"Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid." – Albert Einstein
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[Some Place in Florence, Circa. 1167]
The campfire crackled in the quiet night, sending dancing shadows across the faces of the men huddled around it. Their equipment, mismatched and rusted, might have been impressive centuries ago, but now it was little more than a patchwork of desperation. These were brigands and deserters, men who had turned their backs on lords and law alike, drawn to a life of crime not for greed, but out of a bitter need to feed their families and themselves.
One man shifted uncomfortably on a log, his armour clinking faintly, while another knelt by the river basin, cupping his hands to gather water. The faint rush of the current blended with the low murmurs of conversation and the occasional bark of laughter. Despite their grim circumstances, they made do with a sense of camaraderie. Here, in this desolate clearing, they were not outlaws but brothers.
"What'll you do?" asked a broad-shouldered man, his voice rough from years of shouting orders no one obeyed anymore. His gaze lingered on the youngest of their group, a boy barely out of childhood with a mop of unruly brown hair and wide, nervous eyes. "Once you're done with this life, I mean."
The boy hesitated, his hands clutching the bucket he had been filling. "Me? I dunno," he muttered, his voice quiet but carrying a wistfulness that softened the harsh lines of the men around him. "Maybe open a tavern. Something small. A place folk can laugh without worrying if someone'll stick a knife in their ribs."
That earned a low chuckle from the others. "Aye," said a wiry man with a scraggly beard, his face weathered by years under the sun. "And I'll be your best customer, lad. Spend my share of loot on ale till I drink meself blind."
The group erupted in laughter, their voices rising over the crackle of the fire. It was moments like this that reminded them what it meant to be human, even if the world thought otherwise.
The most well-equipped among them, a grizzled veteran with a helmet that gleamed faintly in the firelight, leaned forward, his expression serious yet tinged with amusement. "You fellas ever hear about this new knight? The one that's been winning all them tourneys?"
The question drew a lull in the conversation. Heads turned toward him, curiosity sparking in their eyes. Even the boy by the river paused, water dripping from his hands.
"You mean Igris, the Blood Red Knight?" the boy asked, his voice tinged with awe and a hint of fear.
"That's the one," the veteran confirmed, his voice dropping as though the name itself carried weight. "They say he's never lost. Cuts through men like wheat at harvest. Even nobles won't face him in the lists anymore."
"Bah," the bearded man scoffed, though his bravado seemed forced. "Just another knight who thinks he's better than the rest of us. Put him on the field with no squires or shiny armour, and he'll be bleeding like any man."
"Wouldn't bet on that," muttered another, a thin man with a bow resting against his knee. "I've heard stories. They say he doesn't just win—he breaks men. Cracks their spirits like he cracks their shields. One lord had to ransom his son after a tourney, and the lad hasn't picked up a sword since."
The bearded man snorted but said nothing more, the weight of the conversation settling heavily over the camp.
Suddenly, the stillness was shattered by the sound of footsteps crashing through the underbrush. The men sprang to their feet, hands darting to weapons as an archer burst into the clearing, his face pale and eyes wild.
"I—I shot his horse!" he stammered, his voice high and frantic. "I shot the Red Knight's horse right out from under him!"
The camp erupted into chaos, men shouting questions and curses all at once. The veteran grabbed the archer by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. "What are you talking about? Where is he?"
The archer's chest heaved, his breath coming in panicked gasps. "We spotted him near the crossroads, coming this way. I took the shot, knocked him clean off his horse, but…" He trailed off, his face twisting with dread.
"But what?" the veteran demanded, his voice sharp.
"He got up," the archer whispered, his voice barely audible. "Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, looking at me. Like—like I was already dead."
A heavy silence fell over the camp, the fire's crackling the only sound as the men exchanged uneasy glances. The boy by the river swallowed hard, his earlier dreams of taverns and laughter seeming impossibly far away.
"Pack up," the veteran ordered, his voice low but firm. "Now. We move before he gets here."
As the men scrambled to gather their belongings, a faint chill seemed to seep into the air, the shadows around the fire growing darker. Somewhere in the distance, the faint clink of metal echoed, steady and unrelenting.
The Red Knight was coming. And come he did. His crimson armour gleamed in the moonlight as he emerged from the dense brush lining the forest, a phantom of menace and unyielding purpose. The firelight danced across his polished plate, each step a thunderous echo in the stillness of the riverbank.
The brigands froze, their bravado shattered in an instant. Unease rippled through their ranks, visible in the tremor of their hands and the shifting of their feet. No words were needed; the figure before them radiated an aura of inevitability.
"FUCK! Prepare for battle!" the veteran roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his own fear. His hand gripped his sword, its battered blade a grim reminder of the chasm between them and their opponent. His gaze flicked to the Red Knight's weapon—a greatsword so massive it seemed a mockery of practicality.
The brigands scrambled into action, snatching weapons from the haphazard pile by the camp. Axes, clubs, spears, and even a rusted man-catcher were pulled into shaking hands. The man with the man-catcher muttered a quick prayer, his eyes darting between the weapon and the knight. What use it would prove against such a foe, even the gods could not answer.
The Red Knight halted at the edge of the clearing, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His presence was oppressive, the crimson of his armour seeming to glow with a light of its own. For a moment, silence stretched taut, the brigands frozen like rabbits before the predator's shadow.
The archer broke the stillness, loosing an arrow with desperate precision. It sang through the air—only to deflect harmlessly off the knight's shoulder plate with a sharp metallic clang. The brigands cursed as they realized the futility of their projectiles.
"Rush him!" the veteran bellowed, spitting into the dirt as he hefted his blade. "Overwhelm him!"
With a guttural roar, the bandits surged forward. The Red Knight did not wait. He lowered his stance and surged toward them with terrifying speed, his greatsword raised high.
The first swing came in a deadly crescent arc, slicing through the young boy who had spoken of taverns and laughter by the fire. His face remained frozen in an expression of wide-eyed terror as the blade cut through him effortlessly. Blood sprayed across the dirt, steaming in the cold night air.
The brigands faltered, their charge hesitating as fear took root. The Red Knight pressed forward, his sword carving through the air with deadly precision. One man swung an axe, the weapon clanging uselessly against the knight's chest plate before the greatsword swept through his midsection, cleaving him in two.
The man with the man-catcher lunged forward, his weapon closing around the knight's shoulder. For a moment, hope flickered in the eyes of the others. But the knight twisted, snapping the haft of the weapon as though it were a twig. His gauntleted fist lashed out, crushing the man's nose in an explosion of blood. He fell to the ground, writhing and choking as the knight moved on.
The archer drew his sword, hands trembling as he backed away. His breath came in shallow gasps, the blade wobbling unsteadily in his grip. The Red Knight stalked toward him, every step deliberate.
The archer swung wildly, the edge of his blade scraping harmlessly against the knight's armour. In one fluid motion, the knight seized him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. The archer clawed at the gauntlet, gasping for air before the knight hurled him into the river. His body splashed into the dark water, vanishing beneath the current.
Now, only the veteran remained.
He stood his ground, sword at the ready, though the tremble in his knees betrayed his resolve. The Red Knight did not slow. He lunged forward, his greatsword crashing into the brigand's blade with such force that it snapped in two. The veteran stumbled, his broken weapon clattering to the ground.
The knight was upon him in an instant, tackling him to the ground. They crashed into the dirt, the knight's weight driving the air from the veteran's lungs. The brigand thrashed beneath him, clawing at the knight's helmet, striking at the joints of his armour with his fists, anything to stay alive.
But the knight's steel gauntlet slammed into his face with relentless brutality. The first blow shattered his nose. The second broke his jaw. Blood spattered across the ground as the strikes continued, each one punctuated by the sickening crunch of bone. The veteran's struggles grew weaker, his movements sluggish as his life ebbed away.
"P-please..." he choked out, his voice a wet gurgle.
The knight paused, his gauntlet hovering in the air for a brief moment. Then, with calculated finality, he struck one last time. The veteran's body went limp, his head lolling to the side as the firelight dimmed in his eyes.
The Red Knight stood, his armour smeared with blood. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the carnage, He left just as quickly as he came. The forest fell silent once more, save for the crackle of the dying campfire.
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[ ??? POV ]
I stared at the historical textbook in front of me, its pages weathered but meticulously kept, detailing tales of men who lived and died in the pursuit of something far greater than themselves. My fingers brushed over an illustration of a knight clad in shining armour, his sword raised in defiance of an oncoming horde. His expression was serene, his smile unyielding, as though even in the face of certain death, he had found purpose.
I loathed the thought that I would never be remembered like them, that my life would end not with a blaze of glory but with the quiet whimper of old age. What tales would they tell of me? Here lies a man who stamped books and kept his head low, who shuffled papers in the shadows of history.
Knights... They lived as though their lives were owed to the world, that their duty to their king, their god, or their ideals eclipsed their own mortality. They bled for honour, charged into chaos, and died not with regret, but with fulfilment.
I wanted to be like that.
I wanted to be more than a librarian, more than a quiet, unassuming figure forgotten in the margins of history. I wanted to live in a way that even after death, my name would linger, whispered among generations as a symbol of courage and greatness. To have my deeds carved into the annals of history so deeply that even centuries from now, people would debate their truth, their meaning.
But the cruel reality was that I wasn't extraordinary. I wasn't born into a lineage of knights or nobles. My grades had been unimpressive, my looks unremarkable. Even my demeanour—withdrawn, quiet, deferential—seemed to cement me in the role of a background character in someone else's grand story.
There was, however, one gift I possessed: my memory. Where others stumbled and forgot, I retained. Dates, events, even the minutiae of forgotten footnotes clung to my mind like artefacts preserved in amber. I could read a passage once and recite it years later, verbatim. My professors had called it remarkable; I had called it a curse. For what use was such a skill if I lacked the will or the stage to wield it?
I closed the textbook, my reflection staring back at me in the glass surface of the library table. The fluorescent lights above cast a pallid glow over my face, highlighting the shadows under my eyes. My life was slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, each moment ticking away without meaning.
The tales of heroics and valour I revered... they seemed so far removed from this world. A time when a man's worth was measured not by how much he owned but by how fiercely he fought for his ideals. Back then, the weight of a sword and the force of conviction could carve legacies.
And yet here I was, surrounded by the quiet hum of modernity, with no war to fight, no cause to champion, no arena to prove my mettle. Only the monotony of cataloguing the triumphs of men who lived lives I could only dream of.
My thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. The overhead lights buzzed faintly as I turned my head toward the source.
It was there, tucked into the shadows of the far corner of the library: a red glow, faint but unmistakable.
Curiosity propelled me from my seat. My footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor as I approached the source, weaving past rows of ancient tomes and modern encyclopedias.
What I found made me stop in my tracks.
A sword.
It rested upon a low shelf as if it had always been there, though I was certain I had never seen it before. Its hilt was wrapped in a deep crimson leather, rich and vibrant, glowing faintly as though it were alive. The blade, though partially obscured by shadow, gleamed with an otherworldly light, its surface etched with symbols I couldn't immediately decipher.
My heart raced as I stepped closer, a strange compulsion taking hold of me. It was as if the sword called to me, whispering in a voice just below the threshold of comprehension. My chest tightened, my breath quickened, and my hand reached out of its own accord.
The moment my fingers brushed the hilt, a jolt shot through my body. Not pain, but something far more profound. Images flashed before my eyes—armies clashing on blood-soaked fields, banners fluttering in the wind, a knight in crimson armour standing atop a hill, sword raised high as the sun bathed him in its golden light.
And then came the voice, deep and resonant, echoing within my very soul.
Do you seek greatness? Do you seek purpose?
My grip tightened on the hilt as I nodded, though no one was there to see it.
Then prove yourself.
A sudden pang shot through my chest, and the world tilted violently. My vision blurred as darkness crept in from the edges. I tried to hold on, to fight whatever force was overtaking me, but it was futile. My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor, the sword still clutched in my hand.
The last thing I saw before the world went dark was the crimson hilt, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
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A/N: You may be wondering why I have placed this in the fanfic section and not the historical area, simply because this would allow for the book to get more views. It will also involve bits of the Kingdom of Heaven movie.