Vote for Your Knight! - Chapter 11
– Event: Whack-a-mole.
– Personal weapons are allowed.
– No warhorses, please.
Whack-a-Mole was basic training for novice knights. In this event, lower-tier mechanical dolls shaped like moles pop up from the ground, and the goal is to destroy them. It was a relatively straightforward evaluation of martial skills.
‘Those who have consistently trained or belong to specific factions would have an advantage’
The evaluation took place in the capital’s amphitheater.
As Coustou entered, he pondered the upcoming challenge. The odds were stacked against someone like him, a slave who never received any formal combat training.
‘The Princess wouldn’t use her pardon power for an expendable participant that would be eliminated in the first evaluation round.’
There must be something more to it.
Coustou’s eyes widened just as thunderous music began to flow through the amphitheater. The loud sound made his heart pound.
“Hey, this is it!”
A competitor passing by shouted to his companion.
“It’s the song of victory dedicated to the first Knights of Equis.”
“Wow, no wonder it gives you a thrill the moment you hear it.”
A victory song.
‘They’re trying to boost enthusiasm even before it begins.’
This was a strategy by someone who clearly understands that the environment can change people.
‘I don’t know whose idea it was, but it seems to have worked.’
The faces of the participants lit up in anticipation.
Coustou stepped into the amphitheater. In the center of the arena, there was a stage that looked like a maze, and the seats were divided into rows facing each other. The participants were seated only on one side.
‘That side must be the waiting area.’
Then, is the opposite side where they sit after the evaluation?
When Coustou entered, many participants had already arrived. Most of them were clustered by region or faction.
Coustou was about to sit down, but stopped. There were numbers written on the seats.
From 100 to 1.
‘This another scheme of hers, isn’t it?’
Interestingly, most of the participants were gathered around the middle seats, and the lower rows close to 100 were sparsely populated. Number one, however, already had an occupant.
Occasionally, there were attempts among participants to compete for the number 1 seat, but the owner of the seat remained unchanged. Seeing the opponents who faced off against the seat’s occupant leaving with a chill, Coustou casually chose seat number 62.
“Oh, that seat has an owner.”
Then it happened. A conceited guy with crossed legs spoke disdainfully. He was at seat number 63. When Cousteau tried to sit at 64, 63 waved his hand again.
“That seat has an owner too.”
“Seats have owners now?”
“What? Why are you so short with me? Even a slave has an owner, so why wouldn’t there be an owner for a seat?”
The man snapped.
It was only then that Coustou realized the guy’s gaze was fixed on the slave mark on his right forearm.
‘He saw the slave brand.’
Slavery was officially forbidden in the Empire. Still, there were those who discriminated against former slaves, like this man.
“No matter how many applicants there are, they even let slaves participate!”
The man shouted loudly and deliberately, drawing everyone’s attention to Coustou—the hidden recording devices throughout the amphitheater too.
“If I hadn’t surrendered my weapons at the entrance,” said 63, “I would have chopped you down right here.”
Even without a weapon, they could fight with their bare hands. When Coustou clenched his fist to show that he was ready, the guy flinched.
‘Not worth the trouble.’
Coustou chuckled and moved to seat number 57, a bit farther away. He heard someone yelling, ‘Sit in the number behind me!’ but he ignored it.
Those around number 57 quietly avoided Coustou.
‘Can’t believe I’m hated right from the start.’
How could he receive votes and survive in a situation like this?
As Coustou was lost in thought, there was a commotion at the entrance.
“Hey, that person is also in the Cartamen!”
“His Excellency, Duke David Bertier, you’re here!”
There he was, the famous knight of knights, David Bertier. He graciously received greetings from everyone, some of whom pretended to be acquainted. Among them was the guy who had pestered Coustou.
“Duke David, do you remember me? I am Count Monsieux.”
‘It must be more tiring to be so popular than to be hated.’
Coustou observed David with a detached gaze. Then, their eyes met.
David’s gaze followed his, and the others turned in unison.
‘Damn it.’
It’s better not to get involved with someone too popular. Coustou pretended not to notice, but it was already too late.
“Your Excellency, Duke David, do not go that way. There’s a slave there.”
“Come this way and we’ll gladly sit with you.”
“No, please sit next to me.”
David patted his hand gently, then trotted away.
Towards seat 56.
Right next to Coustou.
