Brawl

Lancelot eyed him in disgust, then at his untouched steak. "Alright, you asked for it." With a flick of his wrist, he slammed the steak onto Thor's face. Before the northman could react, Lancelot grabbed his chair with the other hand and smashed it over Thor's head.

The wooden frame shattered into splinters. For a moment, Thor just stood there, a half-eaten steak hanging from his forehead. Then, his face twisted in rage. With a roar, he grabbed a bottle of wine and hurled it at Lancelot. Lancelot dodged effortlessly. Unfortunately, the bottle found another target. 

A man dressed in black armor, sitting quietly at the far end of the hall, was enjoying a plate of roasted potatoes when the bottle smashed over his head, drenching him in red wine. Silence. "Oh," Lancelot mused, tilting his head. "Isn't that the Black Knight, Virgil? Thor, do you hate Virgil or something?"

Virgil stood up slowly, his dark hair dripping with wine. Then, without a word, he flipped the entire table over. That was the spark. The room erupted into chaos. Fists, plates, stools—everything became a weapon. 

Young warriors from across the land, all of them arrogant, all of them with something to prove, finally had an excuse to unleash their aggression. Northerners brawled with southern knights, sailors fought with land-born warriors, nobles clashed with mercenaries, and black-clad warriors swung at their white-armored rivals. It was a free-for-all. The Holy See's finest warriors, chosen for their strength and discipline, were now engaged in a full-blown tavern brawl.

Amidst the chaos, the heavy curtain at the entrance lifted, and two figures stepped inside. Kayvaan took in the scene and smirked. "Ah, youth. So much energy." 

He turned to Darius, who stood beside him with a frown. "Should I stop them?" Darius asked.

Kayvaan shook his head. "Why? Let them work out their frustrations. Their hand-to-hand combat skills are pathetic, anyway. As long as no one dies, it'll be fine." He casually stepped aside as a plate went flying past.

"Come on. Let's grab some food and get a seat by the fire. Might as well enjoy the show."

Rhianna swiftly arranged a table and two chairs near the fire. The food and wine were already prepared, and by the time Kayvaan sat down, a hot meal was placed before him. As he sipped his wine and cut into the steak, he glanced at the ongoing melee in the hall, watching with mild amusement. The fight had escalated to a chaotic frenzy, with warriors throwing fists, furniture, and the occasional plate at each other. "Rhianna, what do you think of them?" he asked casually.

"They're all strong and resilient," she replied, watching the brawl with a critical eye. "Thick-skinned, too. Seems like they can take a beating."

"Good. Skills can be taught. Endurance is harder to instill." Kayvaan took another bite of his steak, nodding in satisfaction. "The food's not bad. You should try it." By the time they finished their meal, the brawl had reached its inevitable conclusion. Only three people remained standing.

Lancelot and Virgil were still locked in an intense stare-down, panting and bloodied but refusing to back down. Their focus was so absolute that they failed to notice the final combatant—a woman in revealing leather armor—who had spent the entire fight avoiding confrontation by strategically staying in the corner. Kayvaan sighed. "How long do they plan on glaring at each other? I've finished dinner."

Rhianna wiped her mouth, stood up, and casually approached the two knights. Without ceremony, she drew her sheathed sword and whacked them both on the head. Thud. Both knights collapsed instantly.

The next morning, Lancelot woke with a splitting headache. Groaning, he touched the back of his head and winced. A sizable lump had formed there. 'What the hell happened?' His memories of last night were hazy. He recalled dinner. He remembered a fight breaking out—beating that northern brute Thor into a pulp, besting a few other challengers, and finally locking into a fierce battle with Virgil. 'Did I win?' As he tried to piece things together, his fingers traced the swollen lump on his head. 'No, someone blindsided me.'

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Lancelot pulled himself out of bed. His breakfast was sitting on the table—beef stew with mashed potatoes. Unfortunately, the meal had long since gone cold. The mashed potatoes had solidified into an unyielding brick. He frowned.

After washing his face with the snow on the windowsill, he sat at the table and began stabbing at the potato brick with his fork, more out of frustration than hunger. Then, he noticed a note placed beside his meal. It was a simple message, short and to the point: 'All warriors, assemble in the main hall at noon.' Lancelot's heart pounded with excitement. 'Finally.'

Ever since arriving in Vansagan, the warriors had been left in limbo. The Church had provided them with accommodations, ensured they were well-fed, and given them only one restriction: do not leave the city. More and more warriors had arrived over time, until twenty of the strongest young fighters from across the lands were gathered. But for what purpose? Speculation had run rampant. Most of them had no idea what they were waiting for. But Lancelot did. This was the moment he had been preparing for. The envoy of the God-Emperor was about to choose his warriors.

Now, all that remained was the selection process. And if he had to fight for his place, then so be it. Glancing at his plate, Lancelot grimaced. He needed to be in peak condition, which meant eating—no matter how much the potato brick resisted.

By noon, the warriors had gathered in the hall. The moment Lancelot stepped inside, he was immediately met with a sharp voice. "Stand in two lines. You pigs don't even know how to form ranks? And you—you're late."

Lancelot blinked. 'Me?' He pointed at himself, about to protest, but the man speaking—tall, dark-haired, with a commanding presence—gave him no opportunity. 

"No talking. Get in line. Now." A murmur spread through the assembled warriors. Most of them had expected a priest or a high-ranking knight to address them—not this man.

The warrior next to Lancelot scoffed. "Who is this idiot?" Thor, the northern brute, sneered.'He orders us around like we're his soldiers. Lining up? What's next, polishing his boots? Who even is this guy?' Then, louder, "You expect me to follow orders from a pretty boy? Bah! You're not even worthy to call yourself my mentor!"

Kayvaan didn't hesitate. "Thor, step forward." The entire hall fell silent. The northerner's cocky smirk faltered. But with dozens of eyes on him, there was no backing down. He stepped forward confidently, cracking his knuckles. 

"You got something to say to me, little man?" Thor sneered.

Kayvaan tilted his head slightly, studying him. "Yes."