people," could that battle really be considered a failure?
"You still don't understand..."
Without urging the team members to move forward, the captain of Silverlance reminisced about the old days.
Compared to the final outcome of the battle, breaking through Ursus's defenses is nothing.
After all, that was a general from Ursus who was almost killed under the protection of that [Patriot].
This level of expertise is something that "children" who have not experienced real war cannot comprehend.
That's the light that can illuminate Kazimierz...
"Despicable scoundrel!"
The indignant voice pulled him back to reality. Captain Silverlance looked at the screen and cursed aloud as well.
There were no siege-style battles on the field, and there was only one reason that angered the knights.
Unlike the previous two matches, many of the competitors on the field wore tattered or cheap armor.
But what attracted everyone's attention was not these things, but... the Originium crystals protruding from the crack.
"These people... are all Infected!?"
Noticing the number of Infected was different from those in previous battles, a large number of spectators began to protest.
"What's going on here! The proportions are clearly wrong!"
"Stop playing dumb! What exactly is the Business Federation trying to do? Murder the offspring of heroes?!"
Sweating profusely, Mob cursed the group organizers in his heart, but could only pretend not to hear them and announce the start of the competition.
Seeing that they could not stop the match, the crowd turned their anger towards the players on the field.
Attacks on individuals, and contempt for those Infected.
"That's outrageous!"
Maria gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles turning white.
Her voice trembled as she looked at the empty bottles thrown down from the stands.
"How could they do this? How... how could they utter such insults?"
Gregor did not answer; he stood aside, his gaze never leaving the golden figure.
Gnosis pushed up his glasses, his voice cold:
"The Business Federation put the Infected in one match, placing [the Knights of the Nearl Family] on the opposite side—they don't want a win or a loss, they want a story."
"It's the headline: 'Descendant of a Hero Slays Infected'."
"This is malice directed at Margaret."
Gregor finally spoke, and the temperature slowly rose.
"It's also aimed at those Infected."
Maria bit her lip, her nails almost digging into her flesh.
"Does my sister... do she know?"
No one answered.
She knew it; she knew it better than anyone else.
On the ring, the spotlight illuminated Margaret in every detail.
Golden light seeped from the gaps in her armor, making it seem as if her entire being was ablaze.
But her face was hidden in the shadows of her hair, so her expression was not visible.
The Infected are slowly approaching.
It's not because they want to fight; if they didn't fight, they wouldn't even get an appearance fee.
They looked at Margaret, thinking about her surname.
Nearl.
Margaret Nearl, the Radiant Knight, is the granddaughter of the hero Cyril, from one of the oldest knightly families in Kazimierz.
Even if such individuals manage to win in the ring, what happens after they leave the arena?
Will it be purged? Will it be dealt with? Will it be silently erased from this world?
Anyway, the Infected have disappeared, and nobody cares.
Their eyes gradually changed, from numbness to ruthlessness, from despair to desperate madness.
Since I'm going to die anyway—by the warhammer of the Nearl Family —at least I'll leave my name behind.
They quickened their pace, and Margaret looked up.
The spotlight shone on her face, and everyone saw her expression.
There was no anger, no pity, no condescending charity.
There is only one thing that is very clean and pure.
She held the warhammer upright in front of her, gripping the handle with her right hand and covering her chest with her left.
He bowed slightly, his movements so precise they looked like they'd been copied from a textbook.
"Margaret Nearl".
She announced her name in a voice that was neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough to carry throughout the entire arena.
"I challenge you all."
Silence.
The stadium, packed with tens of thousands of people, fell silent for a moment, so quiet that you could hear the static of the spotlights.
Challenge.
A respectful and equal challenge from one knight to another.
The Infected stopped in their tracks.
They certainly knew this etiquette; it was something every Kazimierz child learned from childhood.
When a knight challenges an opponent to a duel, he announces his name and gives a knightly salute.
Regardless of who the other person is, regardless of who wins or loses, at that moment, they are equal.
How long has it been since they experienced "equality"?
One of the Infected moved his throat and looked at Margaret, at her pure, unadulterated eyes.
"... Are you not giving us charity?"
Margaret did not answer; she simply bowed again and gave her name once more.
"Margaret Nearl, please enlighten me."
Sincere, passionate, like a flame.
In the silence, one of the Infected stepped forward.
His armor was more worn than everyone else's, but it was clean.
He removed his helmet, revealing a face half-covered in Originium crystals, and then performed the same ritual.
The movements were fluid, precise, and carried an old-fashioned elegance.
He was once a knight.
No—he still is.
Margaret smiled, and the spotlight seemed to dim briefly.
The two knights faced each other from a distance.
The other Infected seemed to understand something. Without discussing it, they all stepped back at the same time, making way for a circular open space.
Amidst the chaotic battle of hundreds, an "arena" appeared out of thin air.
Mob, sitting in the commentary booth, gaped, speechless. The director frantically switched between shots, while the audience exchanged bewildered glances.
Meanwhile, the battle had already begun on the arena.
There were no fancy opening moves, no probing feints. The Infected knight went all out from the start.
The blade cut through the wind, aiming directly for the gap between Margaret's shoulder and neck armor.
That's a move only an old knight would use—precise, ruthless, and without wasting a single ounce of energy.
Margaret dodged to the side, swinging her warhammer horizontally. The hammerhead grazed her opponent's breastplate, sparks flying.
The Infected took two steps back, steadied himself, and charged forward again.
The sword and hammer clashed seven times, each time sending shivers down the spines of the spectators in the stands.
On the seventh attempt, the warhammer pressed down on the blade, and Margaret twisted her wrist, pressing the hammer handle against the Infected's abdomen, knocking him back.
He lost.
Then, golden light surged out, washing over the Infected's body like a warm tide.
Under the watchful eyes of tens of thousands, Margaret Nearl is treating her adversary.
Whispers arose in the stands, then silence fell again.
The defeated Infected remained silent for a long time. He stood up, straightened his crooked breastplate, and once again gave Margaret a standard knightly salute.
He didn't speak, didn't thank me, and didn't exchange pleasantries.
The knight simply bowed, then turned and strode toward the passage.
His back was ramrod straight.
Margaret turned to the remaining Infected. She raised her warhammer again, once more gesturing for battle.
This time, before she could even speak—
"No."
One of the Infected stepped forward.
"Radiant Knight, this is not a battle you fight alone."
He turned around, looked at the other Infected, and raised the sword in his hand.
"I am Allen Gray. I extend a duel challenge to you all!"
After a brief silence, another person stepped forward.
I accept your invitation.
He gave a knightly salute, and Allen returned the salute.
The two knights began their duel.
Maria, standing in the stands, covered her mouth, her eyes reddening.
"They're... they're doing their own knightly competition."
Gregor didn't speak; the temperature rose briefly, then dropped again.
"... I see."
From this action, everyone understood.
One by one, the Infected began to spontaneously form teams and challenge each other to battle.
The knights spontaneously engaged in the oldest and purest duels on this bloody arena designed by the Business Federation.
The loser walked off the stage gracefully, without resentment or bitterness.
The victor, catching his breath, turned to find his next opponent.
Nobody cares about the points, nobody cares Business Federation, nobody cares about those capitalists hiding in their private rooms smashing glasses.
They were simply playing a game—a game of their own.
"What is this? A knightly duel within a knightly duel?"
In the stands, a spectator murmured.
No one answered him; everyone was captivated by the scene.
Those tattered armors, those crystals piercing through the cracks, those sword skills that were in no way inferior to those of other knights.
A voice rang out.
"Keep it up!"
I don't know who shouted it, the voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet stadium.
"Go for it, Allen!"
Allen dodged a sword strike to the side and knocked his opponent's weapon away with a backhand. He was panting and subconsciously looked back at the stands.
A chubby middle-aged man was waving his fist, his face flushed.
Allen paused for a moment, then gave a thumbs up, and the stands erupted in laughter and cheers.
"Go! Go!"
More voices joined in, directed at those Infected who, just ten minutes earlier, had been cursing, throwing bottles at the stage, and calling them "filthy waste."
"Hey kid with the sword! What's your name?!"
"Cole!"
"Cole! Kill him!"
Cole actually killed him; he cornered his opponent, the tip of his sword pressed an inch to his throat.
The other person patted him on the shoulder, and the two of them simultaneously sheathed their swords and bowed.
The cheers grew louder.
"This is true knightly competition..."
Zofia stood by the window, her voice slightly strained.
Looking down at the golden figure, Margaret was also engaged in a duel, but she was smiling.
"This... should be the true spirit of knightly competition."
Even though he hadn't arrived at his own match, Gregor still couldn't resist calling up his friends to watch it together.
Undoubtedly, it received unanimous praise.
Maria wiped her eyes. "My sister... did it."
Time passed slowly, and the final match on the field came to an end.
The defeated knight bowed deeply, very deeply.
Standing in the center of the field is--
"The winner is..."
Suppressing his excitement, Mob joined the audience in cheering.
"Margaret Nearl!!!"