Crack.

On the ground, Averardo caught Lothar's descending blade bare-handed. The rings of his mail gauntlets trapped the edge, holding it a finger's width from his throat.

"Good. Very good. You've made me angry."

Just as the crowd sensed the tide turning, with Lothar on the verge of an impossible comeback, Averardo erupted. His muscles swelled, dense as granite, and he hurled Lothar off him like a man throwing a child. He surged toward his bastard sword, still buried point-first in the mud.

Lothar gave him no chance. His monstrous Stamina had him on his feet in an instant; he drove his shoulder into Averardo and sent both of them crashing to the ground.

He half-sworded his arming blade and drove it toward the slit of Averardo's great helm. But Averardo was faster. He crossed his arms, blocked the thrust, then twisted. His gauntleted hands clamped Lothar's blade and wrenched it in two with a shriek of tortured steel.

"Get off me!" The roar was almost inhuman.

Bang. Lothar was kicked away again. Both men were empty-handed now. Beneath their helms, their breath came like broken bellows.

Lothar narrowed his eyes. Averardo was bigger than before. The once-loose surcoat now strained at its seams. He stood slightly hunched and still looked like a small giant.

"What in God's name are you?"

Averardo's laugh was cold. "Guess."

The roar of the crowd swallowed their words. Lothar had no intention of shouting an accusation to the stands. He'd only caught a glimpse of those eyes: not proof. Even if he was absolutely certain Averardo was not human, without evidence he'd only make himself a laughingstock. And in this chaos, no one would hear him anyway.

"What if I yield?"

"Too late for that." Averardo's voice was a low, dark snarl. "You won't get the chance. Raise your hand to signal surrender, and I'll kill you right there."

Raising a hand to yield. In any other fight, the simplest gesture in the world. Against Averardo, it would be opening his guard.

Averardo could kill him and call it reflex: instinct, nothing more. In the lists, life and death were left to fate. No one would blame him.

"That's unfortunate."

Lothar's voice was bland. Then his body uncoiled like a loosed bowstring. He lunged, not at Averardo, but at the bastard sword lying in the mud.

"Cunning little bastard." Averardo swore and threw himself forward. The heavy armor barely slowed him. Just as Lothar's fingers were about to close on the sword-grip, Averardo grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet. Before Lothar could rise, Averardo drove his fist down onto Lothar's leg. The pain was blinding, all-consuming.

Lothar clenched his teeth and swallowed the scream. He kicked out, caught Averardo's helm with his boot, and shoved him back. And in that moment, his hand found the bastard sword.

Averardo did not look worried. He stood over Lothar, light in his tone. "Your leg's broken. How do you plan to fight me now?"

Lothar gave a bitter laugh. He used the bastard sword as a crutch and forced himself upright on his shattered leg. Then he looked toward the edge of the list, toward Prajna.

This time, my life is in your hands, Prajna.

If he'd known Averardo possessed this kind of monstrous strength, he'd never have pushed it this far. A Champion Knight title and some coin, he had never planned to swear himself to Count Leopold anyway.

Averardo, thinking Lothar had lost focus, circled to attack from behind. Outside the wooden railing, Prajna's face frosted over. The people around her edged away without knowing why, leaving a circle of empty space ten meters wide.

In Lothar's ears, the System chimed like Heaven's own music.

Affinity with Legendary Retainer "Prajna" has increased to Friendly.

First Bond-Shared Talent unlocked: Stonefort (Become immune to all physical damage for 3 seconds.)

You will share one of your Talents with Retainer Prajna.

Since you possess only one Talent, it defaults to: Two Lives, One Soul (The fusion of two souls grants you double the spiritual strength of an ordinary man. Permanent SPI +5.)

Lothar didn't waste time reading further. He activated Stonefort.

Averardo's fist slammed into him. It did nothing. No pain. Not even a sting. The force staggered him, but he planted his feet and stood.

"Stay down!" Averardo lunged, tore the bastard sword from Lothar's grip and flung it away, then drove Lothar into the dirt.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Iron fists hammered down. Lothar seemed utterly helpless, taking blow after blow without resistance.

In the stands, some noblewomen flushed with excitement. Most covered their faces in pretended distress.

"Averardo is so powerful... I wonder whether he is the same in bed?"

"That Lothar fought well too. Pity Averardo is stronger."

"Heavenly Father above, this is too cruel. I never imagined such a refined knight as Averardo could be so savage in combat."

Averardo's body locked up.

Lothar's hand held a jagged shard of steel: the broken tip of his arming sword. He had driven it upward, through the back of Averardo's neck, where the mail was stretched thin by his lowered head.

"Good God, what did he do?"

"That's the tip of his sword! When did he palm that?"

"Dishonorable! He used trickery to kill Averardo!"

The crowd seethed.

Thud. Lothar shoved the heavy body off him. He could feel Averardo's swollen frame deflating, like a bladder pierced.

A ghastly, skin-crawling laugh rasped from beneath Averardo's helm. Dark, tarry blood bubbled through the visor slit. Averardo's voice came weak and broken. "So. You're not human either. You just wait. Sooner or later… you'll end up like me. The Heavenly Father doesn't watch over… our kind."

Lothar ignored the storm of noise around him. He looked across the field to Prajna. Her eyes above the veil were as cold and clear as the moon. She had looked that way from the start: she had never really worried for him.

He reached down and ripped open Averardo's visor.

Beneath it was a head covered in grey fur: a wolf's head, jaws frozen in a death snarl, fangs bared.

The crowd's roar cut off. Then redoubled.

"My God—Averardo? Is that Averardo?"

"Heavenly Father… what did I just see? Averardo's head—it's a wolf!"

"Averardo was a werewolf! A foul werewolf! And none of us knew! No wonder his stamina never flagged!"

"That man—that Lothar—he killed a werewolf! A creature out of legend!"

Count Leopold turned to his witch advisor, his face a study in doubt. The red-robed woman smiled. "Averardo was indeed a werewolf. But his blood-scent was faint. No vengeful spirits clung to him. He was not a wanton killer."

Leopold's voice was sharp with anger. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

The witch's smile did not waver. "Why would I? What harm is there in recruiting a powerful werewolf into your service?"

Leopold fell silent. No one had heard the short exchange. On the field, the uproar was threatening to blow the sky apart. And the man at the center of it, Lothar, staggered once and collapsed. His duel with Averardo had drained him to the last drop.

That evening, in the bathhouse of Lienz, Lothar let his body float motionless in the water. His recovery was swift: a Stamina above ten gave him restorative power beyond ordinary men. The bruises were already receding.

Even the worst, on his calf, had faded to a faint shadow. Thank God he'd worn mail chausses. A poor knight in cloth leggings would have had his leg snapped clean through.

The bathhouse was said to have been built over the ruins of an old imperial structure: and it showed in the vast, airy space. Incense curled from brass burners. Maidservants waited in the wings, their silhouettes visible through the gauze curtains, ready to attend to any desire.

This land had once been the province of Noricum, under the old empire. The empire was dust now, yet men still looked back on that buried civilization with awe and longing. To this day, the Eastern Empire remained the light of the world.

Successive lords of Lienz had preserved and expanded the bathhouse. Though it had long since been converted from a public facility into the lord's private retreat.

Medieval people's reputation for never bathing came later: after the Black Death. Some priest had argued that bathing opened the pores and let the pestilence in. Before that, medieval folk had loved the bathhouse, a place for both gossip and leisure.