Chapter 249: Commoners Defeated the Knights
Oscar and the three magicians silently watched the spatial fluctuations ripple around Agamemnon, like waves stirred upon the calm surface of a lake.
The array beneath him emitted an increasingly dazzling blue glow. The three magicians strained to stabilize the quivering array until, all at once, the vibrations ceased. Agamemnon’s body slumped to the ground, and only then did the magicians’ tense expressions loosen somewhat.
Alva said, “Your Church is truly reckless, letting a child of his age play with something this dangerous. The power he just released was enough to engulf all of York City.”
Horst said, “But your special Holy Relic is more useful than any Sacred Relic. This level of power only cost him ten years of his life.”
Then he turned to Oscar. “Can the method for crafting such a Holy Relic be traded?”
Oscar shrugged and said, “You can go ask the great Bishop. He’s the one who made it.”
Horst said, “Alright, I think I’ve figured out how he did it anyway.”
Alva cut in, saying, “Now that the Holy Relic’s power has been stored within the Earth Veins of Viscount Youn’s territory, such an enormous amount should be enough. We’ll take our leave for now. Of course, the price you paid is only enough for this one favor.”
Oscar said, “But this matter isn’t finished yet. What if he has other ideas? Why don’t you wait until he wakes up? I can pay more.”
Alva grinned. “With the persistence and faith of your Church, what could you possibly offer that would interest us? We agreed to help out of curiosity, to make contact with you, nothing more.”
Horst nodded, then said, “Alright, settle the payment. I need to hurry and prepare an escape passage—every moment is precious now.”
Oscar could only reply, “Very well. It seems anything further will have to be done by my own hand.”
With that, he drew out three platinum-colored coins and tossed them over.
Alva and Horst caught the coins and vanished on the spot.
Oscar looked strangely at Varo, who had not left, and asked, “Mage Varo, do you have some business still?”
Varo did not put away the coin he had caught. Instead, he extended his hand toward Oscar, opening his palm. “I need to redeem this coin.”
On the platinum coin, there was only a simple cross, nothing else. Yet any Priest of the Church of the Sanctuary could sense the heavy Blessing infused within.
This was the true currency of the transaction. No matter how much time passed, as long as one carried this coin—and had not committed a grave sin—he would receive the Church’s unconditional protection.
When Oscar first learned that Agamemnon intended to use this as a condition to hire magicians, he had nearly laughed aloud. With such a condition? No magician would care.
Look at the prerequisite: no grave sin.
Could someone truly study magic without committing what the Church deemed a grave sin?
This was no Monastery scholar merely dabbling in magic.
He had wanted to persuade Agamemnon that instead of using the coin, it would be more reliable to have Puniel provide materials from Dark Creatures to hire a magician’s aid.
But when Agamemnon explained that this coin came from the Bishop himself, Oscar had fallen silent.
He extended the invitation to the magicians he had been in contact with over the past two years. To his surprise, three had accepted.
And now, this mage named Varo had directly demanded to redeem the coin. That astonished him further.
He said, “Mage Varo, you must understand: the prerequisite for this condition is the absence of grave sin. The Bishop must baptize you. If you are guilty, your soul will be erased. Think of those magicians who perished trying to touch the Lord’s power.”
On this matter, Oscar was the most qualified to speak. He had merely brushed against that power, and now he would work for the Lord for the rest of his life.
Varo said, “Yes, I know. That is precisely why I wish to redeem this coin.”
Oscar clicked his tongue. He could hear the determination in Varo’s voice and could only say, “Very well. Please wait here, then. When Agamemnon finishes his task, you may return with me.”
Varo nodded, standing motionless.
Oscar, meanwhile, manipulated his magic to arrange Agamemnon’s body into a more comfortable position.
……
Ahead stood the armored knights, while they were but a host of flesh and blood.
Such was the thought of the priests and commoners charging at the front.
Fear lingered in their hearts.
But the priests still steadied their trembling legs, raising the Sacred Scriptures and crying aloud:
“I am a servant of the Lord, a devout believer! You are sinners condemned by the Lord! We shall be the Lord’s hands and feet, to purify your sins! Even with this fragile flesh, the Lord of Hosts is with me! The gates of Heaven are open before me!”
They only shouted, as if to give themselves courage. They remembered Agamemnon’s command: they were forbidden from using the power of Divine Word. They could only chant the name of the Lord of Hosts, steadfastly believing that everything they did was by the Lord’s will, everything was right.
And the commoners, in contrast, were even more resolute. They showed not the slightest fear. They raised farming tools and wooden sticks, crying out: “The Lord is with me!” “Lord, grant me strength!” “For the Heavenly Kingdom!” as they charged forward.
The knights, seeing these peasants without even leather armor rushing toward them, almost wanted to laugh together. But seeing their fearless eyes, they found themselves unable to sneer.
Perhaps their comrades felt the same.
Yet when the commander knight raised his lance, they too raised their lances.
They urged their steeds. Hooves struck the earth—at first in small steps, then faster and faster, until they thundered in a full charge.
The thunder of hooves filled the air—his, his brothers’ in the same line, the squires behind, and finally, the synchronized marching of the footmen.
This was their pride as knights.
Yes, they were knights. Knights who killed. Against mere peasants. Just as always, they needed only to shatter their courage, then butcher those who resisted, and finally gather the survivors for the squires to practice their killing, molding them into proper knights.
The knight felt all the pressure inside him lift. A smile crept across his face as he spurred his partner of five years into the fiercest charge.
Until, when he could clearly see the face of the foremost priest of the Church of the Sanctuary, he suddenly felt… drowsy. Not the kind of drowsiness one could fight off by biting one’s tongue. His limbs went numb. He could not tell if his legs still clutched his horse, or if his hand still held his lance. The world before him dimmed to gray, then—
Relief, and he drifted into a sweet dream.
Before he slipped fully into slumber, he vaguely heard a fervent shout:
“Behold! These sinners have abandoned resistance! We act in the Lord’s justice! The Lord is with us!”
The priest cried out, eyes blazing with zeal, even as his ribs broke under the collision. His fear was gone.
When the knights reached them, they suddenly released their lances. The warhorses, once they plunged into the mob, were dragged down and pressed to the ground. The knights on their backs offered no resistance.
Nor did the squires, nor the warriors behind them.
A dozen unlucky souls were pierced by abandoned lances, yet not fatally. More were injured or killed by the uncontrolled horses.
But in the end—they had defeated the knights.
Was this not the Lord’s protection? These condemned warriors, upon meeting the believers of the Lord—those moved by His call to purify sin—all fell to their knees, begging the Lord’s cleansing.
Cheers rose high, hymns of praise. And those who had followed from Adrian Territory for various reasons, when they heard that York’s commoners had shattered the army led by knights, were stunned.
Some inexplicably fell asleep. The rest gasped in disbelief.
The commoners had defeated knights?!
Not even the scholars dared to write such tales.
In their muddled, dim lives, never had they heard of peasants defeating a knight-led army. In their own villages, even a single knight with his squire and thirty men-at-arms would make the gentry bolt their doors in fear.
But now—the peasants had triumphed?
How many knights? Three? Five? Ten? Twenty?
How many men-at-arms? A hundred? Three hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?
No matter. What mattered was that peasants had defeated knights leading soldiers.
Even those who had not fought at the front felt as though they stood beside the vanguard.
They were peasants!
And the weak peasants had overcome the mighty knights!
Thunderous cries of joy erupted: “The Lord is with me!” “The Lord protects me!”
They remembered, suddenly, the sermons repeated by the priests in their villages, telling of the Lord’s greatness, His Sacred Scriptures.
In this moment, they became devout believers. Raising tools and sticks, they rushed forward as if to join York’s commoners in battle.
They believed it was their devotion, the Lord’s protection, that allowed them to prevail.
As for those who suddenly collapsed into sleep—they thought, “They must be tired. When they wake, they’ll join us.”
Madness and fervor filled the air. They cried victory and praised the Lord of Hosts.
The levied soldiers of Viscount Youn, however, were seized with terror. When they saw the frenzied believers turn on them, they screamed, threw away their shoddy wooden spears, and fled.
They shouted words they had just heard from the victorious peasants—“Condemned!” “Guilty!” “The Lord shelters them!”—spreading panic as they fled back to their villages. There, they spread the tale: a mob of peasants had defeated an army led by knights.
In no time, the gentry cursed them for rumor-mongering, yet barred their manor gates, flung open the village gates, and refrained from their usual method of killing troublesome peasants.
……
“They won.” Agamemnon leaned weakly against a tree, blue light flickering in his eyes, a smile on his face.
He had not slept long. Oscar had scarcely set him comfortably when he awoke.
Oscar smiled. “No, it was you who won. The tale of commoners defeating knights—an unbelievable story, and yet it happened.”
Agamemnon said, “No, they won.”
His voice was frail, but his tone firm.
Oscar’s grin widened. “Ah, yes, yes—they won. I imagine old Caleb must regret not being here to witness it.”
Agamemnon said, “It isn’t over. They have another battle yet.”
Oscar asked, “Viscount Youn? If commoners can defeat knights, must they then defeat nobles too?”
Agamemnon said, “No. They must kill the noble.”
Oscar said, “But Viscount Youn is still a noble, with a Sacred Relic. Even if you blow the Slumbering Horn at him, he can resist for a time. And that’s enough for him to unleash his Sacred Relic. Even under the Horn’s influence, if he kills a thousand, the fervor we’ve built will crumble.”
Agamemnon said, “Yes. But Viscount Youn is only an Upper Warrior. Steal his Sacred Relic, and that will be enough.”
Oscar asked, “Have you arranged men?”
Agamemnon said, “No, I have not. I only asked Bevan for help. He promised to try contacting someone, though I don’t know if he succeeded. But I have already prepared to use Divine Word, even if—”
A loud clang cut him off.
They turned. Nearby, Varo had thrown a shield to the ground.
“Viscount Youn’s Sacred Relic—Shield of Saron,” he said.