Old Demlin waited for his son all night.
By the next day, Garwin's mother and sister couldn't sit still anymore. They went out searching for him, but returned empty-handed even by noon.
Old Demlin didn't go out. He just sat on the threshold, drinking in silence.
His wife began to complain, his daughter started to cry.
Demlin endured it all quietly, his eyes fixed on the doorway.
Outside, passersby streamed toward the arena.
"Have you heard? Today's the final day! They'll decide the top ten and hold the final challenge matches!"
"That bastard Turk is still number one?"
"Yeah…"
"Are there no more warriors in the Empire?"
"Why don't you get in there, then?"
Demlin listened, his face emotionless.
"Uncle Demlin! Garwin… he's gone to the arena!"
Bitri appeared breathless at the door.
Without another word, Demlin rushed out of the courtyard like a madman.
…
The arena was packed, banners fluttering like waves.
The crowd cheered wildly, shouting encouragement for their favorite fighters.
Vendors hawked drinks and snacks in the stands, while gamblers crowded around the bookies, yelling loudly.
"I bet on Yelhan! Fifty groschen!"
"I'm with him too!"
A tall young figure pushed through the crowd and stepped up to the bookie.
"I'm betting on myself—Garwin of the Nezhad family. Five ducats."
He tossed all his savings onto the ground. The gold coins clinked.
He smiled at the stunned onlookers.
By the time Demlin reached the arena, the preliminary rounds were already over.
The Turk, Yelhan, stood proudly in the center, taunting the crowd.
Suddenly, a young man jumped into the ring.
"Father, that's brother! We found him!"
His younger sister shouted joyfully.
Demlin's heart clenched tight.
…
Garwin walked toward the referee's table to register.
Spectators whispered as he passed by.
"That's the drunkard's big son. I live right across from them!"
"What's he doing? He must be a fool!"
"Shut up! At least he's braver than any of you cowards!"
"Yeah! At least he's standing up for Rome!"
"Hmph! Marching to his death—isn't that what fools do?"
"You—!"
Garwin ignored the chatter. Under the weight of pitying and mocking stares, he moved toward his goal.
"Just follow your heart."
He remembered Father Malvey's words.
What is my heart?
He looked up at the sky, recalling the time he fought to near death with a Latin boy to defend Rome's honor.
He remembered clapping joyfully as an old priest told stories of Roman victories.
He remembered how his hands trembled and his heart raced when he first learned of his holy knight ancestry.
He smiled.
"Yelhan of Ramazan! I am Garwin, of the Nezhad family—I challenge you!"
…
"Let me through! I'm his father! I won't let my child throw his life away!"
Demlin tried to force his way through the iron fence, the guards holding him back.
"Sir! He's already in the ring! You can't go in now!"
On the field, Garwin had donned his armor and picked up the sword he had forged himself.
In the challenge match, both fighters were allowed to use their own weapons.
Yelhan stood ready in the center.
"I thought all Greeks were cowards."
"Rome never lacked warriors."
"Kid, kneel now and beg, and I might spare you."
"You've already angered me. Even if you beg, I won't let you live."
Swish!
Yelhan suddenly lunged, his blade thrusting toward Garwin's right shoulder.
Garwin dodged left, but the tip of the blade still nicked his shoulder, slicing off a piece of flesh.
The crowd gasped.
"Not bad!"
Yelhan struck again—Garwin raised his shield.
But Yelhan twisted his blade like a serpent, curving it around the shield toward Garwin's left arm.
Clang—
Garwin parried, deflecting the attack.
The two clashed again and again, exchanging dozens of blows.
Though Garwin fought fiercely, Yelhan's technique proved superior. Garwin's body was soon covered in wounds, blood soaking his armor.
The crowd's expressions shifted—from mockery, to surprise, to admiration, and finally, to righteous fury.
He was the first Roman to dare challenge the Turk and last this long.
"Big guy! Hang in there!" a girl shouted.
"Come on, Garwin!" Bitri prayed.
"Brother, fight! Beat the demon heretic!" his sister cried.
Demlin watched, eyes squeezed shut in pain.
Yelhan slammed his shield forward, knocking the exhausted Garwin to the ground.
Garwin scrambled back up, barely blocking Yelhan's next strike.
Crack—
Garwin's handmade iron sword shattered from the force, leaving him with only a broken hilt.
The stands erupted in gasps.
"Surrender, kafir. You're a brave one—I'll let you live."
Yelhan lifted Garwin and hurled him toward the broken blade.
"Your sword's broken. No point in continuing."
Yelhan sneered.
"Garwin! Get up!"
A voice cried out from the stands.
Soon, more and more joined in, praying for their hero.
Yelhan looked around with contempt at the crowd.
"They were too scared to fight, and now they cheer when you step forward to die."
"What a weak people. What a pitiful nation."
In the royal box, Andronika whispered to Isaac.
"Your Highness, we've confirmed that's Demlin's son. Should we stop the match? We could say the infidel's sword violates the rules."
Isaac gave him a look.
Have you no shame?
"Let's wait a bit longer."
Isaac recalled the calluses on that boy's hands. For some reason, he felt hopeful.
"All our efforts may have been wasted. Demlin will never forgive us."
Andronika grumbled.
"I just don't understand why he came here to die."
…
"With your skill, you could've been a court instructor, lived in luxury—why come here to die?"
Yelhan mocked, watching Garwin struggle to rise.
"For Rome."
"What?"
Yelhan leaned in, as if he'd heard a joke.
"For Rome!"
Garwin roared.
He hurled the shard of his sword at Yelhan.
Yelhan instinctively raised his arm to block.
Garwin lunged forward, kicked Yelhan's foot, then kicked the sword from his hand.
"I said—for Rome! Do you understand now, damn barbarian?"
Garwin tackled him and pummeled his face, blood splattering everywhere.
Only when Yelhan went limp did Garwin stagger to his feet, raising his broken sword high.
In the stands, Isaac was the first to rise, applauding. Beside him, Constantine's eyes sparkled with joy.
"For Rome!"
The arena exploded in cheers as people rushed toward their hero.
On the edge of the crowd, Demlin stood, watching his son bask in glory.
"Come, child. Let's go home."
He tugged his daughter's hand.
"Daddy, why are your eyes red?"
"Got sand in them."
…
That night, Garwin returned home after tending his wounds.
He didn't know how to face his father.
He pushed open the door and found Demlin sitting there, holding his sword. It startled Garwin.
"Father…"
"Have you eaten?"
Garwin nodded.
"Wounds treated?"
He nodded again.
"Isaac has invited me to join the Royal Knight Academy. I report tomorrow…"
Demlin unsheathed his longsword.
"Father…"
"You need a proper sword."
Demlin handed it to him.
Garwin didn't take it.
"Your Highness already gave me one…"
He drew the sword, bearing the Palaiologos crest.
"Actually, you need it more."
Demlin looked at his son for a moment.
"Go to bed."
The next morning, Garwin woke early, careful not to disturb anyone.
Outside, thick fog blanketed the streets. Guided by instinct, he found his way to the Royal Knight Academy.
As he turned a corner, ready to report, he ran into a massive figure.
"Sorry, it's my first time here—wait, you…?"
Demlin stood there, holding Alexios' longsword.