A/N:This is a redone Chapter 11. It's even longer and better and funnier. And has a lot of new information. New chapters coming soon.
The local tavern in the fortress city of Graf Granat's domain was thick with the scent of roasted meat, stale ale, and the rowdy relief of a populace that had just escaped a demonic siege. Lantern light flickered against dark oak beams, casting long shadows over tables packed with celebrating soldiers and citizens.
In the corner booth, farthest from the hearth, sat the strangest assembly the tavern had seen all evening.
"More," Frieren said, her voice completely flat but entirely demanding as she pointed a small finger at the empty wooden platter in front of her. "And another round of the sweet berry wine."
"Right away, young lady! Uh, older lady! Right away!" The tavern keeper bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the grease-stained apron, his eyes darting toward the massive leather pouch sitting casually on the edge of the table.
Stacks of empty plates already formed a small fortress around Frieren. She had ordered an enormous, almost incomprehensible amount of Hamburg steak. Thick, sizzling patties drenched in a dark, rich gravy that sent plumes of savory steam into the air.
Shamrock leaned forward, his bright, stubborn eyes gleaming with absolute reverence as he watched her slice into yet another portion. "Incredible," he breathed, crossing his arms over his navy jacket. "To possess such a small frame yet harbor the absolute, unyielding gluttony of a conqueror! A true hero's appetite, Lady Frieren! I am deeply moved by your dedication to sustenance!"
"It's just really good," Frieren mumbled, her cheeks puffed out as she chewed.
Across from them, Fern sat with her arms crossed, her expression a wall of pure, icy judgment. She hadn't touched her food yet. Her purple eyes flicked from Shamrock's gleaming face to the mountain of expensive meat, and finally to the bursting wallet.
"Frieren-sama," Fern said, her tone dripping with disapproval. "You are taking terrible advantage of this… person. It is unbecoming of a mage of your stature to exploit a child's naivety for Hamburg steak."
"It's fine, Fern," Frieren replied, not looking up as she reached for her freshly refilled goblet of berry wine. "He said he would treat us. A mage never goes back on a contract, and a knight shouldn't either."
"Exactly!" Shamrock proudly declared, slamming a fist onto the table, making the silverware rattle. "The purse of the Knight King is a well that never runs dry when it comes to supporting my comrades! Eat until the cows themselves weep for their brethren, Lady Frieren!"
Stark, who was already halfway through a massive rack of ribs, paused with grease smeared across his chin. He looked at Shamrock's custom-tailored navy coat, the fine gold trim that caught the lantern light, and the pristine leather sections built for high-tier mobility. Even after the brutal skirmish with Aura's undead, the fabric looked remarkably premium.
"Hey, Shamrock," Stark said, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. "I've gotta ask… who exactly *are* you?"
Shamrock blinked, his messy green hair shifting as he tilted his head. "I am Shamrock. The Knight King—"
"No, I mean, where are you from?" Stark interrupted, gesturing vaguely to the boy's entire ensemble. "And where'd you get that kind of coin? Those clothes look like they cost more than a small village in the Central Lands. Are you a prince or something? Did you run away from some royal palace?"
Shamrock puffed out his chest dramatically, a smug, completely unbothered grin spreading across his face. "A prince? Hah! Do not insult me with such petty, administrative titles! I am no mere prince inheriting a kingdom of paper and tax codes! I am a sovereign of the sword, a ruler of my own destiny! I hail from a great City of Magic far from here, a place of towering stone and endless study, but my crown is forged from resolve, not gold!"
He intentionally left out the name *Äußerst*. Even in his grand delusion, a small, survival-ist instinct deep within his mind reminded him that if he yelled the name of the Continental Magic Association's headquarters too loudly, Sense's braided hair might literally manifest from the shadows to drag him back by his ankles.
Stark didn't care about the missing details. He just heard the sheer, unadulterated bravado and threw his head back, laughing happily. "Haha! A sovereign of the sword! That's awesome! Man, you talk like a character straight out of the adventure books I used to read!"
Fern's gaze shifted from Frieren to the two boys. Her eyes narrowed into tiny, dark slits, and her face went completely numb. "Two of them," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying a terrifyingly low frequency. "There are officially two of them now. Frieren-sama, please look at what you have allowed into our party. They are complete idiots."
Frieren didn't respond. She was currently staring very intently at the bottom of her third empty wine goblet.
A pink flush had crept up her cheeks, and her silver pig-tails drifted slightly as she swayed in her seat. The legendary, thousands-of-years-old mage who had conquered the Demon King was, by all accounts, completely and utterly plastered.
*Thud.*
Frieren slammed her empty glass onto the table, her eyes suddenly locking onto Shamrock with a glassy, unblinking intensity.
"You," Frieren pointed a finger at him, her speech slurring just a fraction. "Shamrock."
"Yes, Lady Frieren! I await your decree!" Shamrock sat up straight, practically vibrating with honor.
"From this day forth… you shall be the Swordsman of our party." Frieren nodded solemnly to herself, as if delivering a royal mandate. "Mm. The Swordsman."
Fern gasped slightly, her posture stiffening. "Frieren-sama! You cannot just appoint a random, delusional boy as a permanent member of our journey! We are heading north!"
Frieren waved a dismissive, floppy hand in Fern's direction. "It's fine, Fern. He pays for steak. Plus…" She paused, her head tilting as a momentary lapse of drunken logic hit her. She looked at Stark, then at Shamrock, squinting. "Wait… what exactly are we going to do with two warriors anyway?"
Stark stopped chewing, suddenly realizing the tactical redundancy. "Oh. Huh. Yeah. I use an axe, he uses a sword. Aren't we kinda doubling up on the front line?"
"A ridiculous question!" Shamrock stood up entirely, drawing the attention of several neighboring tables. His hand rested confidently on the hilt of his blade. "What do we do with two warriors? We shatter the vanguard of darkness! Stark shall be the unyielding shield, and I shall be the piercing light! My purpose is simple, yet absolute: to protect both women, to shield this party from the terrors of the world, and to protect my sacred honor as a Knight!"
Stark's eyes practically turned into sparkling anime stars. He slammed his tankard of juice onto the table, tears of pure joy welling in his eyes. "Shamrock… you're a real one!" He reached over and grabbed Shamrock's shoulders, pulling the younger boy into a half-hug. "Finally! Another guy on the party! You have no idea how exhausting girls are! All they do is sigh, call you a pervert, and look at you like you're a piece of garbage!"
"Hey!" Fern snapped, her forehead visibly sporting a throbbing vein. "Stark, you are being incredibly rude. And you," she directed her glare at Shamrock, "stop fueling his pathetic victim complex."
"I speak only the truth of the chivalric code, Miss Fern!" Shamrock beamed, entirely immune to her terrifying aura.
The rest of the night descended into a blur of chaotic camaraderie. Frieren eventually fell asleep face-down on the table, snoring softly into a puddle of gravy. Stark and Shamrock spent hours debating the optimal swinging angle of a broadsword versus a battleaxe, laughing loudly and clinking their cups together while Fern watched them like a tired mother supervising a chaotic daycare.
By the time the tavern keeper brought the final bill, Shamrock didn't even blink. He threw down a small mountain of gold coins, tipping the man enough to buy a new carriage, and proudly escorted his utterly spent party back to the local inn.
---
The next morning, the sun broke over the horizon, casting a crisp, golden light across the stone streets of the fortress city.
Inside the inn, the air was quiet. But down the hallway, the silence was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy footsteps of someone who possessed far too much morning energy.
Shamrock walked down the corridor, entirely rejuvenated. His skin was clear, his green hair was freshly tousled, and his navy coat was neatly adjusted. The cuts he had received from Ubël and Aura's forces had already ceased to ache; his body, constantly fueled by his stubborn spirit, healed at a remarkable pace.
"Ah, what a beautiful morning for the commencement of our grand crusade!" Shamrock muttered to himself, a brilliant grin on his face.
He reached the door to the room shared by Fern and Frieren. Filled with the absolute, boundary-ignoring confidence of a thirteen-year-old "Knight King," Shamrock didn't bother to knock. He simply grabbed the brass handle, turned it, and threw the door wide open.
"Good morning, my fair ladies! The sun has risen, and your knight awaits—"
The words died instantly in his throat.
The room was bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the window. Frieren was still in bed, completely buried under a mountain of blankets, only a few silver strands of hair visible from the top of the duvet.
But standing in the center of the room, right beside a basin of water, was Fern.
She had just finished washing up and hadn't yet put on her white dress or her black corset. In fact, she hadn't put on anything at all. She was completely naked, her long purple hair cascading down her bare back and shoulders.
Time seemed to grind to a violent, horrific halt.
Shamrock froze, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. His brain completely short-circuited. He had faced down Demon Generals. He had stood before Serie's terrifying, suffocating aura. But nothing, absolutely nothing had prepared him for this.
Desperate to diffuse the world-ending awkwardness hanging in the air, Shamrock swallowed hard, forced a strained, sweating smile onto his face, and gave a stiff, mechanical wave.
"Uh… G-Good morning?"
Fern slowly turned her head.
Her expression didn't change into a panicked fluster. She didn't scream. She didn't cover herself with a towel. Instead, her face became a void of pure, unadulterated, apocalyptic malice. Her purple eyes glowed with a terrifying, lethal light.
She slowly raised her right hand, pointing her index finger straight at Shamrock's forehead.
A massive, jet-black magic circle snapped into existence in front of her hand, crackling with dark, destructive energy.
*"Zoltraak."*
It wasn't the full-power Ordinary Offensive Magic that Frieren used to disintegrate demons, but even a heavily suppressed, weaker version of the killing magic was a force of absolute devastation.
*BOOM!*
A beam of pure, concussive dark energy erupted from Fern's fingertips. The blast hit Shamrock dead in the chest, lifting him entirely off his feet and launching him backwards across the hallway. He crashed through the wooden banister, tumbled down the entire flight of stairs, and broke through the front doors of the inn, landing flat on his back in the middle of the dirt street outside.
---
Ten minutes later.
The morning sun was a bit higher now. A few townspeople walked past, awkwardly shifting their gaze away from the front of the inn.
There, kneeling perfectly on the hard dirt ground, was Shamrock. His knees were dug into the soil, his head was bowed so low his nose was almost touching his boots, and his hands were neatly placed on his thighs in a posture of ultimate, formal apology.
Standing over him, now fully clothed in her pristine robes, was Fern. Her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, her foot tapping a rapid, furious rhythm against the ground.
"You are a pervert," Fern said, her voice dropping to an icy whisper that made the surrounding air feel ten degrees colder. "An absolute, unmitigated pervert. To barge into a lady's room without knocking is the act of a brute, but to stand there and stare is unforgivable."
"I am deeply, profoundly sorry!" Shamrock shouted at the dirt, his voice cracking with earnest panic. "It was an oversight of the highest order! A knight must respect the privacy of the sanctuary! I misjudged the hour! Please accept my humblest apologies, Miss Fern! My intentions were pure morning greetings, nothing more!"
"Pervert," Fern repeated, her cheeks puffing out into a massive, childish pout as she looked away, refusing to even look at his bowed head. "Stark is a pervert, and now you are a pervert. I am surrounded by degeneracy."
Just then, the front doors of the inn creaked open again.
Frieren stepped out into the sunlight, looking entirely refreshed, her staff held loosely in her hand. She adjusted the bag over her shoulder and looked at the two of them.
"Is everyone ready to leave?" Frieren asked, her voice as casual and spaced-out as it always was, completely ignoring the fact that her new swordsman was currently undergoing public execution via public shaming.
The moment Frieren spoke, Shamrock's internal switch flipped instantly. The shame vanished, replaced entirely by his boundless, unshakeable delusion.
He sprang to his feet in a single fluid, acrobatic motion, completely dusting off his knees as if he hadn't just been blasted through a wall ten minutes prior. He struck a magnificent, heroic pose, drawing his sword just an inch from its dark sheath so the steel flashed in the morning light.
"I am more than ready, Lady Frieren!" Shamrock proudly declared, his eyes burning with renewed fervor. "A minor setback of the flesh is nothing to a king! As long as I have this sacred blade by my side, and my honor intact, nothing shall stand in our way! We shall conquer the north, slay the remnants of the Demon King, and forge a legend that will echo through the centuries!"
Fern didn't even blink. She simply adjusted her bag, turned her back on him, and began walking down the road. "Frieren-sama, let us hurry. The air near the pervert is unpleasant."
"Mm," Frieren agreed, stepping right past Shamrock without giving him a single glance. "Let's go find a bakery. I want to see if they have those sour berry tarts."
"Wait for me, Frieren-sama!" Fern called out, quickening her pace to stay by her master's side.
The two mages walked away down the sunlit street, completely and utterly ignoring the grand, dramatic speech that had just been delivered to them.
Shamrock stood there for a moment, his sword still slightly drawn, his heroic pose frozen in mid-air. He blinked as the dust kicked up by their heels drifted past him.
"Hey! Wait up!" Stark's voice echoed from inside the inn as he scrambled out the door, still trying to pull his boot onto his foot while carrying his massive battleaxe. He stumbled past Shamrock, throwing a sympathetic look over his shoulder. "Told you man! Girls are exhausting! You'll get used to it!"
Shamrock watched them go, a small, completely unbothered grin slowly creeping back onto his face. He slammed his sword back into its sheath with a crisp *click* and adjusted his travel bag.
"An excellent test of my knightly patience," Shamrock muttered proudly to himself as he burst into a jog to catch up. "Truly, a party worthy of the Knight King!"