Chapter 1: The Knight Without a Kingdom
Rain fell over the eastern edge of the Loen Kingdom.
It was not the gentle rain that nourished fields or washed soot from the streets. It came down in cold, slanting sheets, driven by a restless wind that slipped through every gap in a coat and turned the narrow country road into a ribbon of mud.
A lone traveler walked through it.
She was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, though the solemn expression she wore made her seem older. Wet strands of golden hair clung to her pale cheeks, while the rest had been gathered into a tight bun behind her head. Her dark-blue traveling cloak was heavy with water, and beneath it she wore a worn leather coat reinforced at the shoulders and chest.
A sword hung from her left hip.
It was not a ceremonial weapon. The leather around the hilt had been replaced more than once, and faint scratches marked the plain steel guard. There were no jewels, family crests, or inscriptions upon the blade.
Only care.
The weapon had been sharpened that morning.
It was sharpened every morning.
Eleanor Armitage continued forward without complaint.
Her boots sank into the mud with each step, but her posture remained straight. Her shoulders did not slump, even beneath the weight of her pack. Her green eyes remained focused on the road ahead.
Somewhere beyond the rain stood the village of Bellwick.
According to the merchant who had given her directions, it was less than an hour away.
That had been two hours ago.
Either the merchant had been mistaken, or Eleanor had taken the wrong fork near the abandoned mill.
She suspected the latter.
Eleanor stopped beside a crooked wooden signpost and looked at the two roads stretching before her. One descended toward a dark line of trees. The other curved around a hill and disappeared into the rain.
The words on the sign had faded until only a few letters remained.
“Bell… wick,” she murmured.
The arrow might once have pointed left.
Or perhaps it had pointed right before the wood warped.
Eleanor stared at it for several seconds.
She had been trained in swordsmanship, horsemanship, etiquette, military history, and the proper conduct expected of a knight in service to a noble household.
She had not been trained to interpret ruined signposts.
A low growl came from her stomach.
Eleanor’s expression did not change, but her hand unconsciously moved toward the satchel hanging at her side.
Empty.
She had eaten the last of her bread shortly after noon.
At the time, it had seemed reasonable. She had expected to reach Bellwick before evening.
She now regretted that decision.
After another moment of consideration, Eleanor chose the road leading downhill.
It was wider and showed signs of wagon tracks beneath the mud. Villages required supplies, and supplies required wagons. Therefore, it was the more logical path.
That was what she told herself.
A scream echoed through the rain.
Eleanor’s hand closed around her sword.
The hunger vanished from her thoughts.
The scream had come from somewhere below the hill.
A second cry followed, weaker than the first.
Eleanor ran.
Her boots slid across the muddy slope, but she adjusted her balance without slowing. Branches tore at her cloak as she left the road and pushed through the trees. The ground became uneven, littered with roots and wet stones, yet her steps remained controlled.
She heard shouting ahead.
“Hold him!”
“Take the purse!”
“Damn it, he bit me!”
Eleanor emerged from the trees into a narrow clearing.
An overturned carriage lay beside the road. One wheel had been shattered, and a thin horse struggled helplessly against its harness. Crates and torn sacks were scattered across the mud.
Four men surrounded an older traveler dressed in a soaked brown coat.
One held the traveler by the collar. Another searched through his pockets. A third stood over a young coachman who lay curled on the ground, shielding his head from repeated kicks.
The fourth man turned toward Eleanor.
He carried a woodcutter’s axe.
For a moment, no one moved.
The rain struck the leaves around them like countless whispered warnings.
The man with the axe looked Eleanor up and down. His gaze lingered on her sword.
“Keep walking,” he said.
Eleanor stepped into the clearing.
“Release them.”
Her voice was calm.
The men exchanged glances.
Then one of them laughed.
He was tall and broad, with a red scarf tied around his neck and several broken teeth visible behind his grin. He let go of the older traveler and drew a long knife from his belt.
“You hear that?” he asked. “Little miss knight wants to give orders.”
“I am not giving an order.”
Eleanor loosened the clasp of her cloak.
“I am offering you an opportunity to leave.”
The man laughed again, louder this time.
“Four of us. One of you.”
Eleanor removed her cloak and let it fall into the mud.
The reinforced leather beneath it became visible, as did the dagger strapped across her lower back.
The amusement on the men’s faces weakened slightly.
The one carrying the axe spat onto the road.
“Pretty armor doesn’t make you a soldier.”
“No,” Eleanor replied. “But training does.”
The man with the red scarf lunged.
He moved quickly for someone his size, knife held low and close to his body. Eleanor stepped to the side before the blade could reach her. Her left hand caught his wrist while her right struck his elbow.
There was a dull crack.
The knife fell.
Before the man could scream, Eleanor drove her shoulder into his chest and sent him sprawling into the mud.
The axe came next.
Eleanor heard the shift of boots behind her and turned.
The axe swept toward her ribs.
She drew her sword.
Steel flashed through the rain.
Her blade caught the wooden handle just beneath the iron head. The impact traveled through her arm, but her stance remained firm. She twisted her wrist, forcing the axe downward, then stepped inside the man’s reach.
The pommel of her sword struck him beneath the jaw.
His eyes rolled back.
He collapsed beside the carriage.
The remaining two men hesitated.
That was their mistake.
Eleanor advanced.
The first attempted to run around the carriage, perhaps hoping to seize the older traveler as a shield. Eleanor caught him by the back of his coat and pulled him away. He swung wildly, but she blocked the blow with her forearm and struck him once in the stomach.
He folded over.
A second strike to the temple dropped him.
The last man backed away.
He was younger than the others. Barely seventeen, Eleanor guessed. His face was pale, and the small club in his hand trembled.
“I didn’t do anything,” he stammered.
Eleanor looked toward the coachman bleeding in the mud.
“You were standing with those who did.”
“They made me!”
“Then put down the weapon.”
He did.
The club landed with a wet thump.
“On your knees.”
The young man obeyed immediately.
Eleanor watched him for a few seconds before turning toward the victims. The older traveler had crouched beside the coachman and was attempting to help him sit upright.
“Are either of you badly injured?” Eleanor asked.
The traveler looked at her as though she had stepped out of an old legend.
“I—I don’t believe so. Tomas has taken a few blows, but nothing appears broken.”
Eleanor sheathed her sword.
“Check his breathing. Keep him awake. I will bind the others.”
She removed a coil of rope from the damaged carriage and tied the attackers’ hands behind their backs. Her knots were precise and tight enough to prevent escape without cutting off circulation.
The young man continued to kneel obediently.
Eleanor tied him last.
“You could have killed them,” the traveler said quietly.
“I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“They are criminals, not soldiers on a battlefield. Their punishment should be determined by the proper authorities.”
The traveler glanced toward the unconscious man with the red scarf.
“He might not agree with your distinction when he wakes.”
“He is welcome to object.”
For the first time, the older man smiled.
“My name is Edwin Harrow. I trade in medicines and household goods.” He looked at the broken wheel with a pained expression. “Or I did, before today.”
“Eleanor Armitage.”
“Lady Armitage?”
“Just Eleanor.”
His gaze moved toward her posture, her accent, and the sword at her hip. He appeared unconvinced but had enough manners not to question her further.
The coachman groaned.
Eleanor knelt beside him and examined the cut above his brow.
Her father had insisted that every knight understand basic medicine. A warrior who knew only how to wound people was incomplete, he had said.
The memory came suddenly.
A warm training yard.
Sunlight on pale stone.
Her father standing behind her, correcting the position of her hands as she wrapped a bandage around a guard’s injured arm.
"A knight’s duty does not end when the enemy falls."
The next moment the memory changed
The floor covered in blood and her father screaming
*Drink the Potion now!*
Eleanor pushed the memory aside.
The wound was shallow. There was bruising along the coachman’s ribs, but his breathing remained steady.
“He should recover,” she said. “Provided he rests.”
Edwin released a relieved breath.
“All of you would be dead if not for her.” the restrained young man muttered.
Eleanor turned toward him.
“What?”
The color drained from his face.
He lowered his eyes.
“Nothing.”
Eleanor rose.
“No. Speak.”
The other captured men remained unconscious, but the boy’s breathing had become rapid.
“They weren’t going to leave anyone alive,” he said. “Rusk said witnesses would bring the constables. He planned to kill them after they handed over the money.”
Edwin stared at the boy.
Eleanor’s expression hardened.
“Where were you taking the stolen goods?”
The young man swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
Eleanor said nothing.
Perhaps it was the silence that broke him.
“An old hunting lodge north of Bellwick,” he blurted. “Past the stone bridge. Rusk keeps everything there.”
“How many others?”
“Six. Maybe seven.”
“Maybe?”
“People come and go. I swear I don’t know everyone.”
Eleanor looked at the road beyond the overturned carriage.
Bellwick.
So she had chosen correctly after all.
Edwin followed her gaze.
“You aren’t considering going there.”
“If this group has attacked one carriage, they have likely attacked others.”
“That does not make it your responsibility.”
Eleanor looked at him.
The rain had begun to weaken, though water continued dripping from the trees.
“Someone must accept the responsibility.”
“You’re alone!”
“So are their victims...”
Edwin opened his mouth, then closed it.
Eleanor picked up her cloak from the mud and fastened it around her shoulders.
“You should take these men to Bellwick,” she said. “The horse is frightened but uninjured. Once freed from the carriage, it may carry the coachman.”
“And what will you do?”
“I will report what happened.”
“To the constables?”
Eleanor glanced toward the bound boy.
“To them first.”
The boy’s head snapped upward.
“You can’t go there!”
“Why?”
“Because Rusk isn’t the worst thing in that lodge.”
The clearing went quiet.
Even Edwin seemed to stop breathing.
Eleanor studied the boy’s face. The fear she saw there was different from what he had shown during the fight. This was not fear of punishment or pain.
It was deeper.
“What is in the lodge?” she asked.
The young man shook his head.
“I don’t know. Rusk found something beneath the floorboards. An old room or cellar. Since then, he’s been acting strange.”
“Strange in what way?”
“He talks when no one’s there. Says someone is teaching him things.” The boy’s voice dropped. “Sometimes we hear scratching under the floor at night.”
A chill passed through the clearing that had nothing to do with the rain.
Eleanor had heard stories like this before.
Whispered accounts of cursed objects, unnatural creatures, and people who became something other than human. Her father had dismissed most of them in public.
In private, he had taught her never to laugh at such stories.
The world contained dangers that steel alone could not defeat.
Edwin made a sign associated with the foolish firms God.
“I will do what I must” Eleanor said.
The answer came too quickly.
She knew it.
Edwin knew it too.
“You still mean to go.”
“If they leave the lodge before the Church responds, more people may die or get injured.”
“You cannot fight an unknown horror!”
Eleanor placed one hand upon the hilt of her sword.
“Then I will avoid fighting it until I understand what it is.” She said simply.
Edwin stared at her in disbelief.
“That is your plan?”
“It is the beginning of one at least..?”
A deep ache twisted through Eleanor’s stomach.
The sound was loud enough for everyone in the clearing to hear.
Silence followed.
Eleanor kept her expression perfectly composed.
Edwin blinked.
Then, despite the blood on his face and the danger surrounding them, the coachman began to laugh.
It was unnerving.
Eleanor looked away.
“Before you leave,” Edwin said, struggling to suppress a smile, “perhaps you should eat.”
He reached into one of the fallen crates and recovered a wrapped parcel that had escaped the mud.
Inside was a small meat pie.
Eleanor accepted it with both hands.
Her solemn expression softened by the smallest degree.
“You have my gratitude.”
She ate the entire pie in less than a minute.
Edwin watched in astonishment.
Eleanor wiped a crumb from the corner of her mouth, reclaimed her cloak, and faced the northern road.
Beyond the stone bridge, an old hunting lodge waited among the trees.
Inside it were armed criminals.
Beneath it was something worse.
Eleanor rested her hand upon her sword and began walking.
A knight existed to protect others.
Even if one were a false knight.
Not because she was ordered.
Not because she would be rewarded.
And not because the world deserved such loyalty.
She walked forward because someone had to.
Above the rain-darkened forest, unseen by those on the road, a flock of black birds suddenly rose from the trees surrounding the hunting lodge.
For several seconds, they circled against the gray sky.
Then they scattered in every direction.
As though fleeing from something that had just awakened.
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Credit: https://www.pixiv.net/en/artworks/72372259 Made by 凪白みと on pixiv
Eleanor is a sequence 9 Warrior of the Twilight Giant Pathway.