⁜ Episode 5. The Misplaced Talent of a Knight
Mother didn’t give me years’ worth of living expenses just because I was going to the temple.
But she did give me enough travel money—and I managed to squeeze extra out of Father and my brothers.
I’d sigh and fret aloud, “What if I don’t have enough? Should I eat only one loaf of bread a day? But shouldn’t I at least buy roast chicken for the knights?”
Just voicing such worries made Father and my brothers tear up and hand over pocket money, groaning, “See? This is why we told you not to go to such a remote place…”
On top of that, I had my own allowance saved from childhood.
Once I turned ten, I was allowed to manage the gifts I received from adults. They weren’t coins but things like rings, cloth, books, and pens—which meant I could control them.
And I would sell those items to merchants who regularly visited our castle.
“You want to meet the overseer?”
The knight Boshel, who always handled merchants on my behalf for a fee whenever I sold goods, scratched his chin as he looked down at me.
“This is Hamilcar. Meeting the overseer of another fief isn’t something I’d recommend.”
“It won’t cause trouble for Father.”
“Still…”
Oh, now he treats me like a child, after taking fees from me for two whole years?
“To climb Gerka’s temple, we need preparation. If we try without it, we’ll die. The mountain’s too rough. Have you found a guide?”
After twelve years in this world, I’d started casually speaking down even to men old enough to be my uncle.
Seriously, when I go back to my real world, I’d better fix this attitude, or I’ll be forever branded as a ‘problematic college girl’ on YouTube.
“We only just arrived.”
“Exactly. Which is why we need the overseer—to get guides, clothing, boots, supplies.”
“Still impossible. There’s no one to take responsibility here. You’re too young, milady.”
If nice words don’t work, you use harsh ones.
“Then do you have a better idea? Should I beg from one village to the next? Do you even know the fair prices? If we get ripped off, you’ll cover the difference, right?”
Principles are only easy to talk about when they don’t cost you anything. Few people will sacrifice themselves to keep them.
And Boshel—who’d secretly sold my things for a cut—was definitely not one of those few.
When I demanded alternatives, he clenched his teeth, then suddenly gave a short laugh, leaning close.
“If it causes trouble for your father, you’ll take responsibility, won’t you?”
His growling voice only made me laugh.
“Of course.”
He thought he was snarling like a beast, but to me, it sounded more like a defeated dog barking.
Jacques Boshel left Lady Arian’s room with a long sigh. He should never have gotten tangled with her.
Two years ago, he’d fallen in love—and entered a jousting tournament for her sake.
He wore her ribbon, hoping to bring her honor.
But in front of the king and nobles, he lost in the very first round.
Count Danier had warned him not to enter. The outcome of such tournaments was usually predetermined. With the king and his heir competing, no one else stood a chance.
Still, Boshel believed he could win at least a match or two, since the early rounds were meant to stir the crowd.
He fancied himself among the better knights.
Reality hit hard: the king’s guard unhorsed him instantly, stripping him of armor and horse.
His “lady” looked upon him with contempt, and his love ended there.
All that remained was debt to reclaim his armor and horse—symbols of a knight’s pride.
He begged the victor to reduce the ransom, which was granted, but still, a minimum sum was required.
And it was ten-year-old Arian Danier who paid it.
“Armor and horse are a knight’s pride. If I restore yours, what will you give me in return?”
“I am a knight of House Danier. Of course I serve you, milady.”
“Don’t give me stiff words like that. I want something just between us. Let’s say the money I give you is our secret. What do you think?”
Boshel had no choice but to agree. And Arian really did give him the money.
At first, he tried to avoid her, thinking, “What could a child possibly do? I’ll just deny everything.”
But Arian was no easy opponent.
She deliberately wore the very ribbon he once received from his “lady.” That ribbon now signified proof: she had bought back his armor and horse.
If Count Danier ever found out, Boshel would be expelled—whether or not Arian had given the money willingly. The Count would rage at the idea that a knight let his daughter pay for him.
So, from then on, Boshel ran Arian’s errands.
She threatened him, but also sometimes gave him pocket money. Stick and carrot.
After two years, he was well-trained. His brief defiance earlier was only pretense—so they could later exchange the safe lines of:
“I told her it was impossible.”
“Yes, but I insisted, so don’t blame him.”
True to form, Boshel stopped regretting two years ago and went looking for the overseer.
Overseers were always serfs—easy to find nearby, in one village or another.
And the simplest way to track one down?
“Ah, check the gambling den!”
Entertainment.
Aside from the brief time he’d fallen for a “lady,” Boshel had always lived for pleasure. Bleeding dry these rural folks was child’s play.
At first, the villagers underestimated him. But soon they focused on his hands, the tension rising each time he shuffled the carved wooden pieces.
When he joined the gambling pit at the tavern, the game swelled. The wealthier peasants came running.
From the second floor, Arian watched with a faint smile. Then, as if uninterested, she turned back into her room, while the tavern below roared with whistles and shouts.
The next day, I awoke after a long nap.
Boshel had come in at dawn, smug.
“By tomorrow, you’ll meet the overseer. You’ll need to stay up all night, so rest now.”
Judging by his arrogance, two things were certain: 1) he’d succeeded, 2) he’d won big. Likely both.
In this world, no one blinked at a child eating in a tavern at midnight. If children’s rights existed, there wouldn’t be child marriages either.
Here, “rights” were a luxury word.
The people eating in this tavern were serfs—bound to land, sold with it like chattel. Their lives were just survival.
Capitation taxes, tributes, rents, usage fees… their entire existence was suffocating defense against ruin.
And if a natural disaster struck? Collapse. No insurance, no relief, no protection. Just the end.
They lived like mayflies.
Boredom only made it worse—hence their openness about sex, their passion for gambling, their craving for dopamine.
Every tavern, in every province, had a gambling corner.
Usually, the games stayed tame—same faces, same grudges, nothing too risky, lest knives get drawn.
But then an outsider arrived. An outsider who had already taken the locals’ money.
Money taken by an outsider was no longer “local money.” It became fair game.
The village thrilled at the chance to reclaim it.
But Boshel—while mediocre as a knight—was a first-class gambler. These peasants had no chance.
He cleared out the small fry, and then…
The boss appeared.
It was the overseer.
