The life of a squire was demanding, especially for those without noble lineage to smooth their path. Tasked with maintaining weapons, polishing armor, and tending to their knight's daily needs, they spent most of their days in service. Only in spare moments could they train—practicing swordplay, horsemanship, and discipline—hoping that dedication and endurance would one day earn them the honor of knighthood.
All in all, this life sucked.
He couldn't decide what he missed more: toilet paper or water that didn't try to kill him. Reincarnation stories had promised him something entirely different. Legends spoke of chosen heroes, mysterious blessings, and conveniently tragic backstories that somehow translated into overwhelming power.
Instead, he had blisters. And a chamber pot.
Where was his cheat skill?
Where was his overpowered weapon?
Where was the glowing status screen explaining why he was secretly the strongest being in the kingdom?
And, more importantly, where was the devoted entourage of breathtaking admirers who were apparently contractually obligated to fall in love with him for breathing?
No ancient god had descended to recognize his hidden potential. No warlock had whispered destiny into his ear. The only whisper he received was from his knight reminding him that the latrine trench still needed digging.
If this was a grand fantasy narrative, it had a terrible sense of humor.
And he was starting to suspect he was the punchline.
"Aurion, where are you!"
Of course.
He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the fragile illusion that he might simply not exist if he stayed quiet long enough. It did not work. It had never worked.
Stupid isekai.
Stupid reincarnation.
"Fixing your armor, Ser Gregor!" He called back, because lying required energy he no longer possessed.
Bootsteps thundered across the courtyard stones. Aurion set aside the half-polished helm and flexed his aching fingers. The metal reflected a distorted version of his face—smudged with soot, silver hair cut short, expression somewhere between existential dread and mild constipation.
Not exactly "prophesied hero" material.
His knight burst through the canopy of shrubbery and branches in a swirl of dust and authority. "Why is my saddle not prepared? We ride within the hour! Stonhelm is two days away, our ship leaves in a moons time."
Within the hour.
Aurion glanced at the sun. It was barely morning. He had been awake since before dawn hauling water that may or may not contain medieval death.
"Yes, sir," he said, because apparently reincarnation did not include the optional backbone DLC.
Damn it.
Aurion bit back several responses that would have dramatically shortened his lifespan.
"I'll have it ready," he said instead, already moving.
Ser Gregor lingered a moment, studying him with that permanent frown nobles seemed to cultivate like a prized crop. "See that you do. A knight's readiness reflects his squire's discipline."
Yes. Because clearly the fate of chivalry hinged on whether Aurion had buffed the saddle to optimal shine.
The knight turned and strode away, boots crunching against gravel with the confidence of a man who had never once scrubbed his own undergarments.
Where were the child labor laws when you needed them?
Oh right.
Several centuries too early.
Aurion hoisted the saddle and made his way toward the horses, mentally composing a strongly worded complaint to whatever cosmic bureaucracy had processed his reincarnation paperwork.
Excuse me. I ordered "Heroic Power Fantasy." This is clearly "Feudal Servitude Simulator."
The horse snorted as he approached, eyeing him with the same tired resignation he felt in his own bones.
"Don't look at me like that," Aurion muttered, checking the hooves. "I'm not the one who signed us up for this expansion pack. Be good now buttercup."
He secured the saddle with efficient movements, tightening the straps. The entire process had been beaten into him long ago, sometime between a tourney in Ashford and a particularly enthusiastic melee in Longtable where Ser Gregor had decided that "strategic restraint" was a suggestion, not a rule.
Pull. Thread. Cinch. Check.
He adjusted the girth by half an inch. Any tighter and the horse would chafe. Any looser and Ser Gregor would slide mid-charge, which—while tempting—would also somehow become Aurion's fault.
The horse huffed.
"Exactly," Aurion said. "You get it."
He ran a hand along the animal's flank, checking for soreness. The horse favored its left hind leg slightly. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. The iron shoe on that hoof was worn thinner along the outer rim. Another hard ride and it would loosen. Two days to Stonehelm meant uneven roads, stones, maybe mud if the weather turned.
Just great.
It was as if whatever god had overheard his constructive criticism had decided to patch in "Dynamic Weather: Petty Edition."
They broke camp before the sun had properly risen, hooves thudding against the damp earth as the castle faded behind them. Not an hour into the ride, the bright sky curdled. Clouds rolled in thick and low, swallowing the warmth whole.
Then came the drizzle.
Not a dramatic storm. Not heroic thunder.
Just enough rain to be miserable.
Aurion walked beside Ser Gregor's mount, cloak steadily darkening as water seeped through the coarse fabric. The road ahead turned slick, mud forming in deceptive patches beneath loose gravel.
God, he needed a drink.
At least this crappy world didn't have a drinking age.
Not that he had money.
Or time.
Or a liver conditioned for medieval ale that tasted like regret and mild infection.
Rain slid down the back of his neck, cold and persistent. His boots sank half an inch into the softening road with every step. The drizzle wasn't heavy enough to justify stopping, which made it infinitely worse. Just enough to soak. Not enough to excuse.
Hopefully he would catch a cold that would finally put him out of his misery.
Knowing his luck, he'd just get a mild cough and extra chores.
—
Stonehelm rose from the coastline like a jagged crown of gray stone and salt-stained timber. Even before they reached the gates, Aurion could smell it—the brine of the sea, tar from ship hulls, fish guts baking somewhere under the weak sun.
And people.
Too many people.
Stonehelm was busier than usual. Lord Swann's tourney had drawn banners from across the Marches and beyond. Colorful sigils snapped in the wind from hastily erected pavilions outside the city walls. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking everything from sweetcakes to sharpened lances. Smiths worked portable forges, sparks jumping into the air like restless fireflies.
Many marcher lords had answered the call. Regional nobles rode in with polished armor and polished egos. Hundreds of hedge knights filled the lists—men with more ambition than coin, their armor a patchwork of dents and repairs.
Including Ser Gregor.
And, unfortunately, Aurion.
The press at the gate slowed them to a crawl. Wagons creaked. Horses snorted. Someone was arguing loudly about entry fees.
Aurion's eyes moved constantly.
Not intentionally.
Compulsively.
The portcullis above the gate bore fresh reinforcement beams—new oak against old stone. The left hinge bracket had been recently replaced. Good iron. Slight misalignment. It would grind under repeated lifts.
The scaffolding along the inner wall had been erected quickly. One support pole wasn't properly braced at the base. If someone leaned hard enough—
A vendor's stall sagged dangerously under the weight of hanging cookware. The central peg was driven too shallow.
A knight dismounted nearby, nearly slipping as his squire failed to account for mud suction around the stirrup.
"Stop gawking," Ser Gregor muttered from the saddle. "You'd think you've never seen a tourney."
Aurion hauled the last bundle of their meager belongings into the inn's dim lobby, mud dripping from his boots like a slow, judging faucet. Buttercup snorted, nostrils flaring, clearly unimpressed with the accommodations. The stable boy eyed him with cautious curiosity—he was either sizing up a potential tip or calculating which ankle might taste better first. Aurion wasn't taking chances.
"Stay. Don't touch. Don't breathe wrong." He muttered, more to himself than the horse, and tapped the animal's shoulder. Buttercup blinked, which Aurion took as grudging acknowledgment of his authority.
The inn itself was loud and smelled vaguely of old fish, wet wool, and fermented ale that had seen more winters than Aurion cared to count. He shifted the saddlebag onto a chair and let his shoulders slump.
"This is it," he murmured, scanning the chaos outside. "Stonehelm. Land of destiny, glory… and apparently open-air latrines."
Ser Gregor returned, helmet underarm, frowning like a thundercloud in motion. "Aurion, we must register before the lists close. And no dawdling."
"Yes, sir," Aurion said automatically, resisting the urge to add, or we will be laughed off the face of the kingdom.
They made their way through the crowd. Nobles in polished armor strutted like peacocks. Squads of soldiers marched with military precision. Vendors shouted until their throats cracked. Somewhere, a bard hit a sour note so aggressively it could be used as a weapon. Aurion's eyes darted compulsively, cataloguing hazards. Loose cobblestones. Tilted carts. Suspiciously thin scaffolding. The kind of thing that would ruin a day, a leg, or possibly your entire career if you weren't careful.
And he was not careful. He was panicking quietly, which was apparently his natural state.
A group of squires passed by, grinning at each other. One of them—tall, shiny, annoyingly well-fed—gave him a patronizing nod.
"First tourney, lad?" the squire asked, voice syrupy.
"Yes," Aurion replied, voice brittle. "Absolutely. Can't wait to… Sit in the stands and watch."
The squire's brow furrowed, not understanding sarcasm, and Aurion's chest tightened. Somewhere deep, a small, buried part of him longed to prove he wasn't useless. But that part had been smothered under centuries of soap less labor and bad luck.
Ser Gregor nudged him forward. "Registration. Now."
The official at the table—a stout man with ink-stained fingers and a face carved from permanent boredom—eyed them. "Names."
"Aurion… um…" He glanced at Ser Gregor. "You know, Aurion. Squire to Ser Gregor."
"Correct," said Ser Gregor. "We enter the tourney. Standard categories. Melee, mounted, and archery for the lists."
The official scribbled something, barely glancing at the forms. Aurion's gaze flicked to the parchment: columns of names, numbers, and sigils. Hundreds of competitors. And he? One small, unremarkable squire who could barely keep a saddle from rubbing wrong.
This was fine. Absolutely fine.
Aurion twirled the practice sword in his hands, mud squelching under his boots. He could feel it—years of squire labor, water hauling, armor polishing, and surviving near-death experiences at longtable melees had given him… well, some skill. Enough that if a noble lord looked at him, he might think he knew what he was doing.
Ser Gregor waited, arms crossed, frown permanently glued to his face like it was part of his skeleton.
"Ready?" Gregor asked.
"As I'll ever be," Aurion replied, muttering, "Which is probably not very."
They circled. Aurion lunged with what he hoped looked competent. The blade skimmed past Gregor's shoulder, hitting nothing but air with a hollow thunk.
"Not bad," Gregor said, tone neutral, which meant, in reality, you're about to be humiliated. "You've learned to swing… Occasionally in the correct direction."
Aurion rolled his eyes and mumbled. "I'll take what I can get."
He attacked again. This time, a clean strike connected with Gregor's forearm. A satisfying clang echoed across the yard, and for one glorious second, Aurion imagined songs being sung about him in distant taverns.
Then Gregor moved. Fast. Too fast. Like a blur made of judgment and footwork, he sidestepped, twisted, and flicked Aurion's sword aside with a single, terrifyingly elegant flick of his wrist. Aurion stumbled, nearly face-planting into mud.
"You're predictable!" Gregor barked. "And sloppy. Again!"
Aurion wiped sweat and mud from his face. "Predictable, maybe. But stylishly predictable!"
"Stylish doesn't save you from being dead," Gregor said. "Lesson three: confidence without skill is just comedy. And you, lad, are highly comedic."
Aurion growled, planted his feet, and swung again—ducking under a strike, pivoting, spinning. For half a heartbeat, he landed another hit. Another clang. Another tiny victory. He dared a grin.
Then Gregor laughed. A real laugh. It sounded like dry leaves scraping across stone. In a blink, he had Aurion disarmed, chest heaving, mud decorating every available surface.
"Enough!" Gregor pressed the tip of his sword against Aurion's chest. "See? You can swing, you can thrust, you can look heroic—but skill without experience is like a chicken wearing armor. Entertaining to watch, but ultimately… edible."
Aurion stared at him. "You're not allowed to insult poultry during training. That's cruel and unusual."
"You're lucky I haven't started calling you duckling yet," Gregor replied, voice sharp as steel.
Aurion huffed. "I hate you."
"Excellent," Gregor said, grinning faintly. "Lesson two: hatred is a great motivator. Lesson three: I'm relentless. You'll need both if you survive the real fights."
Aurion's legs wobbled. His arms ached. Mud squelched between his toes. And yet… he had landed hits. He had survived. He had not yet been skewered like a kebab.
"Also," he muttered to himself as he wiped sweat from his eyes, "If reincarnation promised me glorious powers, I'm filing a complaint. This is less 'chosen hero' and more 'mud, sweat, and endless verbal abuse.'"
He raised his sword again. The dummy across the yard might not survive, but he would. Somehow.
Maybe.
Aurion stood in the yard, mud drying into crusty patches on his boots. He set up three targets: a battered wooden dummy, a hay bale that looked like it had survived several generations of squires, and a suspiciously patient Buttercup, who had been promised a carrot if he behaved.
"Alright," Aurion muttered to himself, sword in hand. "Focus. Precision. Elegance. Heroic stuff. Totally heroic."
He lunged at the dummy, swinging, parrying, spinning, and stabbing with careful precision. Clang! A satisfying hit on the dummy's arm. Another spin, another strike—this time to the torso. Not bad. Not legendary but not embarrassing either. He allowed himself a small grin.
Buttercup snorted, clearly unimpressed. Aurion ignored the horse.
He adjusted his stance, wiped sweat and mud from his brow, and tried a series of thrusts he'd been perfecting for days. Each movement flowed into the next: step, lunge, pivot, strike. He imagined a grand soundtrack in the background, swords clashing in perfect harmony. In reality, it was the sound of his own heavy breathing and the occasional thunk of wood against mud.
"Focus, Aurion," he muttered. "One day, someone might write a song about this."
He attacked the hay bale next, stabbing with full force. It wobbled ominously. He adjusted his grip, spinning around, and kicked back, just for flair. A few bits of hay floated away like tiny golden confetti, and he allowed himself a small victory dance.
"See? Improvement! Noticeable, measurable, slighht improvement!"
He paused to catch his breath, leaning on the hilt of his sword. Mud caked his boots, his tunic stuck to his back, and his arms ached in a way that was simultaneously painful and satisfying.
Next, he practiced footwork, circling Buttercup in tight patterns. Step, pivot, dodge, lunge—trying to imagine an enemy coming from any direction. Buttercup flicked an ear and sidestepped, demonstrating far more grace than Aurion ever would.
"Okay, not a partner," Aurion muttered, rubbing his chin. "But still, useful. Focus. Footwork. Timing. And… maybe less accidental kicking of the horse."
Finally, he tried a combination of strikes, parries, and spins against the dummy again. For a glorious thirty seconds, he landed three consecutive hits without missing, imagining the crowd in a distant tavern cheering wildly. Then his foot caught on a patch of mud, sending him sliding in a dramatic, unheroic arc across the courtyard.
He ended up sprawled in the dirt, sword lying several feet away, hay sticking to his face. Buttercup blinked. Aurion sat up slowly, wiping a mixture of mud and hay from his eyes.
"Still… progress," he muttered, voice muffled by straw. "Small, messy, mud-covered progress. But progress nonetheless."
He retrieved his sword, wiped it off (or at least attempted to), and squared his shoulders.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice full of resolve, "we do it all again. Maybe with fewer faceplants. Maybe."
Buttercup snorted.
Stupid horse.
-
Aurion stumbled through the crowded streets, adjusting the straps on his saddlebag so it wouldn't dig into his shoulders like some sadistic medieval torture device. Every step sent aches radiating through muscles that, yesterday, he hadn't even known existed. The faint clanging of swords from the training yard still echoed in his ears, accompanied by Ser Gregor's voice—equal parts instruction, insult, and existential threat.
He paused to catch his breath, blinking at a merchant's cart overloaded with fish so pungent it could have killed a lesser man instantly. "Ah, yes," he muttered under his breath. "The sweet smell of vacation. And fish guts."
A child darted past, clutching a loaf of bread and almost colliding with Buttercup, who let out a huff of irritation that almost matched Aurion's own. "Careful!" he barked, though his voice was hoarse and unconvincing. "I'm fragile! And by fragile I mean professionally abused by Ser Gregor! Do not test me!"
The squire slumped against the saddle, taking in the chaos around him. The port was a mess of colors, smells, and noise: sailors yelling, horses stamping, and nobles strutting as though the cobblestones themselves had been laid for their personal enjoyment. Somewhere a bard hit a particularly sour note, causing a nearby dog to bark in alarm. Aurion considered joining it, but thought better of it—he'd probably embarrass himself even more than he already had.
Ser Gregor had left on some errand, thankfully leaving him with Buttercup.
Aurion let out a groan that was half exhaustion, half existential despair, and slid his back down the bag until he was practically laying atop the chestnut horse. Buttercup shifted impatiently beside him, clearly wondering why the human was refusing to move forward like a competent squire.
He wiped his sleeve across his brow, smearing a fine layer of mud and whatever mysterious residue clung to him after yesterday's training. "You know," he muttered to no one in particular, "They really ought to put a warning label on this whole reincarnation thing. 'May contain excessive mud, unrelenting knights, and zero heroic glory.'"
A cart rattled past, narrowly missing his boots. A fisherman shouted something unintelligible about lobsters, and a nobleman in armor strutted by as though the sun itself bent to honor his shininess. Aurion snorted. "Yeah, bend over backwards for that guy, universe. I'll just… sit here and admire your taste in priorities."
He glanced down at Buttercup, who was flicking his tail at a particularly persistent fly. "At least you get it," Aurion said, scratching the horse's neck. "The world is nonsense, and mud is eternal. Also, carrots. You like carrots. Simple pleasures, eh?"
"Tomorrow," he whispered, "We train some more. We maybe stop being tragic comic relief."
Buttercup snorted again, and Aurion allowed himself a brief, tired smile.
Taking a moment to gather himself, Aurion forced himself to sit properly on the saddle and gently nudged the horse forward. Hopefully something in Stonehelm would catch his attention and make him forget the litter of bruises.