The bouts continued. Every so often, the body of a knight or a horse was carried from the field.

Lothar's second-round opponent was the poor knight he'd spotted earlier: the one exchanging longing glances with the noble girl in the stands. The man wore a cheap ridge helm, his surcoat faded from too many washings, rust freckling the rings of his mail. His swordsmanship was passable, but Lothar beat him cleanly all the same.

Lothar had no intention of playing matchmaker by throwing the bout. Even if he deliberately lost, the poor knight would only be eliminated in the next round. And the next opponent might not be so merciful. The odds of him bleeding out on the field were far too high. The poor knight understood this, too.

"Thank you. For your restraint."

Lothar shook his head. "Don't mention it. But if I may speak plainly, you need decent armor before you step into a tournament again."

The man's face was bitter. "I had hoped to beat a wealthy knight in the first round and claim his harness. Unfortunately, my opponent was another landless knight like myself. In any case… please don't take such risks again."

"The tournament field can be crueler to you than the battlefield. In the chaos of war, a peasant with a pitchfork and a cloth shirt can still kill a noble knight. On the tourney ground, that can never happen."

The poor knight let out a long breath. To compare him to a lowly peasant levy was, in some knights' ears, an insult. But he understood the kindness in the warning. And for a landless, impoverished knight, he had never truly believed he was so much higher than the men who labored in the fields.

"I thank you for your counsel. I am Ned Stark of Holstein. I will send my ransom to your squire after the lists conclude."

Lothar waved a hand. "Keep it. Use it to buy yourself proper armor. Your skill is solid: your equipment drags you down." He glanced toward the stands, where a young noblewoman clutched her handkerchief, her face tight with worry. "May the Heavenly Father grant you your heart's desire."

An opponent like this was easy to beat, but there was nothing to squeeze from him. Forcing a man to empty his pockets for a pittance of ransom sat wrong with Lothar's values.

"Thank you for your generosity." Ned's voice was thick with gratitude. "May the Heavenly Father watch over a man of such high virtue. May you find glory, and may all your ventures prosper."

Lothar waved again and left the field.

As the day wore on, the sky grew brighter rather than darker. The grey clouds unraveled overhead, and the sun broke through, blinding-bright.

Lothar faced opponent after opponent. A church knight from Cologne. A monastic knight of some minor order. And more knights like Averardo: glory-hunting noble sons with heavy purses. They came from Lombardy, Gaul, Albion, Germania. This tournament had gathered nearly every species of knight in Christendom.

Many of them shared Lothar's goal: ride from here to Venice and take ship, or march overland through the Eastern Empire, to join the Crusade. The only ones absent were the knights of Iberia: the Reconquista was still grinding on. The Moorish powers had weakened, but a thin camel was still bigger than a horse, and with the backing of Morocco and its allies, Iberia was a crusading front in its own right. Diverting more men eastward was unrealistic.

After several rounds of fighting and watching, Lothar was forced to admit a truth: the richer the knight, the stronger he tended to be. Two wealthy Lombard knights had even appeared in half-plate armor, a rarity in this era, and their opponents could barely scratch them.

Even setting equipment aside, the wealthy knights were generally better warriors. They ate more meat and built stronger bodies. They could hire better, and more expensive, riding masters and sword instructors. Or they simply inherited family martial traditions passed down through generations. Poor scholars, rich warriors: the rule held true in every age, in every land.

Fortunately, Lothar's father, Count Werner, was himself a highly skilled knight who had won considerable spoils in the Crusade. This put Lothar, if only barely, into the category of "rich knight."

The field of contestants thinned. Lothar's rest intervals shortened. Often he would beat an opponent and withdraw, only to be called back after two or three more bouts. He felt like a bow, the string drawing tighter and tighter.

Hans, for all his solid stats, simply lacked combat experience. He defeated three opponents before finally falling. Mercifully, his last opponent hadn't been able to press the advantage, barely standing himself, and so demanded no ransom. Hans's three victories earned thirty solidi of varying quality; the losers had been men of some means, willing to pay to keep their bonded horses and precious armor.

Lothar's luck was far worse. Most of his opponents were paupers, men who'd stumbled through on grit and fortune. Even beating them yielded little in spoils. He once received denarii so blackened that the silver content must have been almost nil.

Still, he accepted the payment. He had no wish to be miserly, stripping a beaten man of his modest, aging armor and making an ugly scene.

A knight's reputation for generosity mattered. Too much penny-pinching, and the gathered knights and bards would carry names like "the Jew of Aargau" or "the Shylock of Aargau" across the land. Not that the Renaissance had produced The Merchant of Venice yet.

…

By the semi-final, both Lothar and his opponent were at the end of their reserves. Exhaustion had stripped both men of the strength for a quick finish. They battered at each other again and again: weapon on shield, weapon on armor, body on body.

At last, Lothar saw his opening. A shield-bash knocked the man's guard wide. He slammed his pommel into the knight's helm, stunning him, then tore the helm off and delivered a headbutt that put the man down unconscious.

Finally. A win.

Since there'd been no blood, the experience from defeating these knights was pitifully small. But he'd been close to Level 2 already. This last victory nudged the experience bar over the edge.

In an instant, his drained reserves flooded back. His condition snapped to full. Even the accumulated fatigue of days of hard riding washed away.

Lothar raised his sword to the crowd. The crowd answered with a roar of applause. They had come to like this young knight who had battled his way to the final, generous with the poorer losers, forgiving ransom after ransom. After this tournament, even if Lothar failed to claim the champion's crown, the name "Lothar of Aargau" would ring across the eastern frontier.

In the future, when he became a landed lord in Jerusalem, he might not draw a flood of knights at a single shout, but he'd be far better off than a nameless nobody.

As for the three new attribute points: Spirit was out. Spirit improved reflexes, mental resistance, and mana pool. With no active skills, he had no use for mana.

Strength was out too. As a knight, his charge power came from his horse; his attack was more than sufficient. On foot, even a bit more muscle wouldn't cut through plate.

What decided his survival was Stamina and Endurance. But Endurance mainly raised defense, and even if he poured all three points into it, his skin would never match solid steel. And he still hadn't drawn a healer Retainer. With this era's abysmal medicine, a simple cold or a passing plague could kill him. Right now, survival came first.

He put all three points into Stamina.

If the old Lothar, at STA 8, had been a strong knight of ordinary human caliber, the new Lothar, at STA 11, had begun to edge past the human ceiling. Common diseases could no longer touch him. Wounds that would kill an ordinary man would only wound him, however gravely. The surge of eleven Stamina was intoxicating: his body thrummed with seemingly inexhaustible energy, roaring to be spent.

In the stands, the witch beside Count Leopold studied Lothar with a long, knowing look. The corner of her mouth curved upward. But she said nothing. Her gaze drifted to Prajna instead. She attributed the change in Lothar to what she assumed was a powerful fellow witch.

She didn't wonder why a witch of such strength would bind herself to a minor knight. Witches were creatures of emotion. Love had blinded more than a few.