The third round of the main tournament's winner's bracket.
After a grueling match, Margaret finally emerged victorious. The arena erupted in applause. Her opponent had been none other than the Foam Knight—one of the rising stars in recent years, a defensive fighter wielding a massive sword and shield that forced any would-be aggressor to hesitate.
But even the unshakable defense of the Foam Knight crumbled before Margaret's relentless Lance assault.
The crowd hadn't known much about her beforehand. Rumors painted her as a lone knight with no family name, no knight order, no sponsor. But tonight, seeing her firsthand, that mystery had turned into awe. After this victory, her fan base was bound to grow.
"Seems the Foam Knight's not as useful as we thought."
On the giant screens, the hosts worked hard to hype the crowd for the next match. But inside a distant office, a group of men in tailored suits weren't clapping. Their faces were grim.
"Pathetic. We gave him the best training grounds, the finest lodgings. We threatened his family. We tried both the carrot and the stick. And still, he can't handle a rookie from the Nearl family?"
"It's just a difference in strength."
The man at the head of the table coughed twice. "Our best hopes now lie with the Verdant Knight(Green Flow Knight) and the Light Knight. They're our strongest candidates for the title."
At first, their plan had been to market the Foam Knight and the Verdant Knight as the 'Twin Pillars of Water'—both wielders of water-element Originium Arts, both mature and striking in appearance, a perfect duo to charm young women and inspire ambitious young men. But with the Foam Knight's loss, he no longer fit the narrative. He was now expendable.
This was the naked truth of the Kazimierz General Chamber of Commerce. Knights were nothing more than guard dogs. When the masters needed them, they barked and fought. When they weren't needed, they were chained in their kennels, forbidden to even whimper.
"The Light Knight has been training for four years; he's more than ready. As for the Verdant Knight—we'll need some… psychological work."
The speaker deliberately stressed the last words.
The others nodded grimly. The man in charge sighed. "So long as the old Pegasus is ill but still alive, moving against Margaret is… troublesome. For now, we maintain appearances. But when the time comes—whether it's the Light Knight or Margaret herself—they're both expendable."
"What about a cover story? An Ursus terrorist attack, perhaps?"
"Boss, wouldn't that risk escalating into a national incident?"
Cold sweat broke across one man's brow. Their ties to the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi and to the knightly orders might be an open secret, but if something this blatant came to light, neither side would escape unscathed.
"Just an idea. Still… that will be our last resort." He waved his hand. "Go, tend to your assignments."
"Yes, sir."
Meanwhile, the city buzzed with excitement. Tourists and residents filled the plazas and taverns, arguing over who their favorite knight was, and who had the best shot at the championship.
In the arena's backstage corridors, Margaret leaned against a wall, breathing heavily. Defeating the Foam Knight had looked glorious, but in truth, every one of his strikes and blocks had been like smashing into a mountain. Victory had been hers, but not without exposing her own shortcomings.
"You're only sixteen. Do you really need to push yourself this hard?"
She looked up. It was the Foam Knight himself, now out of armor, weaponless. Compared to her ragged breaths, he was calm, already recovered from the match. It was a subtle reminder: she had poured everything into finding a single opening, while he… perhaps hadn't even fought at full strength.
"Sir Foam Knight…"
"That title…" He let out a bitter laugh, mocking himself more than her. "It's hard to hear it without flinching."
His skin carried a faint bronze hue, his smile tinged with irony—less the smile of a knight, and more the weary grin of a man who understood all too well what he had become.
He spoke quietly.
"If you keep winning, you should already know what the final outcome will be."
"I know."
"A knight who pushes ever forward… in today's Kazimierz, that's a rare sight indeed."
The Foam Knight let out a sigh. Just as he was about to continue, his gaze shifted past Margaret's shoulder.
"Eavesdropping on other people's conversations—what a bad habit, Verdant Knight."
"How could you call it that?"
The Verdant Knight folded her arms and stepped up beside Margaret. She was about to enter the arena for her fourth match, the long sword at her hip swaying lightly with her movements.
"Little Margaret's situation is indeed dangerous… I haven't seen the higher-ups this determined to secure the championship in a very long time."
"Quite so."
The Foam Knight's voice was calm as he added, "If I can't swim my way through the loser's bracket… this may be one of our last meetings."
"That can't be…"
Margaret murmured softly, seeing the trace of self-mockery on the Foam Knight's face, and the wry helplessness tugging at the Verdant Knight's lips.
The Verdant Knight patted Margaret gently on the shoulder.
"You know well what became of the Black Knight. I won't say more… but if you're ever truly left with no way out, don't forget—you still have the Nearl family."
The Foam Knight turned to leave. But at those words, his steps faltered.
"Speaking of the Black Knight… the patron who bought her life is here to watch the tournament."
"What? Where did you hear that?"
"Overheard it, after the last board meeting adjourned."
The Verdant Knight idly brushed her fingers across the hilt at her waist.
"Maybe you should go see that patron. If I recall, he's called the Pioneer—a Sankta, wasn't he?"
"You seem to know a lot about this…"
The Foam Knight raised an eyebrow.
"Before leaving, the Black Knight shared a farewell drink with me. My treat."
"…"
"…I see."
Margaret bowed her head in gratitude. These two knights, bound as they were to the K.G.C.C., still took the risk of pausing to offer her a few words. That alone was a favor.
The Pioneer… Her uncle had mentioned that name before. But lately she and her uncle had clashed in ideals—better to ask her grandfather.
And she herself remembered that name. The moment she heard it, a faint jolt ran through her. How could she forget the handsome, bright-eyed Sankta who four years ago spoke with such confidence at that tavern…? He was the one who saved the Black Knight?
---
Dark tides churned beneath the Kawalerielki City. Night after night, the rain fell—and with it came the Armorless Union's arrows. Yet as Margaret Nearl rose, her defiance stirred others: knights with no sponsors, no orders, no titles, who clung to the old creed of honor.
Their answer was assassins sent by the Organization.
---
This afternoon the benches were not crowded. Her uncle Nearl was away. In his place sat her older cousin.
"Pioneer… brother?"
Though today held no matches, Margaret still wore the uniform that allowed her to don armor at a moment's notice. After questioning her grandfather, she had successfully intercepted Felix at the gates of the Nearl estate, just as he was leaving from training.
"It's an honor to see you again, Miss Margaret. Four years have passed."
"Indeed, four years… Mr. Pioneer."
Margaret corrected her tone and straightened her back, sitting upright with perfect poise.
"Tomorrow is the semifinals. Are you confident?"
"My opponent is the Light Knight… Even if I lose, the final will still pit him against me."
Margaret's voice dropped slightly.
"He's strong."
Compared to four years ago, the Light Knight was different. Marked by defeats and scars, he had staked everything on this last chance. To him, this tournament was the end of the line. He knew: fail here, and there would be no third chance.
So much struggle, and in the end, still nothing more than a toy for capital.
"Margaret, do you have confidence?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Her reply was short but firm. Margaret glanced sideways at Felix.
"Pioneer… was it you who saved the Black Knight? How is she now?"
"I founded a company," Felix said softly. "She works for me now. I had hoped to bring her here to watch the tournament together, but the ban from the K.G.C.C. prevents her from entering."
He paused, then lowered his voice.
"But right now, Margaret… I'm more worried about you."
"…Worried about me?"
"Yes."
Felix's gaze sharpened. "The Armorless Union spends every night hunting down those 'awakened' knights who've been pointed at you. Their actions pit them directly against the Organization… and in turn, they're assassinated for it. The K.G.C.C. will not tolerate another champion slipping from their grasp."
His meaning was clear: Margaret stood at the center of a storm. The K.G.C.C. had poured vast resources into this season, desperate for the next champion to be theirs. They had endured the reign of the Black Knight; with her gone, their investment in a successor was massive.
And if someone like Margaret suddenly seized the spotlight, the Organization would bare its fangs. The facade of civility would drop, and its teeth would tear through anything in their way.
"No matter the outcome," Felix said quietly, "you will leave Kazimierz."
"…I'm prepared for that."
Margaret lifted her eyes, staring directly into his golden irises. "The old knightly tales mean nothing here anymore. I want to leave this land, to walk the world, and discover what chivalry truly means for myself."
Such words could only invite admiration. Felix smiled faintly and nodded.
"Details aren't convenient to speak of now, but I'll see you safely out of the Kawalerielki City."
"Thank you, Pioneer."
"Actually…" He smirked. "I'd rather hear you call me Brother Felix."
Margaret flushed, hesitated for a heartbeat, then — with the composure of a knight's daughter who had been tempered by years of training — spoke the name aloud. Natural, unforced, and somehow warmer than any formal title.
Felix glanced at the task marker glowing faintly on his panel: [C-Rank Mission: The Nearl Family's Request]. Helping her leave Kazimierz was no real problem… but the real question was where he would stand, and in what role.
Too long in the skin of a capitalist, and the mask starts to feel like a second face.
Later, Margaret walked home beneath an umbrella. She disliked the night rain; it always made her hear phantom arrows in the air. And in recent nights, that dread had only grown stronger.
The news reports claimed the surge in visitors had emboldened gangs to stalk the streets, warning citizens not to go out after dark. Lies. She had heard such lies too many times before.
Where was Kazimierz's future? The knights' future? What did true chivalry mean?
Then—
A gleam of silver shot from the darkness, slicing through the rain.
Only when the hiss of the air-splitting bolt neared did Margaret realize it was no phantom at all.
It was a crossbow's arrow.
She paid no mind to the mud beneath her feet, dropped low, and rolled across the ground—barely evading the arrow whistling toward her.
Thud!
The shaft buried itself deep into the earth behind her.
"Tomorrow's duel isn't soon enough? You just couldn't wait, could you?"
Margaret's hand went to the knight's sword at her waist. She hadn't brought her familiar Lance tonight. Though she often fought with it, that never meant she didn't know how to wield a sword.
"Kill her."
A voice issued the command from the shadows. In the storm-lashed darkness, a rain of arrows surged toward Margaret.
Then—the night was torn open.
A brilliance unlike flame, pure and blinding, burst across the battlefield, washing her in daylight.
Margaret reached out, seized the light in her hand, and a pair of pale pegasus wings unfurled behind her back.
"Tch. So you're already using Arts? The Nearl family really is troublesome."
Roy, clad in a blue uniform, let out a dry laugh. He glanced at the woman standing beside him—another of the Lazurite rank.
"Still not going to shoot?"
"You're talking too much."
Her bowstring drew taut, his following suit. Two arrows—azure, radiant—shot forth like falling stars, screaming toward Margaret.
"Tell me," Roy mused, "think the Nearl family will go mad over this?"
"If this job works out," his partner replied flatly, "I might just walk away from Kazimierz altogether. Retire for good."
"You? Retire?"
"Heh. The old Pegasus may be past his prime, but don't forget—the Nearl family still has their ranger-knights."
The blast that followed shook the storm-torn field, echoing that infamous night four years ago. Smoke and dust billowed thick. When it finally cleared, the assassins of the Armorless Union crept forward to check—
Margaret was gone. Not a trace remained.
"…So we failed?"
"You sound almost relieved."
"Well, with pay this lousy, who really wants to die on the job?"
Roy chuckled, utterly unconcerned by the botched mission.