After Lothar withdrew, Averardo took the field again.

The knight who had swept Lombardy's tournaments was every inch the threat he'd shown himself to be. He carved through his path to the final with ease. Even the two walking tanks in their half-plate armor fell to his precise, methodical tactics.

"As expected of the man who took the name of Charlemagne's great knight! Averardo has dominated every bout: the gap in class is simply too wide."

"Averardo clearly has far more tournament experience. He conserves his energy better than a young knight like Lothar."

"The final is already decided. Averardo will claim yet another Champion Knight title."

"A pity. A tourney hosted in Greater Germania, and a Lombard walks away with the highest honor."

Lothar frowned, not out of resentment at being the underdog. Averardo had swept the city-states of Lombardy. Losing to a veteran like that was nothing to be ashamed of. Without the System, the original Lothar would have been only a reasonably talented knight, not a prodigy.

What gnawed at him was something else: how was Averardo still this fresh after so many rounds? There were ways to conserve stamina, but the man fought with a bastard sword: big, sweeping, punishing blows. Even with some special technique, he shouldn't be this composed.

I'm cheating with the System. How is an ordinary knight lasting this long?

The bout on the field was one-sided. Averardo's opponent was clearly running on fumes. Under Averardo's relentless assault, all he could do was block. It didn't take long for Averardo to spot the opening and send the man's arming sword spinning from his grip. Averardo, victor.

The fight had ended so quickly that Lothar barely had time for a mouthful of water before Laine and Modell were hoisting him back onto his horse. He took a fresh white-ash lance, salvaged from a defeated opponent; the two he'd bought were long since shattered, and raised his heater shield, blazoned with the rampant lion. After a full tournament's punishment, the iron-rimmed shield was battered and holed where lance after lance had punched through. He couldn't replace it with a captured shield, either: those bore the heraldry of other knights. Using one without painting over the crest was dishonorable, and most of them were in no better shape than his own.

Averardo had no such problem. His tournament experience showed: he'd brought spare shields. His arms, nine gold bezants scattered over the field, seemed to gleam with actual gold dust mixed into the paint, dazzling in the sun.

The herald's voice boomed: "And now—the moment that shall decide our Champion Knight! Lothar of Aargau against Averardo of Tuscany, in the final bout! The Heavenly Father above watches over these two brave souls. May He grant the final honor to the worthy! Amen!"

The crowd roared as the two knights entered the list.

"You made it to the end." Averardo raised his lance and leveled the tip at Lothar. "I'm genuinely impressed. But from here on, I hold nothing back. Yield now: spare yourself a wound that will not heal."

Lothar's voice came muffled through the great helm. "I'd offer you the same advice. Yield early. Spare the damage."

Neither man had powerful backing. Averardo de' Medici was a second son of a Tuscan house. For all his fame, he was still a landless knight making his own way in the world. Same as Lothar.

Lothar knew his father. If he died here, Count Werner would not grieve deeply. The man prized the interests of the family above all else. He would never let emotion drive him to exact revenge on Averardo.

And a death in the tournament lists: that was a death in open, honorable combat. No one could find fault. To seek vengeance for it was to earn the contempt of the entire noble world.

"Then let us begin."

Averardo rapped his shield with his lance and drove his spurs in hard. "Allez!"

Lothar spurred forward as well. The list was short: there was barely any room to build speed for a true charge. Both men drove their mounts as fast as the space allowed, straining for every ounce of impact.

Crash.

Both lances punched through the other's shield. The horses screamed under the strain. The colossal force ripped both riders from their saddles.

Lothar felt his body come apart: the spot on his chest where Averardo's lance had struck flared with searing pain. Not just a bruise. Something had cracked. Ribs, probably.

Averardo, struck just as squarely by Lothar's lance, was already on his feet. He raised his knight's sword and saluted the roaring crowd as though victory were already his.

"Averardo! Averardo!"

They chanted his name like a star being born. Beneath his helm, Averardo smiled. He had avoided swearing to any lord for this exact reason: he was waiting for the right offer. And Leopold's extravagant prize had clearly won him over.

In the stands, Prajna's grip tightened on the wooden rail. A rare coldness crept into her expression. Hans, Laine, and Modell were shouting. "My lord! Are you all right? We yield! Get our lord out of there!"

Lothar planted his arming sword in the dirt and pushed himself up. He shook his head at the frantic group: stay back, don't interfere. He looked down at his chest.

The surcoat was torn open, the mail rings beneath deformed and crushed. Chainmail was excellent against cuts and thrusts. It could not stop blunt trauma. If he hadn't pushed his Stamina beyond human limits, that blow would have ended him.

The crowd noticed him rising. The chanting faltered, replaced by a rising murmur of disbelief.

Averardo stared at Lothar. "Still want to continue? You're not my equal. Getting this far: you've already proven yourself."

A few troublemakers in the crowd screamed encouragement. "Come on, Lothar! Smash that Tuscan pretty-boy's face in!" "Don't shame Greater Germania! Get in there!"

Only two men remained. Every eye in the crowd was fixed on them. The other tournament events, archery, foot combat, javelin, were abandoned, forgotten. The entire mass of spectators pressed around the jousting field, shouting in French, Latin, German.

Lothar said nothing. Beneath the great helm, his breath came heavy and raw. He gripped his sword and shield, walked to Averardo, and struck his shield with his blade. The gesture's meaning was plain.

"I don't understand. Ending this early is better for us both." Averardo sighed. "But since you insist: let me show you what a twelve-tournament Champion Knight truly is."

Crack. He vaulted the wooden tilt barrier and met Lothar directly. His sword came down in a brutal overhead chop. The blade screamed through the air and slammed into Lothar's shield.

Lothar's hand went numb inside the mail glove. Averardo was striking with at least half again the force he'd shown in their first bout. He'd been holding back.

Clang. Steel met steel. Their blades crossed and locked. Averardo knocked Lothar's counter aside with his bastard sword.

"Do you feel it now? This is my true strength." His voice came hoarse from behind the visor. He threw his shield aside, gripped his sword in both hands, and raised it high. As Lothar lunged forward to exploit the opening, Averardo brought the blade down, shearing off one whole side of Lothar's iron-bound heater shield.

Lothar threw aside the ruined shield too. He fought to steady his breathing, eyes locked through the helm's narrow slit on every shifting muscle of his opponent.

Averardo surged forward again. Lothar half-sworded, one hand on the grip, one on the blade, and caught the blow crosswise. Before Averardo could recover his footing, Lothar drove a kick into his midsection, staggering him backward. Lothar seized the initiative and pressed in, sliding past the bastard sword's reach, a weapon made for cutting, not thrusting in close, and slammed his helmeted forehead into Averardo's face. Once, twice, a vicious chain of headbutts that left both men dizzy.

But in that close, almost face-to-face clinch, Lothar saw it.

Through the slit of Averardo's helm, the eyes staring back at him were not human. Vertical slits. Pupils like a beast's.

Shock flared in Lothar's gaze before he could hide it. Averardo realized what Lothar had seen. He twisted, threw Lothar off balance, and raised his sword: driving the point toward the slit of Lothar's visor. A killing blow.

Lothar wrenched free of Averardo's one-handed grip and twisted away. The bastard sword stabbed into the mud beside his cheek. Lothar pistoned both legs and kicked Averardo hard, sending him reeling. Lothar reversed the clinch: drove his weight onto Averardo, pinning him to the ground.

Two knights, reduced to this. Street brawling. But every knight who knew his craft understood: this was when the fight turned lethal.

In the stands, beneath the shadow of her cowl, the red-haired witch's lips curved upward. Count Leopold's face was a study in regret. He said to his witch, "Both Lothar and Averardo are men of rare quality. That the Heavenly Father demands a victor today, and only one, is truly a pity."