Chapter 118: Your Name is James?
"James Lambert... You're good with a sword?"
With the kind of dark humor unique to a transmigrator, Arthur ignored the young man's unfounded accusations and instead teased him playfully about his name.
"No matter what happens, I spend three hours practicing swordsmanship every day. When danger comes, it is my most reliable companion." The young Royal Guardsman didn't directly answer Arthur's question, but judging by his slightly raised chin, he clearly held deep confidence in his skill.
"Sounds like you've killed quite a few enemies, then."
Arthur's hands were starting to itch. Although his Two-Handed Weapon skill had reached the [Expert] level and he had fought numerous battles, the progress toward [Master] level was negligible. He suspected this was due to a lack of suitable opponents.
James spoke proudly: "Two years ago, a gang of bandits from Sodden was frequently committing crimes around Kernow. The local officials were unable to suppress them, and fearing it would affect their careers, forbade anyone from asking Brugge for help. I found their hideout and killed those ruffians myself."
Arthur's eyes flashed with eagerness, and his palm unconsciously rubbed back and forth on the saddle: "Tell me about that fight."
A trace of confusion flickered in James's eyes, but he was happy enough to recount his proudest achievement to the esteemed Knight of the Royal Seat:
"Those fellows were terribly stupid. They thought they couldn't be found hidden in a cave, but they hadn't even bothered to clear their hoof prints. I gathered the nearby villagers, armed them with pitchforks and flails, and had them block the entrance. Then I went in alone with my sword."
"That's not a very smart plan," Zoltan critiqued. "Back when we used to fight other clans, the ones we loved most were hot-headed fools who charged into the mine tunnels. Just one corner and a wooden club was all it took to knock them flat."
James frowned, clearly disliking having his tactics criticized. But facing a dwarf, who was practically a born master of underground warfare, he lacked the confidence to retort and was too proud to dismiss the critique with a fallacy. He simply pretended not to hear and continued his story:
"Things started well. In just one exchange, I cut down the two fellows guarding the entrance. But as I moved into the wider chamber inside, the bandits suddenly extinguished the torches stuck into the walls and rushed me—the one holding a torch."
Pfft. The dwarf's laughter was too unrestrained. James broke off his narrative and glared angrily at Zoltan: "What are you laughing at!"
"Heh heh, I remembered something amusing. We used to deal with the Kaedwen clans in the tunnels the same way. The only way to survive a situation like that is to immediately extinguish your own torch."
James glowered at the judgmental dwarf: "That's precisely what I did! I threw my torch, using the brief flicker of light before it died to discern the bandits' general locations. Following what I learned in my swordsmanship classes, I held my breath, concentrated, and listened for footsteps. I'd swing my sword, immediately turn and dash forward, using the momentum of the stop to sweep my sword wide, and then repeat the previous steps over and over again."
"In the end, only one breathing sound remained in the cave, but I couldn't find the enemy. It was then I realized I had survived."
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Arthur applauded enthusiastically, his spoken praise even more fervent:
"That's truly an impressive feat. What about last year?"
The pride that had just surfaced on James's face vanished. That cave skirmish had always been the pride of his heart. Among the Royal Guardsmen, no one so young had ever achieved such a brilliant record.
But the young man before him—Arthur Dayne—James had heard of him.
The youngest Knight of the Royal Seat in Temerian history, who used a simple curse removal as a catalyst to quash a conspiracy involving several nobles and severely crippled the Erland faction within the Principality of Maribor.
He couldn't beat him in age, and he couldn't beat him in achievements. It was infuriatingly helpless!
But Arthur's words weren't meant to boast; they were simply setting the stage for the dueling invitation he was about to extend to James:
"Even the bravest knight will find his skill dulled without a worthy opponent. Esteemed Lord James, your valor rings out across the plains of Brugge like a bell. I, an unworthy practitioner, wish to cross blunt blades with you—not for victory, but for mutual honing of skill. Would you grant me this honor?"
James immediately replied:
"I have long heard your name. To be able to practice swordsmanship with you is something I have only dreamed of."
In his eyes, this wasn't a challenge; it was clearly a lifeline Arthur was extending. If he agreed to the duel, his 'slanderous accusation' against a Knight of the Royal Seat would be overlooked.
But out here in the wilds, where would they find blunt swords?
James looked down at his own scabbard, a trace of regret flashing in his eyes. His father had asked a blacksmith to forge this sword using all his knowledge before James left the village. Though it lacked fancy decoration, its strength was second to none, comparable to any blade in the King's armory.
To grind the edge dull now, just to meet Arthur's invitation to spar, was heartbreaking. But he was at fault first. If one sword could mend potential discord between two kingdoms, what was a little regret?
James picked up a rock, about to start grinding the edge of his blade, when he heard Arthur call out:
"What are you doing over there, menacing your own sword with a rock? Come pick one out! See which blade feels right."
James looked up, surprised and delighted. He hadn't expected Arthur to be such an avid duelist that he carried practice blades even on a long journey...
Then, he saw Arthur standing on a cart piled high with goods, picking out several well-crafted arming swords as if he were choosing cabbages.
"These are…" James stood up hesitantly, his mind swirling with doubts.
Arthur answered carelessly:
"Ha, they're all spoils of war. Oh, and you might want to pick out a chainmail shirt to put on. It'd be a shame to get seriously injured during a friendly spar."
James grabbed a shirt of chainmail. The yellow and black shield-shaped crest on the left breast hit him like a physical punch, leaving his head buzzing.
Isn't this the standard Verden armor? How has it become his spoils of war?
Noticing the unusual look on James's face, Arthur offered an explanation:
"Don't worry about it. These belonged to the Verden Night Crows. They attacked a merchant caravan near the Brugge border, and when I stumbled upon them, they tried to silence me. So, this is the result."
"I was actually on my way to Brugge yesterday to report this, but a rather bothersome fellow in the city waylaid me, which is why I left abruptly."
"See that man tied up over there? He was a member of the Night Crows and the mastermind behind the entire raid."
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