The poet swallowed a heavy saliva and wiped cold sweat off his brow, wondering how things had come to this.
He was a bard who traveled with a caravan, earning his daily meals by doing odd jobs and performing at each destination. To be honest, his skills were still rudimentary, and he was all too aware of his limited repertoire as he spent each day practicing and living.
He had dreamt of someday holding a solo concert in a packed theater, basking in the full attention of an audience.
But he never imagined he would end up in this situation after merely hearing and imitating a poem in the west that he thought was cool.
The poet was now seated on the stage of a manor’s meeting hall. The audience before him was so dense that if someone said all the able-bodied residents of the manor had gathered, he would have believed it without question. Furthermore, fine wine and food were being served in abundance—some middle-aged men and young men were even seen handing paper notes to a monk to prepare drinks—making the scene quite lively.
He had indeed once wished to perform before an audience of hundreds, but not so suddenly, and certainly not in such an incomprehensible situation.
After mentioning the protagonist’s name, he was cornered by the manor’s inhabitants who grilled him fiercely, asking if he was truly Erich from Königsstuhl. After describing the golden-haired man with cat-like blue eyes, armed with a simple longsword and shield, clad in boiled leather armor as a light warrior based on the information he knew, the crowd unanimously declared it was him. They swiftly spread out and prepared his current seat. The shopkeepers from the nearby market, suddenly bereft of customers, seemed worried they might confront him later.
Who could have imagined that a place where he stopped during his business travels, without any particular intention, would be the birthplace of his stock hero, and even more astonishingly, the first place where the hero’s story would be introduced? Those at the end of the caravan rarely cared about the names of the manors they were visiting next, and even if they did know, they probably wouldn’t have given it much thought. At best, they might have considered, “Maybe the local hero would get a good laugh.”
As he was led into the meeting hall while marveling at the divine coincidence, the headman handed him a large silver coin and asked him to perform the whole story from start to finish. With a demeanor that practically threatened to hang him upside down if he refused, the inexperienced young poet could only nod frantically like a bird pecking at seeds.
“Alright, can we begin?”
Prompted by the smiling headman holding a wine cup, the bard hesitantly picked up his six-string lute.
“Well, anyway, a job’s a job. If I must do it today, it’s as good as any other day. Let me give it all I’ve got and entertain the audience to the best of my ability.”
“Understood, let’s begin. The tale I shall now present to you is of the latest hero from the west, the tale of the golden-haired Erich that has started making rounds.”
“Alright! We’ve been waiting for this!”
To be honest, the bard himself didn’t know much about this story. It was an epic composed by a renowned bard in Marsheim and had begun spreading across various places a year ago. The events that formed the basis of the tale had occurred nearly two years prior.
In an era without telegraphs, the speed at which stories from the frontier spread was neither too fast nor too slow. The bard, knowing only this one piece, assumed there might be a series in the original region, but he personally only knew this particular song. His knowledge stemmed from another bard who had merely imitated a second-hand piece.
Dreading the prospect of being asked for a continuation, he continued the narrative until the scene reached the square.
“Behold! The gallant hero with golden hair flowing in the wind, astride a fierce black stallion! Loosing arrows with incredible precision from his bow while mounted, he strikes down the banner of evil and stands valiantly against tyranny. Behold! The adventurer from Marsheim, Erich of Königsstuhl.”
The moment the name was uttered, cheers erupted from the audience shouting, “We’ve been waiting!” and “Hey, President!” It wasn’t the bard’s original piece, but a one-man drama had somehow unfolded, and riding the wave of excitement, the poet continued his song without interruption.
“Though slight in stature, compared to the towering forces of evil, this hero stands firm. Drawing his sword with a thundering shout that rivals the roar of a storm, the warrior spurs on his companions in battle. O, hear the battle cry that echoes across the sky, and see the valiant back of this fearless warrior blazing with righteous indignation.”
“Uncle is so cool!” cried a boy in the front row, his hands gripping tightly as he listened with rapt attention. This young group must be compatriots of “Golden-haired Erich.” What a miraculous place to have visited and an incredible coincidence to choose such a piece.
“Men, do not falter! Think of your families back home! Despair and resignation have no place outside the grave! To all those willing to fight alongside me, follow me to victory!”
The poet thought the dialogue resembled more a military chronicle than an epic poem. Yet, this rousing speech had reignited the waning will to fight and resolve among the adventurers and their guards. The hero, who had rushed forward and faltered, had managed to rally their morale and charged directly at the wicked knight, whose heraldry had been pierced by an arrow, now enraged with crimson fury.
Jonas mounted his steed again, scattering the fallen corpses of the lion-men, and charged straight at Erich for another one-on-one combat. The tension in the room visibly tightened.
“The sound of clashing swords shook the heavens! The fearsome war mace, struck aside by the gleaming blade, slicing through the air! Its name, ‘Sending Wolf’— a sword of justice that guides the courteous to home and slays the impudent!”
A middle-aged man, evidently excited, was enthusiastically tapping the shoulder of a man presumed to be his son. His reaction seemed more focused on the name of the sword rather than the narrative. Had there been some prior incident?
“Twice locked in combat, the riders clashed fiercely! Upper guard, lower guard, sparks flew from the clashing mace. Finally, the golden-haired warrior’s blade reached the wicked knight! The visor of the knight’s helmet dislodged, splitting his forehead, blood gushing—Jonas faltered! Yet shamefully, the knight extended his malevolent hand not toward the rider but toward the horse!”
Despite the audience’s enthusiasm, the poet questioned how a small sword could deflect such a heavy mace. Wouldn’t it crumble under the force? He wondered if the horse-riding scene might be a fabricated element of the narrative for dramatic effect.
“Ah, but such resistance is futile against the towering valor of the hero! The nimble hero parried the mace, leaped into the air with a roar of fury, and delivered a devastating kick to the knight’s chest! The wicked knight tumbled ignominiously to the ground, while the golden-haired hero gracefully returned to his steed!”
After all, bards sold dreams. No matter how exaggerated or excessive, as long as the audience cheered, complaints were irrelevant. Whether or not an armored, thin warrior could release the stirrups and perform a flying kick in one breath was dubious but irrelevant before the delighted applause of the audience.
The defeated knight refused to accept his loss and ordered the followers who could barely believe their commander’s defeat to attack. Coming back to their senses, the followers prepared to support their leader when they were intercepted.
“The archers serving the wicked knight prepared to assist their master. However, no arrow could touch the golden-haired Erich; a comrade from the hill’s shadow valiantly struck them down!”
What a convenient moment! It turned out that alongside his victory in single combat, the golden-haired Erich had also positioned an ally in a strategic location. Knowing full well that such wicked men wouldn’t simply surrender their weapons after defeat, Erich had prepared for a more perfect victory.
“Astride the brother of Erich’s steed was none other than his valiant ally, “the Fortunate Siegfried”! And seated behind him, eliminating the sinister archers with precise shots, was the graceful spiderfolk maiden with flaxen hair, “Silent Margit”!”
At the mention of spiderfolk, shouts of pleasure erupted from the corner where a group of women had gathered. Glancing over, the poet saw young women holding hands and cheering while a flamboyantly dressed spiderfolk woman embraced a rather thin man desperately.
The bard only knew Margit by imitation, but clearly, the maiden was from this manor.
“Brilliantly flashing, the sword of the courageous Siegfried struck down the minions of wickedness! And any who would dare attack the brave cavalry from behind were pierced by the arrows of the maiden with the speed of a blink!”
The story’s climax approached as the rear archers were defeated and the forces of Jonas Bartlinden began to crumble. During this period, further reinforcements arrived from the caravan’s rearguard.
“Ashamed and faltering, the ranks of vice were suddenly assailed by magic potions hurled from a wagon! Remember, their ranks contained the protection of “Kaya of the Compassion of the Green Grass”! The dazzling illusion crafted by the skilled witch burst across their ranks, causing the misguided riders to fall from their steeds and the infantry to drop their spears!”
The witch’s concoction was made from several potent herbs, carefully packed in clay vessels. Upon impact, the potion’s effects spread rapidly, temporarily rendering the senses of those within range useless. This was a terrifying attack that no amount of armor or refined swordsmanship could deflect. While assigning the name “Compassion” to such a cruel witch might be questionable from the singer’s perspective, the audience seemed unfazed by this contradiction.
“Now arise, our sword-bearing comrades! Crush them all at once! This is the time to show your courage! Such lives are worth risking now! The fierce voices of the adventurers, responding to the hero’s call to raise sharp steel swords to the heavens, resonated across the plains! The thunderous roar of battle cry! The march of their boots was unbroken and resounded loudly! The rows of spearheads were magnificent! With one strike, the blades of justice felled the wicked bandits like hay!”
As the guards, previously trembling, regained their formation, the impromptu phalanx scattered the marauders’ army. The blinded soldiers could not resist and were stabbed through, while the knights, with their horses in confusion, were brought down and decapitated without any chance to beg for mercy.
The tables had quickly turned.
Yet stubbornness marked the wicked. As Erich gave instructions to his companions, the wicked knight managed to rise and grab his mace for a final resistance. “It doesn’t matter how many foot soldiers there are,” the villain declared, “if I crush you, all will be over.” He leaped toward the loathsome adventurer.
Golden-haired Erich seemed to realize that fighting a rider equipped with a weapon capable of crushing horses from atop a horse was disadvantageous—indeed, a stopped rider was a frail target—and swiftly dismounted, engaging his opponent in a fierce duel on the ground.
“Behold! Though stained with defeat in the dirt, yet there is no shadow of defeat in the arm of this wicked knight who has slaughtered many knights and adventurers! The mace whistles like a violent storm, carving the earth, slashing the air with a fearful sound! None who stood before it have escaped unscathed, their flesh splintering like wood!”
To the end, the formidable foe remained formidable. Killing weaker opponents would not stir the audience’s excitement. The air heated up with each note of the six-string lute, played with a fervor that burned the strings themselves.
“But here and now, nothing matters! Holding his shield and drawing his sword, Golden-haired Erich stands unwavering! Not a trace of fear mars his smiling face! Can the mace of injustice hold any sway before the unparalleled weapon of courage this warrior bears in the face of death?”
Dodging an attack that would be fatal if it grazed him by a hair’s breadth and waiting for the perfect moment, the light warrior’s determination seems beyond reason to those who do not fight. People are afraid of death, so they wear heavy armor, layer their clothing, and seek divine or magical protections.
But the light warrior discards these protections—”they interfere with the purpose of killing”—and exposes themselves to danger with confidence that belies the meager protection of boiled leather armor and a flimsy coat. Only half-hearted strikes, lifeless arrows, and weak cannon fragments might be stopped by such armor.
From a distance, one might see either a hero or a madman.
Everything is determined by the outcome.
Victory makes heroes; defeat reveals those who have overestimated themselves.
Now, it was time. Gripping his resolve, the bard tackled the most challenging part of the performance.
Among the cheers and jeers from the audience, the bard abruptly stopped his perfectly elevated melody.
A few beats later, a powerful crescendo ensued, the chords shifting rapidly. The complexity of the finger movements was so high that it felt like the composer was goading the bard—”Can you play my tune?” Normally, the bard had simplified the piece to make it manageable, as he thought the original imitator’s version was awkward.
Today, however, he felt in the mood to play. It was as if he was blessed by the patron god of poetry, feeling a strong urge to perform.
“A single flash of white blade preceded the storm! A brief, tearing sound! As if to state the very essence of martial prowess before the futile storm, a single polished sword pierced through! And oh, behold! The crimson blood painting the skies! The numerous lives taken by the unrighteous right hand, clutching the blood-rusted mace, now floated in the void! The valiant hero has vanquished the wicked knight!”
The most climactic moment in the hero’s epic tale, where the enemy who should be defeated is indeed felled. The audience erupted in joy, gulping down wine and even throwing their cups in celebration.
“The wicked knight, screaming and falling to the ground, his sword at his neck! Golden-haired Erich roared his victory! Peace will not bring death! You shall pay with your life for the cost of vice, and know the suffering of the trampled people! Come! Raise the war cry! Shout his name! The name of the hero who brought an end to the tyrannical knight who once made the frontier tremble with evil deeds!”
The part where Erich’s name is repeatedly called, originally sung by the bard, was spontaneously taken over by the audience without prompting. Such an unprecedentedly rousing performance had never been seen before. The bard, who had started hesitantly and obeyed mechanically, began to feel joy, even vowing anew to bring his audience to this level of immersion using only his own skills, without the aid of local fame.
However, if they didn’t stop calling the name soon, he couldn’t transition to the ending. Accompanying the still-excited audience, the bard continued looping the harmonious melody of the six-string lute, pondering what to do as he scratched his head…
