He stops directly in front of Louie, his eyes boring into him.
"My tourney's melee is tomorrow. A grand battle of forty knights. The winner receives a purse of gold large enough to buy a small keep. And,"
He adds, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur, "the champion of my tourney often finds lucrative employment in my service."
He has laid his cards on the table. It is not an order, but an offer. An invitation. A test. The prize purse for the duel, a small but significant sum, is brought forth by the page. The infusion of coin is welcome. But the true prize, the Baron's patronage, now hangs in the air, waiting for Louie's response.
The heavy, political silence of the Baron's pavilion is not just broken; it is atomized. Your voice, whining and filled with a litany of very specific, visceral complaints, erupts from the entrance. The Baron, who was in the middle of a delicate political maneuver, freezes, his mouth slightly agape. His household knights, who had been statues of grim professionalism, visibly startle.
"You should take it Lord Louie!" you exclaim, your voice a theatrical plea.
"I'm really, really sick of the dry jerky meat and bread that breaks my teeth! We had to work so hard to harvest so many monsters, my wrists still hurt from carving that manticore, and I got stung by its spikes! It was SOOOO close to my scrotum! I can't take it anymore!"
The words hang in the opulent air, a monument to absurdity. Louie de Braisechant, who had been standing as a pillar of cold resolve, flinches. It is a small, barely perceptible movement, but it is the flinch of a man who has just been stabbed in the back with a wet fish by his closest ally. He slowly closes his eyes, a look of profound, spiritual agony crossing his face for a split second before being replaced by his mask of stone.
Baron Faucher stares. He stares from your earnest, pleading face to Louie's stoic, mud-spattered form. The shrewd, calculating look in his eyes is momentarily replaced by a flicker of pure, unadulterated bafflement. He processes the words: monsters... carving a manticore... scrotum.
He is a man accustomed to the lies of courtiers, the threats of rivals, and the pleas of supplicants. He has never, in his entire life, had a high-stakes negotiation interrupted by a complaint about a near-miss with a manticore spike to the groin. The story is insane. It is also, in its own bizarre way, a plausible explanation for everything. It explains Louie's sudden, unrefined power. It explains your desperate need for coin.
It explains your presence here, far from home, seeking the patronage of a powerful lord. It is the perfect cover story, precisely because no sane person would ever invent it. The Baron lets out a long, slow breath.
The tension in his shoulders seems to dissolve, replaced by a look of weary, calculating amusement. He turns his gaze back to Louie, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips.
"A manticore," the Baron says, his voice a low, dry rumble. "A profitable, if dangerous, trade. It would seem your... expressive... retainer has made your decision for you." Louie opens his eyes. He looks at the Baron, then gives a single, stiff, and deeply pained nod.
"My retainer speaks out of turn," he says, his voice a tight, controlled baritone. "But his sentiment is... not entirely wrong. We are in need of a patron."
The Baron's smirk widens. The negotiation is over. He has his answer.
"Excellent," he says, clapping his hands together once, the sound sharp and final.
"Then it is settled. Enter the melee tomorrow, Braisechant. Show me that your victory today was not a fluke. Show me the strength of a man who can slay a manticore."
He gestures to the page, who has been watching the entire exchange with wide, terrified eyes. "See to it that Lord Braisechant and his man are given a pavilion of their own, and a meal worthy of their... labors." He looks you dead in the eye, and for a fraction of a second, you see a flicker of something that looks like grudging respect. "And see that the retainer's meal includes a very generous portion of roast beef."
[About 01:00 PM on Day 40]
The page, still looking slightly shell-shocked, leads you away from the Baron's opulent pavilion. You walk in silence through the bustling tourney grounds, a strange procession of three: a victorious knight in muddy armor, his bizarre retainer, and a nervous pageboy who is clearly reconsidering his career choices.
You are led to a small, unassuming pavilion of plain, undyed canvas. It is a world away from the Baron's silken fortress, but it is clean, dry, and private. Inside, two simple cots, a washbasin, and a small wooden table have been set up. It is a functional, spartan accommodation, but it is a vast improvement over sleeping in ditches.
The page gives a hasty bow.
"A meal will be brought shortly, my lords," he squeaks, before turning and practically fleeing. The tent flap falls shut, muffling the roar of the crowd and the chaos of the tourney grounds. For the first time since the duel, you and Louie are truly alone.
The silence is thick, heavy, and profound. Louie does not move. He stands in the center of the small tent, his back to you, his shoulders rigid with a tension that has nothing to do with the coming melee. He slowly, deliberately, reaches up and unclasps his helmet, setting it on the table with a soft, heavy thud.
He does not turn around. "Janus," he says, his voice a low, perfectly controlled monotone that is somehow more terrifying than a shout. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.
"I want you to explain to me, in very small, very simple words," he continues, his voice dangerously quiet,
"why you thought the best possible course of action in a high-stakes political negotiation with a Royalist Baron... was to complain about a near-fatal injury to your testicles."
He finally turns, and his face is a mask of pure, crystalline, and utterly exhausted agony. There is no anger. There is no frustration. There is only the look of a man who has been spiritually flayed alive by the sheer, relentless absurdity of his closest ally.
"I need to understand," he says, his voice dropping to a raw whisper.
"Because right now, I am standing on the edge of a chasm of madness, and I need to know if you are trying to pull me back, or if you are the one who pushed me in."
The tent is a bubble of silence, insulated from the roar of the tourney grounds. Louie stands before you, a man on the ragged edge of his sanity, demanding an answer to a question that seems to have broken his spirit.
You meet his agonized gaze not with an apology, but with the calm, steady look of a tutor about to explain a complex lesson. Your voice is a quiet, clinical counterpoint to the raw emotion radiating from him.
"Because he was probing you."
The simple statement hangs in the air. Louie's expression of torment doesn't vanish, but it freezes, overlaid with a film of confusion.
You continue, your tone precise, breaking down the psychological warfare he just witnessed.
"One: He wanted to know how a disgraced noble got the funds to equip our quality of steeds. Monster hunting is a dirty, profitable business. It answers the question."
Louie's eyes widened slightly. He is replaying the scene in his mind, but this time, he's seeing the gears turning beneath the surface.
"Two: He wanted to know how you managed to get so strong. Defeating a Silver-Tier champion is not a small feat. Slaying a manticore—a creature of comparable power—provides a plausible, if bloody, explanation for your newfound prowess."
You take a small step closer, your voice dropping slightly, delivering the final, crucial piece of the strategy.
"And three: He would never accept any of that as the truth if we told him. Not directly. He would assume it was a lie, a prepared story. He needed to feel like he discovered the truth himself, by accident."
You tap your own chest.
"That's my role. He needed to identify a stupid, complaining retainer who accidentally leaked shameful gossip about his master's new, grubby life. Most nobles would hide that kind of work. It's a disgrace. You, as the proud scion, cannot admit to it. But me? I can afford to be the discontent loudmouth. My 'outburst' wasn't an interruption. It was the confirmation he was looking for. It made the entire, unbelievable story feel true because it felt like a secret he wasn't supposed to hear."
The look of spiritual agony on Louie's face dissolves. It is replaced by a profound, dawning stillness. He is not just looking at you anymore. He is seeing through you, seeing the intricate, terrifying machinery of your mind at work. The chasm of madness he was teetering on the edge of is still there, but now he understands. You didn't push him in. You built a bridge across it, disguised as a tightrope.
He lets out a long, slow breath that carries with it all of his earlier exasperation. He slumps down onto one of the cots, running a hand over his face.
"So the manticore... the scrotum... it was all..."
"...Plausible deniability," you finish for him. "And a convenient excuse."
Louie drops his hand, and the look on his face is one of pure, unadulterated awe, tinged with a healthy dose of existential terror. He is not allied with a madman. He is allied with a genius who has weaponized madness itself.
"By the gods, Janus," he breathes, his voice a raw whisper. "You're not a plague... you're a scalpel."
Just then, a polite cough comes from outside the tent flap, followed by the voice of the page.
"My lords? Your meal has arrived."
The flap is pushed aside, and the page enters, carefully balancing a large wooden tray laden with two steaming plates of thick-cut roast beef, fresh bread, and two tankards of dark, rich ale. The scent of a hot, well-earned meal fills the spartan tent. The page sets the tray on the small table, gives a nervous bow, and makes a hasty exit. You look at Louie. You look at the roast beef. Then you look back at Louie, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching your lips. The plan, no matter how insane, had worked. Your compensation has arrived.
The rich, savory scent of the roast beef fills the small tent, a stark contrast to the cold, calculating nature of the conversation. Louie sits on the cot, the revelation of your "manticore" gambit still settling in his mind. He has just called you a scalpel, a master of precision. You pick up a fork, your expression thoughtful as you look at the steaming plate of food.
"You can't miscalculate if you don't calculate," you say, your voice a quiet, reflective murmur.
"The moment they thought that I had a masterplan when Tristan fell for my improvised act, I won."
The words land in the small space with the weight of a final, absolute truth. Louie, who was just beginning to grasp the idea of you as a master strategist, freezes. He looks from the roast beef, to your face, and then back to the roast beef.
The entire intricate bridge of logic he had just built in his mind collapses into dust. It wasn't a plan. It was never a plan. It was a series of chaotic, instinctual reactions that his opponents, in their arrogance and rationalism, misinterpreted as genius.
They didn't fall into your trap. They built the trap, walked into it themselves, and then credited you with the design.
A long, heavy silence descends on the tent, broken only by the distant roar of the tourney crowd. Louie does not look angry. He does not look frustrated. He looks profoundly, deeply, and utterly at peace. He has finally stopped trying to understand. He has accepted. He lets out a slow, quiet breath. He reaches for his own plate of food and his tankard of ale.
"Eat your beef, Janus," he says, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion save a deep, bone-weary resignation.
"We have a melee to win tomorrow." He takes a large bite of the meat, chewing with a slow, deliberate focus. The conversation is over. He is no longer trying to understand the lightning. He is simply going to trust that it will strike where it is needed most. The two of you eat in a companionable silence, a pair of identical strangers, a sword and a plague, gathering your strength for the chaos to come.
The aroma of roasted meat, a scent of victory and simple pleasure, fills the small pavilion. Louie is halfway through his meal, a man trying to ground himself in the simple reality of food after a day of profound psychological whiplash. You set your fork down with a soft click, the sound sharp in the relative quiet. Louie looks up, his expression wary, preparing for another descent into the madness that is your mind.
"Actually," you begin, your tone calm and reflective, "I really appreciate you asking me about my actions and questioning me. It makes me reflect on what I say and how I can further confuse my opponents."
Louie stops chewing. He listens, his entire being focused on this sudden, bizarre moment of self-analysis from you.
"Just like how a body that doesn't train gets soft, a mind gets weak if not constantly challenged," you continue, gesturing with your fork.
"I simply choose the method of doing zero preparation and forcing myself to come up with good reasons or face the consequences. This works poorly on fellow commoners because they would believe that I am truly not thinking. But it is incredible against people of higher positions because they always think there is a grand plan."
The confession is laid bare. It is the core of your philosophy, the engine of your chaos. You do not have a plan. You create a vacuum, and you allow your enemies' paranoia to fill it with a plan for you. Louie slowly puts down his own fork. The look on his face is no longer one of exasperation or awe. It is a look of final, absolute, and chilling comprehension.
He finally understands the role he plays in your symbiosis. He is not just your sword. He is your whetstone. He is the anchor of logic that your chaos pushes against, the very challenge that forces your improvised madness to sharpen itself into a weapon.
"So when I question you..." he says, his voice a low, dawning whisper. "...I am helping you aim."
He leans back on the simple cot, the half-eaten plate of food forgotten. A slow, grim smile touches his lips. It is not a smile of humor, but of a man who has finally understood the terrifying and beautiful mechanics of the storm he has chosen to ride.
"Then keep asking I will," he says, his voice now a low, steady rumble of acceptance. "And you... keep being a plague, Janus." He picks up his fork again, his resolve hardened into a new shape.
He understands his purpose. The madness has a method, and he is a part of it. "Now finish your meal," he commands, his voice that of a lord once more.
"We need to rest. Tomorrow, I have a melee to win. And forty of the King's most loyal knights are going to learn what it feels like to be caught in a hurricane."
[About 01:00 PM on Day 41]
The grand melee is the heart of the tourney, and the grounds are a roaring sea of humanity. Forty knights, a forest of steel and colored banners, mill about in the wide, muddy lists. The air is electric with anticipation.
In the Baron's pavilion, you see the Lord himself watching with a hawk's intensity, flanked by his household guard. He is not here for sport; he is here to evaluate his new, prospective asset. You stand where you did yesterday, an anonymous face in the packed commoners' stands, a quiet island in a roaring ocean of noise. Louie is out there, a figure of plain, brutalist steel amidst the gilded and engraved armor of the King's loyalists. He is a wolf in a sheep-judging contest, and no one knows it but you.
A long, clarion blast from a trumpet signals the start. Chaos erupts. The field becomes a maelstrom of violence. Forty knights charge, forming temporary, desperate alliances, their war hammers and blunted swords crashing against shields in a deafening, continuous roar. It is a battle of attrition, a test of stamina and sheer brute force.
And from the stands, you begin your work. You are not a warrior. You are a surgeon of misfortune. Your gaze sweeps the field, identifying the immediate threats: a hulking knight with a twin-headed battle axe, a pair of brothers fighting with perfect coordination, a lithe warrior whose movements are faster than the others. You begin to apply your curses, not with a wave of power, but with the subtle, targeted precision of a needle.
A huge knight, Sir Godard of the Iron Boar, is carving a path through the lesser combatants, his axe shattering shields with every blow. He raises his weapon to crush a cornered opponent. You focus on him. A single, silent command:
"Itch."
Sir Godard freezes mid-swing. His entire body gives a violent, convulsive twitch. An unbearable, maddening itch erupts in the middle of his back, a spot no armored man can ever hope to scratch. His perfect form shatters as he tries to contort his body inside his armor.
Louie, who had been moving with a calm, predatory grace on the edge of the fray, sees the opening. He charges. His horse, a beast of pure, un-cursed vitality, thunders across the field. Sir Godard, distracted by his phantom torment, turns too late. Louie doesn't bother with finesse.
He simply lowers his shoulder and slams his shield into the giant's chest. The sound is a dull, sickening thump of steel on steel. Sir Godard is thrown from his horse, landing in the mud with a crash that shakes the ground. The Herald's horn sounds, signaling his elimination. The crowd roars. To them, it looked like a clumsy mistake by the giant, and a brilliant, opportunistic charge by the underdog.
Next, you target the two brothers, the Knights of the Twin Gryphons. They fight back-to-back, a perfect wall of steel. You focus on the elder brother, a man with a reputation for ferocity.
This time, the curse is more visceral.
"Agony."
The knight lets out a sudden, strangled cry. His eyes go wide with a pain that has no visible source. He doubles over in his saddle, dropping his sword, his body spasming from a phantom, crippling cramp deep in his gut. His brother turns, his concentration broken by his sibling's cry of pain. That is all the time Louie needs. He is on them like a storm. A blow from his sword caves in the distracted brother's helmet, forcing an immediate yield. He then turns to the agonized, weaponless knight and delivers a polite, almost gentle tap to his helm with the flat of his blade. The twin Gryphons are out.
The melee rages on. One by one, the most dangerous champions find themselves struck by inexplicable misfortunes. One's hands become so slick with sweat he cannot hold his mace. Another is suddenly blinded by a torrent of sweat stinging his eyes. A third, the fast one, finds his legs locking up with cramps at the worst possible moment. And with every stroke of misfortune, Louie is there. A force of nature. A predator capitalizing on every stumble, every mistake, every unbelievable stroke of bad luck. He is not just fighting; he is reaping a harvest of chaos that you have sown.
The field thins. Soon, only five knights remain. Louie, his plain armor dented but unbroken, stands dominant in the center of the field. And the crowd, especially the commoners, has found their hero. They are no longer cheering for their local lords. They are chanting a single, disgraced name, a name that is being reborn in mud and steel. "BRAISECHANT! BRAISECHANT! BRAISECHANT!"
In his pavilion, Baron Faucher is leaning forward, his knuckles white where he grips the arms of his chair. His face is a mask of pure, avaricious delight. He is not watching a knight. He is watching the greatest investment he has ever made.