But Penbrooke did not care for the respect his opponent showed in acknowledging him as a fellow knight; instead, having been corrected and out-knighted once again, he experienced a rush of heat to the head that made him press on. “What’s that I hear? You say you’re too scared to take up the challenge? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected any better from a lily-livered evildoer like yourself.”

When the Black Knight did not respond, Penbrooke placed down his weapon, and flared out his arms – bent at the elbows – with his hands going into his armpits. He then flapped his imitation wings. “Cluck, cluck…”

The Black Knight paid no heed to this childish jape – as one would expect from any self-respecting knight – and plainly gave Penbrooke the space to embarrass himself. Given this lack of reaction from the intended target, any ordinary person would have dropped the act already, but Penbrooke was no ordinary person; he was an extraordinary knight lacking in dignity and truant in shame.

And so he repeated the fowl motion while now prancing around, his head bobbing back and forth. “Cluck, cluck…cluck, cluck chiiicken.”

Laughter broke through the audience’s solemn countenance as a few observers couldn’t help but chuckle. At first it was only a dozen or so peals, joined in then by a couple chortles, and some more, and then many more until eventually the laughter had swelled to the point the entire crowd was crowing aloud, pointing and jeering.

They had been hesitant to start given the Black Knight’s unnerving presence, but over time felt safety in their numbers and in the fact it would ultimately be Penbrooke receiving the Black Knight’s wrath, not them.

Besides, who could have foreseen that the village kid alleging to be a knight would not even bother making a single effort in selling his claims or acting remotely chivalrous, instead conducting himself like a fool and towards a very real, very terrifying knight at that; they were laughing at the absurdity of the situation – they convinced themselves – and not at the competitors.

Penbrooke did not appear in the slightest perturbed by their laughter, clucking on with the zeal of an evangelical preacher addressing the occasionally mean and mocking masses, but the same could not be said about his opponent.

Although the Black Knight’s expression remained inscrutable beneath his helmet, his emotions could be gleaned from the fact that he acted with a rush of speed, in one fluid motion reaching down and picking up the glove and lobbing it at the poultry imitator a few metres away. It smacked crisply against Penbrooke’s face.

“As a fellow knight, I had been hoping for an exchange of honourable, orderly combat,” the Black Knight said, “but seeing as you have chosen such distasteful conduct, I have no choice but to respond in kind.”

I know the mayor was making up parts of the backstories he announced to give the bouts extra flavour, but I’m starting to get the feel that he might have fabricated every single detail about the Black Knight.

This guy doesn’t seem evil or cruel, if anything he’s tolerant and a stickler for proper conduct; even his rebuke is restrained and politely worded. If only his decency would rub off on Penbrooke…

If only indeed, for Cal’s body tenant lifted the returned glove and, parting his hair, placed it in the centre of his scalp, taking the time to ensure its floppy fingers pointed up. Then, pretending to be the proud possessor of a cockerel’s comb, he continued prancing and flapping his wings, delivering his cries from the throat now, really going all in on the method acting to give that extra oomph to his performance.

“Cluck, cluck, chiiiiiickkeeennnn!”

But the Black Knight refused to let it get to him and held strong to his composure. Or at least he did until the general public decided to join in, pretending it was a call-and-response rallying cry and incidentally harassing him with it.

And so, plagued by cluckedy clucks from every corner of the building, the poor, honourable Black Knight must have feared there’d be no end to it as he roared out in desperation: “Arm yourself and prepare to fight me at once, you despicable scoundrel; else I’ll chop you down where you stand. And so be it if you’re unarmed.”

Chuckling, Penbrooke finally dropped the glove and his act, and picked his longsword back up. He gave the crowd a smug, side-eyed smile as though they were sharing in a joke together, before turning to face his opponent.

“Woah, what’s got you all worked up there, fella? You can be honest with us – this is a safe space to share your feelings.”

When the Black Knight did not respond – likely in fear this conniving crook would twist anything he said to his detriment – Penbrooke placed a hand over his mouth in faux-shock.

“Oh right, I see. It’s because of that bug which crawled up your arse this morning. Well, shucks, I guess; though it does make you wonder what the point of all that heavy armour is. Probably just to hide your ugly mug from the world, eh?”

The Black Knight no longer waited for Penbrooke to ready himself into a combat stance, instead thundering ahead in the likeness of an enraged bull. His inky plate armour devoured the sun like the descent of night on a winter afternoon, his bastard sword raised high and all too quickly cleaving low onto Penbrooke. “Die, jerk!”

Penbrooke struck his longsword towards the incoming blade and made a forceful deflection, reminiscent of his parry against the orc, angling his blade so that the bastard sword chopped past his body and into the ground.

To recover, the Black Knight transitioned into a sweeping attack towards his ribs, but the not-so-knightly knight reacted first, his foot raised and stomping into the Black Knight’s armoured gut. This caused his opponent to stumble backwards and slip, only regaining balance by dropping into an awkward position with one leg crouched and the other kneeling on the ground.

Holding his gauntlets overhead in fear of a follow-up strike, the Black Knight wasted no time in rising to his feet again and rearming himself. Yet what he found when back afoot was a disinterested Penbrooke waiting for him several paces away, longsword stabbed in the ground and bare hands wrapped around its hilt to create a nest for his chin to rest on.

Penbrooke did not cloak the disdain in his voice. “Too much anger and your head’s going to overheat in that helmet, buddy. Just don’t come crying to me once your hair starts falling out, saying that I didn’t tell you so. Better yet, how about you calm down and put up a proper fight; I don’t want the audience accusing me of bullying you or anything.”

The crowd lapped up his showboating with delight, the enthusiasm of their cheering ascending even the heights reached during the butcher’s victory (speaking in terms of overall enthusiasm, that was, as certain cohorts were still a few levels short of their peak, for example the middle-aged ladies who were certainly taking a fancy to this brash young gun but not quite enamoured yet, primarily due to his lack of sizable bulge in the gut region). They had expected a bore of a bout with a predictable result, yet had found in its place a thrilling headline match.

There was no question the Black Knight was seething inside his suit of armour, and yet he displayed humility in spite of this by following Penbrooke’s insincere but helpful advice, taking a short break to recompose himself. “Apologies for the ugly show that I put on. That was unbecoming of me.”

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his bastard sword and held it in front. “Are you ready, then, ser knight?”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Smirking, Penbrooke lifted his weapon too and gave a small nod.

With cautious, measured steps the Black Knight advanced until they were in wingspan of each other. The bastard sword thrust towards Penbrooke, and when sidestepped it closely followed his motion, going for the shoulder.

Penbrooke was forced to swing his blade into it to prevent it from making contact; simultaneously, he gathered strength in his legs and tightened his core in anticipation he’d lose the clash given the awkward angle of his counterswing.

His longsword caught the bastard sword mid-swing, clashed, and had it swing right back in the opposite direction.

Eyes widening, Penbrooke glanced at the Black Knight, but was greeted by the sight of his opponent preparing to diagonally slice down his torso. Given the choreographed movement, he could have dodged the attack if he ducked; nonetheless, he chose to directly clash against the bastard sword instead, and not in a skillful manner to parry it but rather to pit strength against strength.

The blades clanged against each other, and the bastard sword swung back along its arc as before, a faint tremor transmitted up its wielder’s grip.

He has the heavier weapon and is putting more momentum behind his strikes through his large, unwieldy swings, yet somehow he’s losing in a contest of strength… Could it be the Black Knight’s taking it easy on Penbrooke like those greenskins were?

Meanwhile, Penbrooke’s lips curved wryly. No longer content with being on the receiving side, he launched a barrage of attacks towards the Black Knight who had to rush to defend himself, doing well enough to match strike for strike yet coming short of properly parrying the blows as Penbrooke was able to push him around, only to be stopped each time by the impenetrable armour.

If Penbrooke wanted to win, he’d have to do something different than mere slicing and dicing.

In light of this, and bolstered by his mounting confidence from repeated success, Penbrooke used his blade to smack the Black Knight’s own out of grip and into the air, opening up the armoured body for him to ram into and shoulder. While his opponent pedalled back in a bid to regain footing, Penbrooke leapt into the air and cast his sword high. “[Flying Log Splitter]!”

Weaponless, the Black Knight shied away from the incoming attack with arms raised evocative of a civilian under attack, yet this instinctual flinch did little to change his prospects as the longsword landed flatly on his pothelm with a ringing clang, his head flung back by the recoil before snapping forward again like a released spring.

The force from the blow travelled down his body and caused him to drop to his knees, arms drooping limp and head spinning in dizzy half-moon arcs.

Visibly stunned, the Black Knight’s gaze rested several degrees away from where Penbrooke stood; despite this, his fighting spirit showed through as he tried to stand all the same, even if subsequently limping and dropping back down to his knees.

By the Saviour, don’t do it, Penbrooke. Not against a man who’s already out of it. Look at him!

Although Cal knew Penbrooke couldn’t hear him, he would have sworn on his mother’s name (and at her, if required – in fact, even if not required, you know what, just have it as a freebie) that on certain occasions the spirit acted like it could actually hear him and was deliberately choosing to do the opposite to what he’d said.

Case in point, Penbrooke cast one foot forward and twisted his torso to build up torque, both his arms following the motion of the torso while holding his longsword up like a bat. Without hesitation he released the gathered torque and batted viciously into the dazed, helmeted head.

“[Home Run Hitter]!”

The Black Knight’s helmet blasted into the air, landing several metres away, meanwhile its now unmasked owner was thrown onto his back and completely out cold. Foaming at the mouth, the man inside stared into the sky with one eyelid completely shut and the other curtained halfway, both flickering.

Applause was slow to follow as people were momentarily struck in disbelief by the brutal upset they’d just witnessed, but when it then came, it came as an explosion of noise, a downpour of whooping and hollering and stampeding claps.

Penbrooke wiped sweat from his brow and raised his arms in victory, simultaneously edging towards his downed foe to see who he’d unmasked. “What the…”

From any angle he viewed, he was met by the face of an undernourished man who’d lived a rough life – gaunt and coarse-skinned with thin, stringy hair that was damp with sweat – and not whatsoever the face of a noble knight, nor that of a cruel villain.

The village herbalist and her assistant pushed past Penbrooke and began treating the Black Knight, their woeful head shakes at the blunt force trauma endured being lost on the very person who’d imparted it.

“Ooh, I just got a new quest. Let’s see: [A Knight’s Charm I: develop the image of a knight by presenting the appropriate gift to the indicated person]. Huh? What’s that mean?”

Penbrooke scanned through the crowd going wild and soon spotted his target, a beautiful brunette with braided hair, pixie-like features, and a face flushed by cheering. When their gazes met, she had a start and her flush deepened a shade.

“Oh, that’s what it means.”

Deserting the arena, Penbrooke plucked a flower on the way to the girl and presented it with a gallant bow. “To your beauty, young lady, I dedicate this victory,” he said sweetly.

Her eyes twinkled as she reached out and accepted the flower, stammering oh my over and over while twirling a lock of her hair with her free hand.

Next to her sat a sharp-featured brunet that looked to be a similar age to her, and he appeared more shocked than even she at the turn of events. Gobsmacked, he rubbed his eyes to see if he’d wake from this nightmare; but he didn’t, and so his jaw remained extended. There were plenty of gigglers and gossipers nearby taking note of his misfortune, the wheel at the rumour mill already spinning.

Penbrooke was not in the slightest troubled by his handiwork of public homewrecking, as he gave a perfunctory nod and smile towards the girl before returning to the arena with no sign of lingering attachment. He was feeling a buzz of excitement, sure, but this was directed solely towards his phantom terminal.

“Finally, the experience from beating the Black Knight combined with this quest has levelled me up. About time. Though weirdly enough the gambler’s quest isn’t complete – I guess he wasn’t a real gambler after all.” The knight sighed. “That quest had some nice looking rewards beyond xp too, but oh well, whatever. At least I got this level up point. Let me see what I can spend it on.”

He stopped, his gaze unfocusing as he recalled something from the depths of his memory.

“Ah, never mind, actually. I said I’d get the [AI Control Settings] at level 3, so I’ll do just that – it should provide quite the boost to the quality of life, anyway.”

In the meantime, while he muttered to himself, tapping and swiping the air like a man possessed, Mayor Ovaro had still yet to announce the official verdict of the bout. Even now he remained in heavy discourse with multiple guards, discussing the matter of the Black Knight, who had, incidentally, since awoken and was sitting upright rubbing his head in a stunned manner.

Gasps began to sound from the audience now that they had a clearer view of his face.

“Hey… isn’t that the old beggar who’s always peddling his trade in the village square?”

“No way, it can’t be. Sure, his face bears a little resemblance, but there’s no way that’s Boris. Though now that you mention him, I can’t actually remember the last time I saw Boris at his begging – you reckon something happened to him?”

“Maybe, maybe. Could be he finally crossed the wrong person and got it handed to him, begged up the wrong tree, so to speak.”

At the mayor’s orders, a handful of guards marched up to the Black Knight and began to assist him out of his armour, which he complied with (or as much so as a half-conscious person could comply with anything).

Out of the ebon shell came a pale, sweaty man at least two feet smaller and considerably skinnier than he’d looked in the suit. It also turned out he’d been wearing his true work uniform underneath his suit of armour all along: this being, naturally, the soiled rags of a professional beggar.

His were particularly foul, identifying him as at least a platinum rank beggar based on the pong it emitted (its area of effect was demonstrated on the nearest assisting guards, whose actions quickly began to look dizzied and clumsy, every few seconds spent in the fumes equivalent to another pint drunk). And there was only one beggar in the region who’d reached this level of standing.

“By the Saviour, it is Boris the Beggar!”

“Where did he get that armour from? Couldn’t be he bought it, so he must have nicked it, surely.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be so blinded by your prejudice towards the begging profession – it might not be the noblest work out there, but somebody’s gotta do it; else we’d all end up with mountains of chump change in our pockets. And don’t forget how long Boris’s been in the business for – I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked up street wisdom along the way that had him following a FIRE lifestyle, you know like minimising his expenditure and putting the lion’s share of his income into his savings, possibly even making a few informed investments early on that have really paid off for him. All I’m saying is let’s not hastily count out the possibility he bought the armour on his own just because he’s a beggar.”

“Uh… I mean, alright, I guess it is within the realms of possibility, even if extremely unlikely. But even then, a veteran beggar of all people should know that they’re not cut out to be a fighter. So what on teral was he doing in that suit of armour?”

“He was competing in the tournament, didn’t you see? He was doing pretty well for himself as well, I thought. Odds were on him winning the whole thing.”

…

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”