Chapter 5

Chapter 5. Baron Lenke (3)

The baron spoke in a voice filled with pride and overwhelming emotion.

“Alexei I and I fought together. Even when a Rong warrior’s axe split my shield in two, I did not retreat.”

Aslaf likewise recalled memories of the past.

In the battle against the Rong tribe, Lenke and his unit had held their ground without fleeing despite being surrounded by more than twice their number. Thanks to that, Alexei I’s cavalry had been able to encircle and annihilate the enemy.

The baron recalled the battle from that day in a trembling voice.

“The battle against the Rong tribe continued for three days and nights. It was so fierce that by the time the battle ended, only a few dozen men survived without injury.”

At the baron’s words, the scenery from that day faintly rose in Aslaf’s mind. The rising fog. The scent of rapeseed flowers in full bloom. The blood-soaked hill they had struggled desperately to defend.

Aslaf said nothing, but he answered the baron inwardly.

‘That’s right. My armor was battered beyond recognition too. Do you remember, Oleg? After the battle ended, I handed you water, and you said you had never drunk water so delicious in your life.’

The baron, believing Aslaf knew nothing, sighed and muttered as if to himself.

“The number of Rong we killed was so great that for ten days, swarms of rats feeding on the corpses covered the plain. I nearly died several times too.”

Though it had been a matter from his past life, the baron’s words made Aslaf’s memories vivid as well.

‘When all those Rong finally disappeared from the hill, I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

His chest ached with emotion from that day.

Silence continued for a moment. The baron slowly opened his mouth.

“Alexei I acknowledged me. He personally handed me his waterskin.”

As the forgotten memory returned, it seemed to turn the baron, for a moment, back into the hot-blooded youth he had been decades ago.

Aslaf, too, remembered the conversation he had exchanged with Alexei I while drinking water.

Oleg Lenke. You ride well. Do you know how to use a lance too?

Yes. I do, sir.

Then become a knight.

I know how to ride a horse and hold a lance, but that is all I know, sir.

That is all you know?

Shouldn’t a knight know many other things too? I know nothing, sir.

Do you know the most important difference between a knight and a commoner?

That is... what, sir?

It is courage.

.......

You can ride a horse and hold a lance, so as long as you muster the courage to become a knight, you can become one. What do you say? Will you muster that courage?

...Can I fight bravely like the knights?

If you never forget the resolve with which you fought the Rong just now, then you can.

Seeing how Lenke’s eyes had changed completely after that day, Alexei I knew his judgment had been correct.

The baron let out a long sigh, as if waking from a dream.

Then he looked back at Aslaf.

“Do you know the greatest difference between a knight and a commoner?”

Aslaf knew the answer, but he shook his head.

“I do not know.”

“It is courage. I proved that in the battle against the Rong tribe, and because of that, I was able to become a noble.”

The baron looked into Aslaf’s eyes and quietly patted his shoulder. Then he continued in a warm voice.

“You cast off the false accusation placed upon you, found the culprit, and realized justice. You are indeed my son. If you contribute to the nation and society and prove your courage to others as well, I will enter you into our family. I hope that day comes soon.”

At the first warm words he had ever heard from his father, Aslaf felt the bridge of his nose sting without realizing it.

“As you have said, Father, I will certainly accomplish deeds worthy of being recognized as a noble by others.”

Aslaf bowed to the baron and left the room.

“Did it go well?”

Iwan asked when Aslaf came to see him.

“Yes. It went well. Thank you. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

Iwan nodded.

Yesterday, with Iwan’s help, Aslaf had added a few lines to the prayer written by Alexei I that he had found.

The original prayer had contained nothing about overcoming the station of a commoner, so he had added that part.

It had been intended to make the baron read the prayer and look back on himself.

Thanks to that, he had been able to change the baron’s heart and obtain his promise that, if Aslaf achieved merits and had his ability recognized by others, the baron would enter him into the family.

“I’m thinking of going to the city.”

At Aslaf’s words, Iwan’s eyes widened.

“The city? When?”

Then he stepped forward, saying he would go with Aslaf.

“I’ll go too. I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

“I haven’t even decided which city I’m going to yet.”

Even so, Iwan tried to stick to Aslaf’s side without any plan.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re the needle, and I’m the thread.”

His eyes shone with expectation.

“What are you going to do when you get to the city?”

Aslaf had not thought of anything specific. He had not yet made up his mind about how he would live either.

“If I go, I’ll find some way to make a living. Let’s talk about it later. I have to go herd the sheep now.”

The hungry sheep were bleating.

Aslaf waved to Iwan, went to the sheep pen, and drove the flock to the grassland.

‘What should I do?’

In his past life, he had been a noble and a king, but he did not think he had ever been particularly happy. He had always lived with death at his side, fighting, and each day had been busy as he was buried under a flood of work.

‘Since I was born a commoner in this life anyway, should I try living at ease?’

Being a noble or a king was not necessarily all good. If one ignored the people, it did not matter, but the more one regarded them as family and grew attached to them, the heavier the weight of responsibility became.

Perhaps being born as a commoner who could do nothing was an opportunity to live as he pleased.

‘What if I earn a lot of money, live comfortably, enjoy life and everything it has to offer, and if I have room to spare, help other people moderately along the way?’

No matter who he had been in his past life, he had been born with gypsy blood in this life, so living freely while wandering did not seem bad either.

As he thought about one thing and another, he left the sheep to graze. Then Aslaf wedged a large piece of wood between his legs and wrestled with it, carving it with a knife.

“It’s done.”

Aslaf held up the wooden sword he had carved himself and examined it.

He had no skill with his hands, so its shape was rough, but it was good enough for practice. To match its weight to a real sword, he tied a stone to its side and wound rope tightly around it.

He might meet thieves on the way to the city, so he had to be able to protect himself.

In his past life, he had handled a sword skillfully, so if he revived those memories, his skill might improve quickly.

“Stand like this.”

He took his stance and gripped the sword with both hands, and his arms sagged downward.

“Is it too heavy?”

It was heavy for a fifteen-year-old boy to handle. Even so, he had no choice but to get used to it. Most swords made cheaply in large quantities would probably be matched to about this weight.

“Hyah!”

He stepped forward and swung the sword. Moving ahead, he searched his memories as he cut and thrust.

“Right foot, left foot, thrust, block, turn and cut.”

Though he had never learned swordsmanship, his body moved on its own. The methods of attacking and defending when enemies rushed in from every direction naturally rose in his mind as well.

‘In my past life, I practiced only this day in and day out.’

As time passed, the memories grew even clearer.

‘Imperial standard swordsmanship. Strike quickly at openings.’

‘Rong tribe swordsmanship. Heavy and powerful, but not fast.’

‘Yeon tribe swordsmanship. A sword style focused more on cutting than thrusting.’

As he recalled various sword styles and practiced by swinging the wooden sword, his body became drenched in sweat. His arms were knotted with muscle pain, and he expected they would hurt when he slept at night.

‘Let’s stop here for today.’

Just as he put away the sword and wiped the sweat from his forehead,

“Hey, what are you doing?”

At the threatening voice, Aslaf turned around.

‘Ah, he caught me.’

Tyron glared at him, his brows furrowed so deeply that a vein bulged on his forehead. Aslaf already knew from experience that the sight of him holding a sword sent Tyron into a fit of rage.

“How dare a commoner like you practice swordsmanship?”

“Young master.”

Aslaf lowered his head in greeting.

Before, whenever Tyron grew angry, Aslaf had worried about how badly he would be punished, but now he was not afraid at all. Seen through Alexei I’s eyes, Tyron was merely the child of one of his lowest-ranking officials.

Even if Tyron grew angry, shouted, and struck him, Aslaf now only found him pathetic and laughable, like watching a child crying and throwing a tantrum.

“Do you think holding a sword makes you a knight?”

Tyron seemed to grow more and more enraged at Aslaf’s calm attitude. He dismounted, approached Aslaf, and grabbed him by the collar.

“Now you don’t even lower your head, and you look straight at me?”

When Aslaf ignored him without answering, Tyron shoved him roughly in the chest. Aslaf stepped back to avoid falling and quickly regained his balance.

Tyron screamed and grabbed Aslaf by the collar.

“It seems you dare to think you can be acknowledged as Father’s son, but don’t even dream of it. My mother is a chaste noble lady, but your mother is a vulgar gypsy. Who knows where your mother slept around or with whom? How can you be a father's son? I’ll make sure you never think of such a thing again.”

Aslaf, who had planned to simply endure it and let it pass, felt a flash of fire in his eyes at Tyron’s words.

‘What did you say? What about my mother?’

Seeing Aslaf’s fierce gaze, Tyron shouted as if rage had pierced straight through his skull.

“Oh? You held a sword a little, and now I look easy to you? No matter how much a bastard like you practices, it’s only imitation. Do you think you can match a real knight’s swordsmanship?”

Tyron clenched his molars and drew his sword. The dazzling blade gleamed transparently like an icicle in the sunlight.

It was the famous Batangkara sword he had lost last time, the one Aslaf had found for him.

“Pick up your sword. I’ll face you.”

The sharp blade reflected rainbow light.

He was telling Aslaf to fight with a wooden sword against Batangkara’s famous blade. From the start, it was not a duel that made any sense.

“If that can even be called a sword.”

Tyron swung his sword threateningly. It made a humming sound, as though it were cutting even invisible wind in half.

“Once you fight a real sword, you’ll never think of holding one again.”

With a wicked smile, he aimed the tip of his sword at Aslaf’s chest as though he might stab him. If he took even one step forward, the sword would sink straight into Aslaf’s heart.

“If that is what you want.”

Aslaf gripped the wooden sword with both hands and took his stance.

“Wh-what? You’re really going to fight?”

Tyron had expected Aslaf to grow frightened when a sword was aimed at his heart, kneel, and beg for his life. Instead, Aslaf was going to face his famous sword with a crude wooden blade.

As if dumbfounded, Tyron twisted his lips and snorted.

Despite the disadvantage in weapons, Aslaf had resolved to fight because he had already judged Tyron’s skill. Once the memories of the swordsmanship he had learned in his past life returned, he naturally became able to gauge Tyron’s ability.

Tyron’s swordsmanship was not bad. Like his father, Baron Lenke, he had a solid build and athletic sense, so his body was nimble and strong. He could easily lift heavy weapons like axes or spears.

However, no matter how hard one searched, there was not a single part of him that could be called extraordinary.

‘You’re only a frog in a well, Tyron. You haven’t even received a knightly title yet.’

When Aslaf had wandered as a gypsy, he had also visited large cities with many knights, and when fights broke out in taverns, he had often seen famous knights duel.

At the time, Aslaf had known nothing about swordsmanship, but even then, it had been obvious to him that Tyron’s skill could not compare to theirs.

And now that he saw him through Alexei I’s eyes, Tyron’s openings were even more visible.

Having learned the basics from his father in a mountain village, without an excellent teacher or a sparring partner of a suitable level, and having practiced swordsmanship alone, Tyron’s swordplay was far too obvious. There were only a few attack methods he knew how to use. In short, his moves could be read.

Moreover, because he had practiced defense entirely on his own without a sparring partner, its limits in real combat were clear.