[EDWARD'S POV]
As Friday and Saturday passed, anticipation grew for the final day of the tournament. The excitement was palpable, evident in the broad smiles adorning the faces of the common masses. To fully capitalize on this festive atmosphere, I decided to set up a small stall near the stadium, which I dubbed "Tournament Bets" and placed one of my soldiers there.
On this day, the final 64 contestants were set to compete, and each of them became a subject of interest for eager bettors. The odds for the bets were meticulously calculated based on their previous fights and performances. As always, the allure of gambling proved irresistible to many. Within the first hour of the stall's opening, over a hundred bets had already been placed on who would emerge as the tournament's victor.
"Milord, the latest report indicates that the masses have spent approximately 3 pounds on bets within the first hour," reported Hoare, the 20-year-old steward's apprentice.
My heart swelled with pleasure at this unexpected windfall, but I knew better than to express my happiness overtly. A royal baron boasting about making a mere 3 pounds would hardly be seen as dignified, after all.
"A fine venture, I suppose," I replied with a stoic demeanor.
Hoare, sensing my restrained satisfaction, nodded in agreement. "It sure is, milord," he concurred.
The tournament continued, and the sound of clashing weapons filled the air. I couldn't help but notice the presence of several noblemen and their families who served my father. Among them were the barons who held vassalage under my father, eight in total, including myself. Five of these barons had made the journey to attend the tournament from the first day. Excluding the Baron of Dereham, who alongside his family had arrived on the second day itself, the others had come specifically to witness the finals.
Each of them had their own political motives as well, seeking to garner my favor. It was a calculated move, considering my status as a 13-year-old baron and the heir of their liege lord. Who wouldn't want to secure the favor of someone in my position?
As expected, Lord Lewis Dubois, the Baron of Thetford, approached me. Thetford, while not as affluent as Wymondham or as heavily fortified as Norwich, held significant power within the earldom. Situated near the borders of Suffolk and not far from Cambridgeshire's borders, Thetford boasted an army numbering around 250 soldiers. Its wealth was estimated to exceed at least 50,000 pounds, a testament to the Dubois family's long history, dating back to their arrival alongside the Normans during the 11th century.
"A great day it is, My Lord," Lord Lewis Dubois remarked, his gaze fixed on the clear sky.
I followed his lead, directing my eyes toward the flawless expanse above. "A great day for such an occasion," I concurred.
Inviting the baron to take a seat beside me, he did so willingly. Our conversation quickly delved into the customary political chatter of the high society—endless discussions about ongoing wars, scandalous elopements, rising trade profits linked to dubious transactions, and the like.
I couldn't help but internally lament, *Gosh, I hate these musings!*
Despite my personal distaste for such conversations, I endured them for at least an hour as the baron prattled on, offering his opinions and insights on various matters. Eventually, he took his leave from my presence, offering a courteous farewell before rejoining his family.
Lord Lewis Dubois had arrived in Wymondham in the company of his wife and three children. Lewis himself appeared to be no older than forty, and his wife was of a similar age. Their eldest son was approximately twenty years old, while their two younger daughters were aged twelve and ten, as reported by Hoare.
As the tournament unfolded, I couldn't help but contemplate the true reasons behind Lord Dubois's visit and his ambitions within the earldom. However, dwelling on such matters would yield little clarity, so I decided to immerse myself in the ongoing duels instead.
The excitement and entertainment value of the duels increased as the tournament progressed. In the earlier rounds, weaker opponents had been swiftly defeated by their stronger counterparts. But as the unfit contestants were gradually eliminated, only the most skilled and tenacious fighters remained. The battles had become intense, with each round representing a potential turning point in the lives of these contestants. For many, winning this tournament was their best chance to improve their family's social standing and living conditions.
Hours seemed to blend together as I watched the duels unfold. After a while, the eagerly anticipated list of the final 32 contestants was compiled. Among them, 23 were of noble birth, while 9 came from common backgrounds. While I had taken measures to ensure fairness, the reality remained that commoners faced an uphill battle against nobles who had received formal training in the arts of battle and warfare since childhood. Nonetheless, the competition was far from over, and I eagerly awaited the thrilling matches that lay ahead.
After seven more duels, a particular contest seized my attention. It pitted the third son of a knight against a common mercenary. The nobleman appeared to be in his thirties, while the mercenary, well into his fifties, sported hints of gray in his hair. What bewildered most onlookers was that, despite the significant age difference and the mercenary's humble background, he convincingly outmatched his younger, noble opponent.
The referee swiftly declared, "The victor is Sigurd of York!" However, the crowd's response was not one of approval; instead, it resonated with disappointment that one of their own had been defeated by an older commoner.
I took a bold step, risking the potential scorn of the nobility, and began to applaud. To my surprise, a small group in the audience joined in, and within moments, the sound of clapping reverberated throughout the grounds. It was a modest but meaningful gesture, an act of solidarity with the common folk, who had seen one of their own triumph over a noble opponent.
'Status,' I thought, my gaze still fixed on the older man as I settled back into my seat. Almost instantaneously, a transparent window materialized before me.
Status:
Name - Sigurd of York
Age - 48
Title - Blondewolf
Martial - 21
Diplomacy - 3
Intelligence - 8
Reputation - C → B-
Wealth - £14
Skills - Basic Swordsmanship (Lv. 20), Intermediate Swordsmanship (Lv. 6), Leadership (Lv. 9), Battle Tactics (Lv. 10)
Level - 18 [1562/1800]
'Damn,' was the only thought that crossed my mind. I quickly shut my mouth, not wanting to appear undignified in my current position. This Sigurd, he was a true monster. With a martial skill level exceeding 20, he was undoubtedly among the best in the entire world. It seemed he would breeze through this tournament, as the other interesting participants I was checking out (via their statuses) didn't even come close to matching his skill. The best of them had a martial skill level of around 15, which was commendable but not as overwhelmingly powerful as this man.
His unique nickname as a title, rather than a common profession, caught my attention. I continued to scrutinize the title option, and another box promptly appeared.
Title -
[Blondewolf: Tall stature, blond hair, and a fearsome reputation on the battlefield made this nickname well known. His enemies would remember him by the striking image of his blonde hair and the havoc he wreaked in battle.
+2 Martial
+Reputation]
[Mercenary Commander: Abnormal strength, reputed skill, and a quick mind for battle tactics had had him promoted to a higher ranking in his 'free company'.
+1 Martial
+1 Intelligence]
This man is an absolute menace! And that unique nickname of his... I want him in my household guards!
After the latest round of duels concluded, the Top-16 participants were listed. To determine the matchups, a unique method was employed. Two boxes containing papers numbered from 1 to 8 were placed in the center of the arena. Each of the Top-16 contestants selected a paper with a number on it, and those with the same numbers would be pitted against each other. This process unfolded in full view of the spectators to ensure transparency and trust.
Following this drawing of lots, a half-hour intermission was observed. The men ventured to engage in gambling with their newfound wealth, while the women gathered in small groups based on their social status, indulging in their customary gossip. Times might change, but some behaviors remain unaltered.
Nevertheless, the duels resumed with the resounding blast of a horn. This time, the combatants were more evenly matched, and the spectators reveled in the intense battles. Within the next hour, all eight matches came to a thrilling close, and the final eight contestants found themselves once again drawing lots to determine their next opponents.
I chose to rise from my seat and take a brief stroll during the quarter-finals. As I passed by the gambling stall, I couldn't help but notice that my idea for quick cash was proving quite lucrative. The stall had already generated a substantial profit of 10 pounds, and more customers continued to arrive. I left the stall with a satisfied smirk, which I quickly concealed upon returning to the spectator area. By that time, two matches had concluded, and we already had two semi-finalists, with Sigurd being an obvious contender.
At the conclusion of the round, the referee's voice boomed across the stadium as he proudly announced the names of the four semi-finalists:
"Sir Ethan Dubois, second son of Baron Lewis Dubois
Sir Oliver Bogart, knight of Holt, a vassal under Baron Michael Seymour of Cromer
Sir Gilbert Wodenhouse, third son of Baron Simon Wodenhouse
Sigurd 'Blondewolf' of York"
The anticipation in the air was palpable as these four formidable contestants prepared to battle for a place in the tournament's grand finale.
In the first duel of the semi-finals, Sir Ethan, with a martial level of 16, faced the monstrous 21 of Sigurd. The young knight, aged twenty-four, stood little chance against this battlefield veteran. The battle was swift and brutal, with Ethan soundly defeated and left lying on the dusty ground within a mere minute. I couldn't help but sigh at the sight. Ethan was the son of Baron Dubois, and his defeat would likely stoke the baron's anger. I knew I had to act swiftly to offer Sigurd my support and protection from the baron's potential wrath.
The following duel featured Sir Oliver facing off against Sir Gilbert. Both of them had a martial level of 15, making it an even match. After three minutes of a closely contested battle, Oliver left an unfortunate opening, resulting in his defeat. However, the crowd applauded both knights for their valiant efforts without a shadow of doubt.
As the grand finale of the tournament loomed, I ensured a brief intermission for the spectators. Many of them rushed to the gambling stall to place their bets hastily. The crowd numbered no less than 200, and it only began to disperse after a lively ten minutes of wagers and excitement. Afterward, I raised my hand as a signal for the break to conclude, and the crowd settled back into their seats, eager to witness the match they had all gathered for.
At one end of the jousting field stood Sir Gilbert, a 27-year-old nobleman with a confident aura. He was dressed in gleaming armor adorned with his family's coat of arms, a symbol of his noble heritage. Gilbert held his sword with practiced grace and determination, ready to prove his valor in front of the watching nobility.
At the opposite end of the field, there was a marked contrast in both appearance and demeanor. Sigurd, the tall blond commoner mercenary at the age of 48, appeared weathered by years of battle but possessed an undeniable strength. He wore plain but well-worn armor, devoid of any noble insignias, and his face bore the scars of many battles fought. His massive sword rested comfortably in his grip.
The trumpet sounded, marking the beginning of the final duel. The two combatants closed the distance between them, and the first clash of steel rang through the air. Sir Gilbert, with his noble training and agility, demonstrated precision and finesse with his sword. He lunged and parried, displaying impressive swordsmanship, but Sigurd countered with a raw power that made his strikes relentless.
Sigurd, well aware of his immense strength advantage, held himself back, which was evident, and delivered each blow with calculated restraint. He deftly dodged and parried Sir Gilbert's attacks, allowing the nobleman to show off his skill without causing any harm. It was a dance of steel and strategy, with the crowd's excitement growing with each clash of weapons.
"He is undoubtedly holding back, giving Gilbert a chance to show off," I pondered as I maintained my focus on the arena.
As the battle continued, Sigurd's experience became evident. He began to add theatrical flair to his movements, twirling his sword, which was similar to his height, and even theatrically feigning being off-balance. He performed nimble acrobatics and roared like a beast to the delight of the crowd. The spectators were enthralled by Sigurd's showmanship, and they cheered and laughed as they watched this display of skill and prowess.
Ultimately, as the sun began to set on the tournament field, Sigurd, with a flourish, disarmed Sir Gilbert with a well-calculated move that left the nobleman's sword on the ground. He sheathed his own sword and extended a hand to help Gilbert up, displaying respect for his fallen opponent.
Sigurd's victory was clear, but it was also evident that he had held back, ensuring that Sir Gilbert left the field unharmed.
"Blondewolf, Blondewolf!" echoed through the crowd in exuberant cheers.
The crowd, entertained by the skill and showmanship of the mercenary, erupted into applause, celebrating Sigurd's victory. In this grand tournament, the commoner mercenary had emerged victorious, not just in battle but also in the hearts of the onlooking crowd.