Robert Baratheon appeared fully armed at the edge of the melee tournament grounds, and without a doubt, it caused quite a stir. No one had expected the king himself to step onto the field—especially not in a group melee where bladed weapons were used.
Many believed Robert had gone mad. After all, it had only been a year since the War of the Usurper, and remnants of House Targaryen were still lurking in the shadows, plotting to overthrow the Baratheon dynasty. Robert's actions now were nothing short of exposing himself completely to danger. If anything were to happen to him, the newly established Baratheon rule would likely collapse once more.
At this moment, all the nobles present turned their gaze toward the man following behind Robert—the grim-faced Hand of the King, Jon Arryn.
These nobles knew well how stubborn King Robert was. In all of King's Landing, only Jon Arryn could ever hope to persuade him. By all logic, such an absurd and reckless decision should have been stopped by the Hand—but judging from the situation, Jon Arryn clearly hadn't fulfilled that role.
Not only had Jon Arryn failed to stop him, even Queen Cersei had been unsuccessful. From the faint bruising at the corners of her eyes, it wasn't hard to tell that she may have received some rather special treatment during the attempt.
What shocked everyone even more was that King Robert clearly had no intention of leading his Kingsguard into the tournament. Instead, he selected twenty men from the Storm's End garrison of House Baratheon to accompany him.
Though the decision was incredibly foolish, it also made Robert Baratheon appear exceptionally brave and fair. Subtly, it stirred admiration in the hearts of the surrounding knights and warriors.
After arriving at the field, Robert didn't bother with speeches. He impatiently shouted,"Start already!"Then he led his men straight into the center of the arena.
Seeing this, the others exchanged glances and entered as well. Yet for a moment, no one made a move. The entire field fell into a strange, unnatural silence.
"Attack already, you idiots!"
Clearly irritated by the eerie calm, Robert Baratheon roared and charged toward the nearest Lannister warrior. His warhammer crashed into the man's chest, sending him flying out of the arena. From the grotesque collapse of his breastplate, it was obvious the man was already dead.
That single action was like a spark thrown into dry tinder, instantly igniting the fighting spirit of everyone present. Perhaps moments ago they still had reservations because of Robert's status—but now, faced with life and death, all hesitation vanished. The only thought left was to put down the enemy beside them first.
Weapons were raised everywhere. Whatever coordination they had planned beforehand was completely forgotten. Each fighter reverted to instinct, attacking according to habit. There was no trace of trained teamwork to be seen.
Standing alone, Lind was naturally regarded as the easiest target. Several warriors from House Arryn, House Martell, and House Tully charged him almost simultaneously.
Faced with the encirclement, Lind showed no fear. Over this past period, he had trained almost daily in fighting multiple opponents alone. The moment they moved, ten different counterplans already formed in his mind. Based on their positions, he swiftly chose the most suitable one.
He slid sideways, effortlessly avoiding the thrust of an Arryn warrior's longsword, while his own blade found an opening beneath the man's arm.
The weapon Vilas had prepared for his brother was truly exceptional. The sword cut through leather armor like a hot knife through butter. The razor-sharp blade carved upward from the right armpit to the shoulder, splitting the man open. His entrails spilled out along with a flood of blood.
Even after killing one so easily, Lind didn't slow down. His feet kept moving, his body spinning and leaping in perfect rhythm. As he narrowly avoided incoming strikes, the momentum of his rotation drove his swords forward, cleaving straight through another attacker's neck.
The Martell warrior managed a desperate block—but the force generated by Lind's full-body rotation overwhelmed the defense. His weapon was knocked aside, and his head lingered on his neck only a second or two longer than the others before dropping.
In the blink of an eye, four men had died beneath Lind's blades.
He had already drawn attention simply by standing alone in the arena. Now, with such efficient slaughter, even more eyes were fixed on him.
Among those watching was the Kingslayer—Jaime Lannister.
In truth, when Jaime followed Robert Baratheon to the field and first saw Lind standing alone at the edge of the arena, he immediately recognized him as the Tyrell guard from that day.
Lind had left a deep impression on him—not just because of the title Shadow Lynx's Glory, but more because Lind was the only person in the past year who had not looked at him with strange or judgmental eyes. Even Cersei, his beloved queen and sister, subtly revealed discomfort whenever the subject of regicide arose.
That alone had stirred Jaime's curiosity about Lind.
Though Jaime had wanted to speak with him afterward and ask why he viewed him differently, duties at the Red Keep left him no time. The thought had been shelved.
Yet he never imagined he would encounter Lind again in this group melee—and even less that Lind would display such extraordinary swordsmanship. Jaime's curiosity grew even stronger.
After those four kills, a clear space immediately opened around Lind. Nearby fighters knew better than to provoke him and instinctively avoided his position, choosing other opponents instead.
Lind did not pursue them. He stood where he was, observing the battlefield.
There were hundreds of participants in the melee. The arena was absolute chaos—wild attacks everywhere. Some even injured their own allies by mistake. Charging blindly into such a brawl would only negate Lind's mobility advantage and leave him exposed on all sides.
Moreover, the melee would last a long time, and the later stages would be even harsher. Conserving stamina now would allow Lind to last much longer.
However, this cautious approach angered many spectators. Loud curses rang out, calling Lind a coward and urging others to attack him.
Lind ignored the insults, continuing to stand calmly amid the chaos.
But because of the rose sigil of House Tyrell on his armor, the abuse soon shifted toward the Tyrell camp. Mace Tyrell, unable to tolerate it, attempted to order Lind to attack—but Garlan and Fortemo stopped him. Maester Mollas, who held Lind in high regard, also advised the duke not to interfere and to allow the warriors to fight freely.
Thus, Mace Tyrell's foolish command was narrowly prevented.
While Tyrell's order was blocked, other nobles' commands were not.
Two warriors from the North, acting on their lords' instructions, abandoned their current targets at the same time and charged toward Lind's unguarded back.
The attack was sudden. Lind appeared completely unaware, showing no defensive reaction as the axe and sword descended toward his head.
Several people in the Tyrell camp screamed in alarm, trying to warn him.
Yet before their voices could carry across the noisy battlefield, Lind vanished—eerily—from the attackers' sight.
The next instant, both men felt a sharp pain in their chests. A powerful impact smashed into them, sending them flying backward. They hit the ground and did not rise again. Blood poured from the sword-pierced holes in their chests, quickly staining the earth red.
Unlike the two attackers, who died without ever knowing how, the spectators saw everything clearly.
They witnessed a nearly two-meter-tall brute seemingly shrink to half his height in an instant, narrowly dodging the rear assault. As if he had eyes on his back, he located the attackers, then launched himself like a flea. His two hand-and-a-half swords slid under his arms and plunged into their chests at the moment of impact—clean, decisive kills.
Such an elegant and ingenious method of slaughter was something many had never seen before. The same spectators who had just been disgusted by Lind's inaction now erupted into cheers.
In the Tyrell camp, the guards who had once sparred with Lind roared excitedly, shouting the name Bear-Hunter.
Lind did not relax after killing the ambushers.
Five or six warriors from different houses, obeying their lords' orders, rushed him together. They showed no hesitation, despite having just witnessed his effortless kills.
Had these men come from a single house and known how to coordinate, Lind might have needed real effort to deal with them. But facing their chaotic attacks, he easily spotted the gaps in their formation. With agile movements and precise footwork, he avoided every strike, while his blade mercilessly found their weaknesses—each kill completed in a single blow.
The crowd saw a bizarre sight: a warrior built like a bear moving with the agility of a lynx. His swordplay looked almost like a dance. Contradictory traits fused together so seamlessly that no one felt any discord.
By the time the audience recovered from their shock, all of Lind's attackers lay dead. Only then did they realize he had already slain more than a dozen enemies—more than anyone else on the field. Even King Robert, fully immersed in battle and supported by coordinated warriors, couldn't match him.
Cheers for Lind thundered across the arena.
The fighters themselves heard nothing. Most had gone blood-mad, deaf to everything beyond survival.
This time, after dealing with his opponents, Lind did not remain still. He began moving—actively searching for targets.
He changed tactics because he had noticed that the lead warriors of House Tully, House Stark, and House Arryn had already marked him as a threat.
Though they couldn't spare the hands to deal with him yet, they had begun shifting their battles closer, subtly surrounding him—clearly planning another coordinated assault.
Unlike the minor houses, these great families' warriors were hardened veterans with rich experience in cooperation. If Lind were surrounded by them, the situation would be extremely dangerous. Thus, he chose to strike first and eliminate them one by one.
To the spectators, it looked as if a massive warrior swam through the battlefield like a fish through water—perfectly evading every attack. Each swing of his sword brought down another foe. No injuries, only instant deaths.
It was as if a god-blessed servant of the Stranger had descended to reap lives.
Some began counting the bodies at Lind's feet. The number quickly surpassed fifty, with no sign of slowing—charging straight toward a hundred.
At this moment, Lind had completely entered the Slaughter State of the Peacemaker. He no longer considered gains or consequences, nor the trouble awaiting him afterward. His only thought was to kill every enemy and stand as the last man on the field.
Only in this state did he realize just how terrifying the changes to his body and senses truly were.
No matter how chaotic the battlefield became, he could perceive every attack trajectory. It was as if he had entered a bullet-time state—the world slowing around him, allowing him to dodge with ease and strike at fatal weak points.
It was no exaggeration to say that in this state, facing elite warriors from every house was like a farmer harvesting weeds.
If nothing went wrong, victory was inevitable.
But accidents always arrive without warning.
Completely immersed in slaughter, Lind failed to notice how quickly his stamina was draining. By the time he realized, more than half of it was gone, and his movements were beginning to suffer.
Sensing the danger, Lind immediately withdrew from the Slaughter State. After pulling his sword from an enemy's throat, he stopped attacking. He stood calmly, breathing evenly, forcing himself not to pant—making himself appear completely unburdened.
His act fooled everyone.
No one realized he was exhausted. Combined with the pile of corpses at his feet, those who might have attacked him lost their nerve. No one dared approach.
An eerie scene emerged.
The battlefield remained a chaotic melee—but within twenty meters around Lind, there was only empty space. Nothing but corpses and a single man standing alone.
...
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(End Chapter)