[Whether it was the establishment of the Windmill City or the founding of the knightly class, both were already blueprints you had long conceived.]
[They were part of your plans even before you ever set foot on the soil of Britain.]
[You knew from the very beginning that within this land, where remnants of the Age of Gods still linger, mysteries might exist everywhere, yet they were impossible to gather in their entirety—they were not only hidden in the natural environment but also carried within the bodies of the native inhabitants, the Celts who survived from the mythic age.]
[Thus, you had already decided: since they cannot all be gathered, you would not attempt to gather them.]
[Since they cannot all be encompassed, you would not attempt to encompass them.]
[Instead, you would make them come to you of their own accord.]
[The role of "Windmill City," Equinus, was precisely this.]
[And the establishment of the knightly class was even more beneficial for you to uncover the mysteries hidden within their bloodlines, and to collect the "martial arts" of Celtic warriors.]
[——To become a recognized knight required being granted a knight's "medal."]
[——And to earn such a "medal," one had to receive the recognition of you, the "Duke of Knights," and demonstrate their skill before you.][Through this process, everything you witnessed could be engraved into your record.]
[Everything you "felt" could be condensed within the circuits of thought and stored, however briefly.][Thus, the intelligence you gathered on martial techniques only continued to grow.]
[And indeed, the reality unfolded as you had anticipated.]
[Although you were not yourself versed in martial arts, your eye for appraisal was sufficient. Those who passed your trials and were recognized as knights within Equinus—granted with a measure of authority within the Windmill City—were not only endowed with the proper "knightly spirit" but also possessed the martial techniques to embody that spirit.]
[Having lived through countless lives, your eye for such matters was naturally extraordinary. If you were to grade all martial arts you had ever witnessed, the highest would, without doubt, be the fusion of divine-level physique and technique of Attila—your master in this life—followed by the god-tier martial prowess of Minamoto no Raikou, the split manifestation of Bishamonten's bull-headed avatar. Both stood as beings beyond the normal realm—within the rank of "Infinite Martial Refinement."]
[This "Infinite Martial Refinement" represented the pinnacle, a martial discipline forged by fusing together the entirety of an era's techniques, ultimately smelted into the highest form of combat art.]
[Of course, even within the "Infinite Martial Refinement," there were variations. Though this level was sufficient to contend with "gods," the divine realm itself was vast. Below Attila and Raikou stood Watanabe no Tsuna, one of Raikou's Four Heavenly Kings, who also mastered "Infinite Martial Refinement"—though his was specifically tailored against demonic entities, highly effective yet less versatile in combat against non-demonic foes.]
[Nevertheless, in terms of pure technique, Watanabe Tsuna was the strongest you had witnessed apart from Attila and Raikou—the very limit of what "humans" could achieve.]
[If one were to generalize martial rankings based on your observations:]
[The rank of "Infinite Martial Refinement" would stand at the apex—the highest level of the divine realm.]
[Beneath that would be the "highest not-of-god," a stage where one may not yet touch divinity, but could achieve "thoughtless action," moving before intent itself—a domain Westerners would call "great heroes," and in the East, "saints."]
[Below that would be the "domain of heroes," warriors capable of hunting down the mighty beasts of the age of myth, transcending ordinary battle arts to become legends of their time.]
[One tier lower would be the "art of a hundred battles," martial skill honed only through surviving dozens or even hundreds of campaigns—a level no ordinary man without genius or luck could ever hope to reach.]
[And below that stood merely the "skills of the common man," the techniques any ordinary fighter might acquire.]
[Though the lower bounds of the divine realm did not always exceed the upper reaches of the saintly rank, and although unique heroic techniques might, through sheer peculiarity, overwhelm even great heroes in certain circumstances, as a general framework this classification left little room for error.]
[Within this system, the minimum standard for those you deemed worthy of knighthood was mastery of the "art of a hundred battles." Among them, a select few even touched upon the "domain of heroes."]
[Though none reached the level of great heroes, it was sufficient for your purposes—to fill your "arsenal of martial knowledge."]
[Quantity made up for quality: with hundreds of such warriors, the martial repository within your thought circuits steadily rose to the level of the "domain of heroes." Enough to allow you, in most situations, to execute correct "movements" by drawing upon these imprints.]
[By your calculations, a thousand knights of "hundred battle" level could elevate your repository to the rank of great heroes; ten thousand could touch upon "Infinite Martial Refinement." If one could also acquire the techniques of beings like Attila and Raikou, this process might even be shortened.]
[Difficult though it may be, if one were to gather the entirety of an era, it would not be impossible.]
[For once you reached the threshold of "Infinite Martial Refinement," the foundation of your martial Mystic Code would be set. The "collection" stage would be complete, and the stage of "condensation" would begin.]
[Yet, as things stood, though Britain abounded with strong warriors, the absolute peaks of pure martial art were few. Within a year, you had already tested nearly all those who could meet your threshold of the "hundred battles."]
[Perhaps stronger figures yet existed within this land.]
[But they would not come to you willingly.]
[Though renowned as the "Duke of Knights," your youth and shallow seniority were insufficient to compel the seasoned and the famous.]
[Thus, you knew: remaining within the Windmill City and waiting was useless.]
[You had to set forth yourself—on a journey.]
[Fortunately, thanks to your prior selection, this journey would not be blind searching.]
[And by now, the Windmill City had already entered stable development, no longer requiring your daily governance.]
[The knightly class had spread throughout Britain, flourishing.]
[Your desire to unearth more of this ancient land's mysteries remained burning.][This journey would be your chance.]
"I knew it—you'd definitely leave the city sooner or later."
Outside the Windmill City, one could see beyond the towering walls, where dozens upon dozens of massive windmills turned against the vast azure sky.
A girl, waiting beyond the gates, let out a proud little hum as she caught sight of the mounted figure riding forth. Her words brimmed with self-satisfaction.
Lucan blinked slightly at the sight of Morgan, surprised for a moment. Was it really so obvious? Though he had made little effort to conceal his intentions.
He took in the golden-haired maiden's attire—today she had deliberately shed her usual finery, donning instead a simple black linen cloak. A leather belt cinched at her waist, outlining the fullness of her chest, while the cloak's split hem revealed calves encased in deerskin boots.
The short skirt traced the roundness of her hips, while a leather satchel slung over her shoulder gave her the air of a traveler. Her radiant hair was loosely tied back, baring her pale neck and delicate face.
Her sapphire-blue eyes shimmered faintly, almost as though she had long been waiting for this.
"This morning, you already had that distracted look of yours—like a young wolf catching the scent of prey!"
Morgan, two years Lucan's senior at eighteen, spoke with teasing certainty. But in truth, she had not guessed—she had seen. She had always kept a watchful eye on Lucan, attuned to even the smallest of his movements.
"And so?"
From atop his horse, Lucan looked down upon the girl standing at ground level, his slanted gaze lending him an air of superiority.
The sight made Morgan snort softly, then she declared, "So…?"
Her lips curved into a sly grin."Don't you want all the hermits of Britain to believe—" she coughed, adopting a bard's cadence—"—that defeating you would earn the favor of Princess Morgan herself?"
Her attempt at theatrical flourish broke mid-line, and she nearly burst out laughing.
Of course, she knew well that Lucan had been collecting martial techniques. Though she did not fully understand why a magus would be so obsessed with such things, she never sought to obstruct him.
Naturally… what she truly wanted was simply to travel together.
following this guy...should be fun, right?