When the fracas in the amphitheatre eventually died down, Lucas joined Penbrooke in the front row, where he plopped onto the seat beside looking battered. “The mayor ordered me to tell you that you shouldn’t provoke the crowd anymore. That could get ugly for all of us.”

The warning parcelled within the message was lost in Lucas’s tired-sounding delivery, however, and failed to reach its intended recipient, his chest-heaving sigh blanketing over and smothering any implied threat.

“They started it,” Penbrooke responded defensively in a child-like timbre. “Besides, how were they permitted to stay after kicking up all that trouble?”

Indeed, the pitch invaders had been allowed to return to their seats following the fray, where they now flaunted their bruises to those around them.

They presented their injuries as proof – done so more loudly the higher the density of cute girls in their proximity – that they weren’t just your run-of-the-mill thugs who caused mindless destruction for the hell of it; no, they were cultured fashionistas who had only acted in hooliganism in that most regrettable moment because they’d been forced to; yep, that’s right, if there’s anything they were guilty of, it was for being men of virtue who simply couldn’t sit there and watch any longer as this deviant committed his egregious crime of fashion and face no repercussions for it.

Yet, from the way Penbrooke questioned how they’d been allowed to stay – wearing his smug expression that practically begged for violence from Lucas’s hand – it was almost as if it’d not been him but some other firebrand knight that’d stirred up the hooligans in the first place.

Lucas trembled at the difficulty of restraining himself, and had to release his urges with another deep sigh, the attained maturity from this decision ageing him by a good half a decade as his brow wrinkled and the youthful light in his eyes dimmed. “Mayor Ovaro chose to exercise clemency towards them and allowed them to return to their seats.” Same as you, his lips mouthed but left unsaid.

The shameless knight pretended to not see it. “What’s to stop them from doing it again, then?”

“The mayor’s threatened to send them all to the re-education building for an extended stay if they kick up any more trouble.” Same as you.

“It’s not that he’s showing them mercy because he agrees with them, right? That my mask is lame or whatever mumbo jumbo they were saying.”

Penbrooke’s chaperone did not respond this time, transfixed by the second bout of the tournament taking place and as a result not registering the posed question.

“I just feel like he’d have been harsher if they’d been rioting about the flowers being icky or his clothes looking ugly, you know.”

Lucas joined the rest of the amphitheatre in applauding the emergent winner of the second bout, apparently not hearing the knight’s comment in the uproar.

Penbrooke harrumphed and kicked at the ground like a petulant child. “I guess I can’t help the dated tastes here.” Still no response, as his chaperone was busy calling over a hawker.

“Anyway, what was up with that dog guy? I didn’t expect him to be so weak as to go down in one hit.” Penbrooke accepted the sausage in a bun garnished with pickled onions and mustard that Lucas bought for him.

Fortunately, this time Lucas heard his comment despite the elevated noise around them. “No, you misunderstand, ser knight. Hugo is a scoundrel who’s got a dog’s nose for sniffing out people’s insecurities, which is why he’s never lost a roast battle, not with that foul mouth of his. You did well in engaging him early on instead of trying to trade barbs with him, because that’s how he usually takes people down: by drowning their spirit through a string of insults until they fall despondent, at which point he goes in for the kill.”

“Huh, so that’s the reason for his whole get-up as a dog: a crafty little ploy to draw your attention and insults towards the features he wants you to target.” Penbrooke clapped his hands in realisation and chuckled freely. “That’s pretty smart, I gotta give it to him; whereas I thought he was just a pervert, plain and simple.”

“Well, that too.”

Penbrooke stopped chuckling.

“But trust me,” Lucas added, “He’s a lot better now than he was before his stay at the re-education building; back then he used to act like a real mutt. No, he’s done well since then, especially in not cropping up as a repeat offender like a lot of the others.”

“What’s this re-education building you keep mentioning? Until now I thought it was just a prison, but the way you say it, it sounds like actual education takes place there.”

I doubt it if Hugo is seen as one of their model alumni.

“The re-education building was first set up when Mayor Ovaro came to power. He used to be a bigwig in the city, you see, so when he came back home he found our village wanting. He started sprucing up the place, but said that for the makeover to stick he’d also need to change the inhabitants, hence the establishment of the re-education building to teach us locals what is seen as good behaviour and bad behaviour in the outside world.”

“Oh, that counts as a clue for my side quest. Two down, just one more to go now.” Penbrooke tapped at his phantom terminal for a moment, then returned his attention to Lucas, who – not so prepared for the knight’s random outburst – looked rather unsettled.

The knight continued, “So the re-education building is linked to the secret of the village, right? How so?”

His comment had the effect of silencing Lucas, who once again appeared captivated by the third bout of the tournament that was about to start, refusing to make eye contact.

“Oh, come on.” Penbrooke nudged Lucas’s shoulder, not letting the guard courteously wall him off this time. “I know there’s something up with Fragrant Grove; you guys are definitely hiding something here. Surely it can’t be that bad, right?”

Forced on the issue, Lucas murmured through clenched teeth. “It’s not. But I’d have to go to the re-education building if I told you, and most likely you too.”

“Is that place so bad? I thought you said they just teach you about good and bad habits there, like a school.”

Lucas answered with a nervous laugh: “They can be pretty forceful in their teachings if it’s not sticking, especially if you’re a repeat offender.”

Ah, all the pieces of the mystery are slotting into place now. So that’s how the mayor managed to transform the wild population here so drastically – through forceful determination to see through his vision until, eventually, they complied. That makes far more sense than them willingly getting behind it.

“Bah, whatever,” Penbrooke said to his chaperone, rising from his seat. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll go find someone else who will.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Many a hooligan eyed the knight up as he walked past them munching away on the last bit of his food, and he met their glares head on, daring them to grow a pair and try something. They wouldn’t, though, not as long as they were trying to sell themselves as refined fashionistas to the ladies they were chatting up, and as such he took their glares in his stride, not thinking much of it.

A brief wander around the amphitheatre later, however, he was thinking very much of it, for it had become clear that other people did not want to talk to him while he was under such dogged attention from the (not-so-neighbourly)hood watch; he may as well have been wearing an odorous cloak of pestilence from the way people shot down his attempts at making conversation, fearful they’d catch his fashion sickness if he got too close.

As a result, multiple snubs followed, until eventually Penbrooke made for the amphitheatre’s exit, every few steps giggling maniacally for a fraction of a second before stopping as though he were accidentally leaking laughter and rushing to reel it back in before the public caught on…

It made Cal fear for the worst.

Why is he laughing like that? Has he finally cracked? Don’t tell me he’s thinking of kidnapping the first person he comes across outside and interrogating them until he gets his clue, or something crazy like that.

Nah, it can’t be… But why else would he laugh like that, then?

Oh fuck, oh no. Penbrooke, please, I’ll give you your clue if you’re that desperate, just don’t carry out whatever you’re planning.

Almighty Saviour, I know I don’t pray to you often, but you gotta help a brother out in times like this. Look, this evil spirit is about to ruin my life. Saviour Ser, I beg you to do something, anything! I know you can hear me, Esteemed Saviour Ser; I never once doubted you, I totally swear, Most Venerable and Virtuous Saviour Ser!

In that moment, perhaps the Saviour truly did reach his divine hand out from the skies and help a brother out; or perhaps Cal had just gone off the deep end during his speculation and come up with ideas that weren’t fully based on reality.

Either way, it was to Cal’s relief when Penbrooke suddenly heard a distinctly hoarse voice that made him abandon his planned nefarious deeds.

Cal, too, recognised the voice from somewhere, although he didn’t know where. Since the voice did not belong to anyone he was close to, it had to be someone he had come across recently, in an encounter that must have left an impression. Who could it be?

Ears perked up, Penbrooke hunted for his quarry, moving towards a section of the seating that was considerably noisier than the other areas.

The occupants here weren’t families on an enjoyable outing but rather grown men who were as prone to bubbles of excitement as they were to bursts of depression; there were no casuals here, only try-hards who were so engaged in the ongoing bout that they experienced a sharp moodswing for every minor development, their fluctuating emotions charting the route taken by a housefly in spinning circles around a swatting hand.

“Ah. So that’s who it is,” Penbrooke muttered having figured out his quarry’s identity, even as Cal pondered on. Yet, the knight’s discovery must not have been by sight as he continued to track his target down by their loud exclamations, cleaving through the sea of bodies in the way.

Those pushed aside grumbled irascibly until they turned around and saw who it was, at which point they continued their aggressive words but a few notches quieter; it’d been a fun, sociable event to jump Penbrooke together as a mob – and besides a good networking opportunity to meet like-minded individuals who were into niche hobby of hooliganism – but none of them seemed eager to make the leap into the solo combat realm, perhaps even a little put off after seeing the pummelling the hound had received.

A little while later, Penbrooke halted before a man possessing untamed hair and bloodshot eyes, whose flaky hands clung to a small scrap of paper like it was the last thing he owned. And maybe it was too, for the man was rather grimy and wore raggedy clothes that bore loose stitching and various discoloured patches.

Despite seeing him head on, Cal still struggled to identify him. Who is this man? And how does Penbrooke know him if I don’t?

Penbrooke tapped his target on the shoulder, but the man didn’t even glance back, only muttering: “Ay, can’t you see I’m busy? I can’t buy anything anyway, so go bother someone else.”

“I didn’t ask.” The knight grabbed the man’s shoulders and forcibly spun him around.

“What the…” the man started in righteous anger, then stopped agape. Less than a second later, he pounced to the ground, kowtowing and banging his head against the floor. “I can explain, knight ser. I’m but a poor, pitiful gambler, so I couldn’t help it when I saw a stranger getting ganged up on: I thought I too could get in on the action and fleece them blind. Little did I know it was I who was blind, for I had eyes, yet failed to recognise Mt. Neverest ahead of me.”

Ohh, it’s that gambler from when I first arrived here.

Penbrooke responded to Gillis’s eloquent grovelling with a puzzled frown. “Huh?”

“I mean, please forgive me, knight ser. I’ll give you everything I have.” As the gambler said this, though, he simultaneously hid the piece of paper inside his clothes.

Well, maybe not everything you have.

“No need for your useless items. I just have one question to ask; answer it truthfully, and I’ll forgive your crimes of slander against my person.” Penbrooke cleared his throat, holding Gillis captive to his next words. “Tell me about Fragrant Grove of the past.”

Gillis gazed up at him, considered the proposition, then smashed his head back into the ground. “Please, knight ser, anything else.”

“Tsk. Not you too.”

“That re-education building is like an addiction centre for people like me – they ban me from gambling, and even have a wrangler to watch me at all times, preventing me from gambling in secret.” Twitching, he scratched his arm, his neck, glancing around like a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I’d sooner die than let them get their wrangling hands all over me again. They give you no privacy in there, knight ser. Imagine being in a prison where they won’t even let you bust one out in the toilets; so now you’re in the showers seeing your good buddy pick up the bar of soap you dropped on the floor, and you’re having thoughts; and he hands you back the soap, but it just slips right out of your grip again; and although he’s laughing and calling you a goofy git, he still bends over to pick it up because he’s your good friend; and you can’t tell him it wasn’t an accident.”

“What happened next? Wait, no…” Penbrooke shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I meant, what’s this got to do with gambling, or wranglers for that matter?”

“Don’t ask, knight ser…” Gillis laid his index finger against his lips and made a soft shushing sound; his eyes were wide open, two bloodshot moons of madness. “…and I won’t tell.”

Penbrooke rolled his eyes at Gillis’s overreaction. “Alright, whatever. You know what, forget that. What I’m hearing is that you can’t do the one ask I had. So what can you do for me, then?”

“Uh…”

Apparently nothing.

“How about you give me that piece of paper you hid away.”

Aha, so he had seen it.

“No!” Gillis turned away aghast, placing his flimsy, kneeling body in between Penbrooke and his prized possession. “It’s my one chance at turning my life around.”

“Huh, I just received a side-quest to revert your fortunes to how it once was. What’s this about, then?”

Since the knight didn’t make any sudden motions to grab it from him, Gillis came out of his shell and gingerly regarded him like a skittish animal. “It’s my bet on the outcome of this match.” The hope glimmering in the gambler’s eyes directed Penbrooke’s attention towards the ongoing round.

Seeing the positive reaction, Gillis stood up and leaned in conspiratorially close to Penbrooke, speaking now in a whisper: “The butcher may have been a big name back in the day, but he’s well past his prime now; besides the combat training sessions he holds for the unruly youths here, he’s done nothing to keep himself sharp or stay in shape.”

I mean, that doesn’t exactly sound like he’s doing nothing…

“On the other hand, Sloggin Saul is a delinquent who experiences the real deal often enough from the trouble he gets into,” Gillis went on. “And keep this just between you and me, but I once saw him demolish a chicken and leek pie in under a minute, so you already know he has that hunger for winning. Sure, he is seeming healthier and more hale these days so maybe that force is a little diminished now, but still, there’s no way that’s been enough to make him lose what came from a lifetime of struggling.”

Gillis smirked. “The others don’t know this, though, which is why they’ve got him heavily unfavoured. All the better for me when he proves them wrong and makes me rich again!”

Not exactly the most rigorous analysis, but I suppose if it works, it works. Cal then had another look at Gillis’s appearance and how his betting methodology had fared him so far. Never mind. He’s done for.

Less than a second had passed when Mayor Ovaro’s oratory voice cut through the ambient noise: “And the winner is… Blaviken the Butcher!”

Waves of cheering followed, reflected in reverse on Gillis’s face that crumpled inwards, unable to sustain the weight of the world any longer on its sunken cheeks. He had the pinched expression of someone who had just tasted the intensely sour pulp sediments left at the bottom of the elixir of life, and who had whereupon decided that: alright, it’s been a good run but no more, yes, really, I’ve had quite enough of living, thank you very much, so just give my portion of the elixir to one of these other lads, and I’ll be off on my way now.