Tournament rules vary widely by country and region. Neighboring France maintained much more brutal rules than the Duchy of Beren—attacks on the opponent’s torso, shoulders, and head were allowed in addition to the shield, and they even used a point system. With such vicious rules, it wouldn’t be strange if someone died.

The Duchy of Beren used a method of attacking the shield to unhorse opponents. They followed safety-oriented rules to prevent the nation’s important talents from dying in tournaments. Because of this, whenever tournaments were held, many knights insisted the rules should be revised to be as daring as France’s.

The cavalry commander was a representative hardliner.

He argued that tournaments should also involve risking your life.

It was also the consensus of the Beren Lance Cavalry, who charged into enemy lines at the risk of their own lives.

However, the moderate nobles were locked in tight opposition to the hardliners’ claims, because if they recklessly changed the rules and lost even the scarce talent they had, it would be a national loss. The War Ministry was the most vocal opposition to rule revision. Huh? I’d have thought they’d be at the forefront of the hardliners.

As it turned out, the group that most feared running out of talent to deploy in battle while operating the duchy’s army was the War Ministry. So I also thought the current rules maintaining the form of sport were most appropriate. What if you attacked the head as in France and someone unluckily died?

So the moment the cavalry commander was confirmed as my third-round opponent, a subtle tension arose. The Beren Lance Cavalry and the War Ministry were fundamentally cooperative, but apparently they became rivals during tournaments. Unlike the derby with the Imperial Knights where all kinds of curses flew, this was a clash of convictions.

My father-in-law’s third-round opponent was also coincidentally a Beren Lance Cavalryman.

But why was I the only one facing the cavalry commander? He was practically the final boss.

The cavalry commander was probably cheering with glee right now.

I suddenly missed Hilda terribly.

However, there was an unwritten rule that tournament knights shouldn’t personally contact noblewomen until the day’s schedule ended. It seemed like superstition—that you’d lose if you broke it—but it was more likely a rule invented because of knights who tried to drain their energy during boring wait times. If you needlessly exhausted yourself, you’d obviously lose.

So I absolutely must not see her.

Because we were in the heat of our honeymoon.

It was the third match of the third round, and my father-in-law had his match before mine. He wore plate armor as massive as his build, and his horse was equally imposing. I’d heard it was an Austrian mountain horse, a breed famous for its sturdiness.

Schatten was also an Austrian horse, but an entirely different breed. My father-in-law, befitting a strong championship contender, unhorsed a Beren Lance Cavalryman famous as heavy cavalry in just three exchanges. Boom! Crack! Even the sounds of impact were on another level. The Beren Lance Cavalryman paid the ransom and requested a rechallenge, clashing three times in total.

The Beren Lance Cavalryman’s reckless challenges vanished along with his coin purse.

The loan sharks had caught another fish.

My father-in-law laughing heartily while raising his helmet visor looked just like Goliath.

From the third round onward, the tournament was effectively the main event, because the number of participants had drastically decreased. Knights who’d broken through the second round had made money from opponents’ ransoms and were reluctant to advance to the third round, where the chance of elimination was high. This was because seeded contenders classified as championship favorites competed from the third round.

So before the third-round bracket was finalized, officials always asked advancing participants about their intention to compete, and roughly half chose to forfeit. While forfeiting out of fear of an opponent was treated as dishonorable, the loophole of withdrawing on grounds of injury was rampant.

The problem was that there was no real way to stop it.

And some who forfeited brazenly participated in the team competition.

The romance of winning tournaments to gain honor had long since become a thing of the past. Even among reputable knights who’d already been filtered once, tournaments were nothing more than a means of making money or gambling. So from the third round on, it became a true fight for honor—and fierce gambling.

But why hadn’t a bureaucrat come to ask about my intention to participate?

As it turned out, my father-in-law had firmly declared that the War Ministry knights would all compete without forfeiting.

In any case, the third round was the true round of 16 main tournament. I put on my equipment and entered the arena. It was the third match of the third-round round of 16. While five matches had proceeded simultaneously through the second round, from the third round it was reduced to two. I waved to Hilda, who was watching me with anxious eyes.

The cavalry commander shouted confidently:

"Lady Besterante! I dedicate this victory to you!"

"...I am not Besterante."

"Then, Lady Growin! Oh, my love!"

"...Sir Pensler. I am Celeste."

"Ah, I see. Lady Celeste! I offer you the glory of victory!"

I’d heard that the cavalry commander’s chosen noblewoman changed every match, and it was remarkable that they were all widows. Truly befitting the self-proclaimed husband of all widows and widow connoisseur. He seemed like a frivolous man, but he was one of Beren’s top fighters. There was a reason he led the duchy’s most elite cavalry.

"Streit, I believed you wouldn’t forfeit."

"When I’ve staked my beloved wife’s honor, I can’t run away."

"Romantic. A tournament is a small war. You can’t beat me with that attitude."

"Who knows? You have to try to find out who comes out on top."

"Interesting. I wish you good luck, romantic knight."

We returned to our respective positions.

The cavalry commander’s jab stung, but my composure didn’t waver because of it. I tried to focus while regulating my breathing. The cavalry commander was a different caliber of opponent from anyone I’d fought so far. Until now, I’d luckily drawn only relatively easy opponents in the bracket.

From now on was the real contest.

"Bereit!"

I lowered the helmet visor. The sound of my pounding heartbeat seemed to echo in my ears. I hadn’t been this nervous even when facing Hornst or the Imperial Knight. I must have been feeling considerable pressure knowing my opponent was a formidable foe. Moreover, I was a tournament novice.

"Anfang!"

At the referee’s signal, the joust finally began.

I slowly urged Mont Blanc forward, then increased speed.

I gradually leveled my lance and lowered the tip horizontally.

Just before colliding with the cavalry commander, I failed to find his center of gravity, and as a result my lance struck glancingly off to the upper right. Since the force wasn’t properly transmitted, the lance didn’t break. The cavalry commander’s lance, however, hit my shield squarely.

Crash!

Crack!

"Urk!"

A crushing impact assaulted my wrist where the heater shield was fixed.

If I hadn’t had a solid core and strong thighs gripping the saddle, I would have fallen.

Hilda had emphasized this when teaching me too.

While being unhorsed is hard to avoid entirely, to endure it you must relentlessly train your waist and thighs. Normally I trained upper and lower body evenly, but taking Hilda’s advice, I built core strength and focused on lower body training. As a result, I was also spending satisfying nights with Hilda every night.

I clashed with the cavalry commander for the second exchange after receiving a new lance.

Fortunately, this time we both glanced off each other, so I didn’t stagger.

Finding the cavalry commander’s center of gravity wasn’t easy. An experienced tournament veteran wouldn’t easily expose weaknesses. The moment we collided in the third exchange, my lance seemed to connect properly this time. The cavalry commander’s upper body staggered, but he held on. I was sure I’d struck the upper shield, though.

In the fourth exchange, I noticed the cavalry commander’s body leaning slightly forward.

At that moment, I recalled the bad habits of championship contenders that Hilda had explained to me.

’The cavalry commander has a bad habit.’

’A habit? What kind of habit?’

’When he gets excited, his upper body sometimes leans forward.’

’How do you even know that?’

’Whenever tournaments were held, I carefully studied the championship contenders. How else would I have prepared to face them?’

That was definitely the bad habit Hilda had mentioned.

If I kept trading blows like this, I would lose to the cavalry commander. With little experience and being unfamiliar with joust matches, did I really stand a chance in a prolonged battle? My concentration seemed to reach its peak. This was my opportunity. I faced the cavalry commander without fear and aimed squarely at the upper part of his shield.

With his upper body leaning forward, the impact to his torso would be amplified.

Crash!

Crack!

"Argh!"

My body staggered violently from the tremendous impact, but I gritted my teeth and held on. A metallic taste of blood swirled in my mouth. Damn, had I failed? I thought I’d hit the cavalry commander’s upper shield precisely. The lance in my hand was shattered to pieces. And then cheers like thunder erupted from the audience.

Waaaah!

When I turned my horse’s head to look back, I could see the unhorsed cavalry commander. My attack had landed. The cavalry commander was struggling to stand up. I was seeing this side of the always arrogant and rough cavalry commander for the first time.

He seemed very agitated, roughly grabbing his subordinates’ arms as he hauled himself up.

I raised my broken lance to show I was fine to Hilda, who must have been watching with bated breath. The cheers seemed to grow louder. The proud cavalry commander paid me the ransom and immediately requested a rechallenge. Of course he would. I also took my place on the joust field again with a new lance.

The cavalry commander’s upper body was still subtly leaning forward. It seemed he was unaware of his own habit. In modern sports, analyzing opponents would be standard practice, but no such concept of analysis existed in this era.

In that sense, Hilda had unwittingly become the finest strategic analyst.

Crash!

Having gained confidence, I bravely clashed with the cavalry commander in the rechallenge bout. Having found the method, I concentrated even harder and targeted the upper part of the shield as though striking a slow-moving target. After a fierce battle that went to five exchanges, the cavalry commander fell from his horse once more.