Chapter 6

The spring air caressed Duke Oswald's face as he stood in his chamber, watching the field below being readied for the duel.

"Are you prepared to depart?" he asked without turning.

"Yes, my lord. I've chosen to bring only the men I trust most," Sir Benjamin replied, pulling on his glove with a precise, almost ritualistic motion.

The duke nodded. The little finger of his left hand was trembling—a familiar habit, unfailing before every battle.

"You've served me well, Sir Benjamin. As well as you once served my father. Fulfill this task and..." —the knight's eyes flickered with sudden light— "I will permit your grandson, Alexander, to wed my youngest daughter."

"Yes, my lord!" Benjamin replied, coughing discreetly into his hand to hide the tremor of emotion that had slipped through. "I am grateful for your generosity."

"See to it that no one learns where you're going."

The knight raised an eyebrow—something he did only when matters were truly delicate.

"My lord… do you suspect there are spies in your own house?"

Oswald gave no answer.

A courtier crossed the room with measured steps and bowed to both men.

"My lord, the prisoner has arrived."

The duke barely shifted his gaze.

"Good. Let him in," he ordered, watching the servant retreat. Then he turned to his knight. "You will speak."

The doors opened.

A stone-faced guard entered first, his stride deliberate. Behind him came Giotto, crossing the threshold like a man headed to the gallows. Dried streaks of blood marked his face beneath the eyes, his blond hair was tangled, his clothes torn. He looked like a beggar.

And yet… something was off.

The duke's brow creased ever so slightly. Benjamin folded his arms. They both saw it immediately.

Despite his wretched appearance, Giotto's skin looked unnaturally healthy—almost luminous. No bruises, no sores. And though bent from hunger and exhaustion, his body held the latent tension of a trained soldier.

He was no longer the disheveled, vulgar boy from the day before. His face had changed—sharper, more symmetrical. A youthful, refined beauty brushing the edge of femininity, yet not entirely stripped of its masculine grit.

Too much for someone who'd spent the night in a rank cell.

The silence thickened.

No one dared speak it aloud, but a word drifted through the room like incense: witchcraft.

And yet logic held them back.

They knew how sorcery worked: every spell demanded a price. Flesh, blood, soul. Even the simplest enchantments required tribute. If the man had truly used magic—without any knight noticing—why not escape? Why submit to judgment?

Unaware of their thoughts, Giotto felt no shame. Only thirst, hunger, and a persistent ache at the base of his skull—a remnant of that vile dream.

"Leave us," ordered Sir Benjamin.

The servant withdrew without lifting his eyes.

The guard passed by Giotto, who kept his gaze straight ahead, avoiding his reflection in the polished armor. He didn't want to confirm what he already feared.

"My… lords?" he muttered, then fell silent, unsure how to address the two men.

Sir Benjamin wore his usual genial smile, that of a patient old man. But his hand, nearly imperceptible, slid toward the hilt of his sword, awaiting the duke's signal to correct the offense.

A single glance was enough to stop him.

"From now on, you will address me as Sir, and his grace as my lord."

Visibly uncomfortable, Giotto nodded stiffly, avoiding the knight's gaze.

"Understood… Sir."

"Do you know why His Grace has summoned you?"

He said nothing. Of course he knew. One would have to be an imbecile not to grasp the scenario he himself had orchestrated. But he chose to shake his head, afraid that any word might be the wrong one.

A display of ignorance. Disrespectful, yes… but excusable in a poorly informed foreigner.

"His Grace, Duke Oswald, has decided to grant you the opportunity to prove your words," began the old knight.

For a fleeting moment, Giotto felt a smile trying to surface. He smothered it.

"And what must I do to prove I spoke the truth?" he asked, lowering his gaze in a carefully rehearsed gesture of submission.

Sir Benjamin paused. He looked to the duke, who gave a slight nod.

"Because of your testimony two days ago, His Grace, in his generosity, has agreed to test you in combat. A duel." He paused again, gauging the youth's unreadable expression.

"If you prevail, the duke will spare your life and offer you a place under his protection. If you fail, the axe shall be your end."

"Oh… how very generous of His Grace, the Duke…"

Then, his stomach roared with sudden violence. The sound echoed in the silence.

The knight looked to his lord. Oswald kept his gaze fixed on the boy, then turned to Benjamin and nodded.

"Servant!"

An older woman entered at once, dressed in plain cloth.

"Give him as much food as he wants. Let him bathe. And dress him in decent clothes."

The woman bowed without a word.

"That will be all for now, foreigner. Follow her. A guard will escort you."

Giotto nodded without a word. He turned and followed. The woman, courteous with the ease of habit, gestured softly for him to walk, while one of the duke's guards fell in behind them.

Once Giotto had left the hall, the duke remained still, gazing at the space the young man had vacated. Several moments passed before he rose and returned to the window, where he observed courtiers readying the stands. His knight quietly stepped to his side.

"What do you make of him?" Oswald asked without turning.

"He's a foreigner, my lord. Unfamiliar with our customs. Shows little respect…"

"But?" Oswald interrupted, finally turning to his loyal servant.

"But he's cunning. I saw it in his eyes. It's as if he orchestrated this from the very beginning… Is it wise, my lord? A man like him—one lacking in purity—could be dangerous."

"A man, Sir Benjamin, need not be pure. Nor innocent. Not even loyal. He only needs to live long enough to fulfill his purpose."

"And once that purpose is fulfilled, my lord?"

Duke Oswald did not answer at once. He watched from on high as the courtiers arranged the benches for the public.

"If he's still alive by then... he'll die."

And as his words faded into the quiet chamber, the man meant to be the executioner was already preparing for the execution.

Withertown Castle

Outer Tower

In the privacy of his chamber, Rufus was enjoying a lavish meal while watching the two most beautiful courtesans in the castle—reserved exclusively for him—polish his black steel armor with meticulous care.

The doors creaked open, heavy on their hinges, admitting Sir Alexander, clad in his immaculate platinum armor.

"Oh! Sir, what a surprise," Rufus exclaimed, not bothering to rise as he watched the young knight step in unannounced.

Alexander halted when he saw them. So did the women. A thick silence settled in the room before he finally spoke.

"Out."

The courtesans turned to Rufus, waiting for his consent. With deliberate slowness, he bit into an apple and gave a nod.

They left under Alexander's gaze, which lingered on them until the door shut behind.

"Go on, help yourself. My table is yours to share," Rufus offered, gesturing to the feast overflowing with roasted meats, vegetables, and wine pitchers arranged with almost theatrical carelessness.

"You never waste time, do you?" Alexander remarked, a frown creasing that beautiful face with its almost delicate features.

"You see, my dear knight, I am a man of many pleasures. And as such, I enjoy good food… paired with a pleasant view."

Alexander snorted.

"A pleasant view, huh?"

"Oh, don't mistake me. I enjoy beauty no matter where it comes from."

Alexander dragged a chair over and sat beside him.

"Aren't you worried?"

"Worried? Whatever for? He's just a foreigner. From what I've heard, the only sharp thing about him is his tongue."

The knight studied him closely. That giant, dressed in simple yet finely made clothes, still bore the mark of the Whitertown line in those violet eyes. Alexander knew him too well—knew that behind that wall of muscle lived a shrewd and calculating mind. Rufus never did anything that didn't serve him, not even under the duke's direct orders. So he didn't hesitate to ask:

"Rufus…"

"Yes, my knight."

"What did you speak about with the duke this morning?"

Rufus fell silent. His lower lip twitched—a small but telling sign. The question had caught him off guard. Still, true to form, he let nothing else show.

"You heard about that? His Grace ought to tighten his security…"

"Don't deflect," Alexander said sharply, irritation creeping into his voice. "If it concerns us, I have a right to know."

"Concerns us?" Rufus repeated, his tone unreadable. "Not sure what you mean by us, Sir. I'm not convinced there is an us."

"If it involves you, then by extension it involves me. Aren't we one and the same?"

Alexander's voice softened at the end, and his hand barely grazed Rufus' enormous arm.

The giant sighed, then recovered that arrogant grin of his.

"You're an elusive creature, as always… Fine. Yes, I met with His Grace this morning. Had some doubts about the duel."

"What kind of doubts?" Alexander asked instantly.

"The usual... the opponent's strength, his tricks, the most efficient way to deal with such a capable adversary."

Alexander's eyebrows rose, catching the implication.

"And what did he say?"

"His Grace ordered me to strike to kill. No restraint."

He said it with brutal honesty, unconcerned if the walls had ears.

"Will you kill him?" Alexander asked, a note of something deeper than doubt in his voice.

"I'll follow the duke's orders to the letter: strike with intent to kill. If he survives... well, no one can say I didn't obey."

"I see…" the blond knight murmured, impressed by the twisted logic of his lover. «You think you can use this man»

"If he managed to win over the West's greatest witch-hunter... I'd be a fool to let such a tool go to waste."

"What's your next move?" Alexander asked, brushing a golden strand from his eyes.

"I, darling, will finish my meal while my armor receives the attention it deserves. You, on the other hand, will go to the guest's chamber. See what you can draw out of him."

"And why do you think I could get anything from him?"

"After all these years, I've learned you can be very persuasive when you choose to be. And besides, your near-angelic charms could melt any man."

"I can't tell if that was an insult or a compliment," the knight grumbled, equal parts annoyed and amused.

"A compliment, of course. Who better than the Silver Knight to enchant a stranger? Go. And after the duel, come to me and tell me everything you've learned."

Sir Alexander stood with a respectful nod toward the mountain of muscle before him.

He paused a moment at the door. He wasn't sure if he was doing this out of duty, out of loyalty to Rufus… or because of the strange, silent pull the foreigner had begun to stir inside him. But before he left, he let a few words hang in the air:

"If you want to touch me again… wash off the stench of whore first."

As Alexander walked away from the tower, the echo of his own thoughts reverberating through the corridor, Giotto stepped across the threshold of a room built from black stone, steeped in history and dampness.

For a moment, he allowed himself to look around like a child entering a silent museum for the first time.

An uncarved wooden bed. An old oak table. A window so narrow it barely let the light through.

Everything was coarse. Solid. Austere.

But he... he was in a medieval castle.

Not a cardboard one, not a theme park replica, not a video game. No.

A real one. Cold. Unforgiving. Reeking of mildew.

The kind of place where people died in bed from disease—or the edge of a knife.

His chest swelled with awe, even as his stomach growled without poetry.

"The bath will be ready shortly," said the maid, not looking at him. Her voice was coarse, her presence strictly functional. "The cook is preparing several dishes for you."

"Ah... thank you," Giotto replied, unsure what else to say. Still marveling at the place, he barely noticed the faintly pitying glance the older woman gave him before she left.

He took one step. Then another. The stone beneath his feet felt almost alive.

The woman exited with a slight nod, leaving him alone—something new to him since arriving in this world. Giotto allowed himself a brief truce. Fragile. Fleeting. But his.

And with it came the awareness of his own filth: a dense crust of grime covered him from neck to soles. All he could do was wait for the hot water. Not that he had much choice—Sir Benjamin's guard stood at the door like a statue, and this wasn't the time to risk testing his powers.

So he did the sensible thing: he explored.

He moved with restrained steps, as if afraid to shatter the weight of the silence. An intangible density hung in the air, from the stone walls to the lone flame flickering on the table.

He approached the narrow window—little more than a rectangle of light filtered through iron bars. From there, the wind carried whispers: the metallic squeal of armor, sharp commands, the barking of a dog.

The village was alive: mothers busy in their homes, men working the fields, children splashing in the mud. In the square, a banner flew—the duke's crest. A man read a scroll aloud, though he was too far for the words to carry. No normal human could have made out so much from this height. But Giotto was no longer fully human.

«Perfect,» he muttered bitterly, remembering his new body.

He rested his fingers on the window's edge. Rough, porous, cold.

The door opened. The old woman returned, this time flanked by three girls with calloused hands. They carried steaming buckets, which they emptied into a metal tub without a word.

Giotto stepped back.

The old woman laid out clean clothes on the bed: thick linen, patched but in good condition.

"Go ahead," she said, gesturing to the tub. "Time to be rid of those rags."

Giotto tensed, uneasy. He looked at the old woman, then at the younger girls. None seemed disturbed. No shame. No scandal.

"Could you… leave me alone?" he asked quietly.

The old woman studied him in silence. After a few seconds, she clicked her tongue and nodded.

"As you wish. But don't take too long. The water cools quickly. Your meal will arrive soon."

They left without a word. The door shut with finality.

Slowly, he undressed: the mud-stained white shirt, the blood-speckled jeans, the sticky, abrasive underwear. He stood as he had been born.

And for a moment, he was truly aware of the changes he had undergone.

Before, it had been a vague sensation, fleeting reflections—but now he saw it clearly. His body looked sculpted. Lean, athletic, with a firm abdomen and sinewy arms. No body hair except for what remained on his head and brows. He was taller now, too—easily over six foot two, maybe more.

A strange feeling stirred in his chest. He ignored it. Not the time.

He walked to the tub, feeling the chill of the floor, the roughness of the stone under his bare feet. He stepped in slowly, like entering a temple.

The warm water enveloped him. Dirt and dust peeled from his skin like scales. He dunked his face.

"If only there were soap," he whispered, breathing out a cloud of steam.

The water turned gray, then brown, but he didn't care. He felt clean. Alive.

When he wished the moment could last just a little longer, he lifted his gaze toward the trembling reflection in the water.

His face. Both familiar and foreign.

A faint shiver ran down his spine, despite the heat. He studied himself: the pores, the angles, the mole on his chin—just like his mother and all six siblings had. Still there.

But something had changed.

His eyes—an impossible, electric blue. His face—more symmetrical, more beautiful. More… unreal. Like it had been drawn by a manga artist. More beautiful than any face he'd ever seen.

Unable to keep looking, he scrubbed his face hard, rubbed his skin raw to strip away the last of the grime, and stepped out of the tub.

He let himself feel the water dripping from his body, eyes closed.

«What will my family say when they see me?» he wondered. But he pushed the thought aside.

He dressed quickly: first his salvaged underwear, then the brown shirt, matching trousers, and rough boots.

One of the maids stepped in.

She was young. And in her angular face, there was a quiet kind of beauty. She stared at him for a half-second too long before lifting her gaze to his eyes.

"The cook has finished your meal," she said, gesturing toward the hall. "This way, sir."

When Giotto entered the dining room, he froze.

A feast awaited him at the table: soup, vegetables, meat, fruit. Enough food to last two days.

He watched the young woman leave without looking back.

He sat down. His stomach growled. He ignored the oddity of a stranger being treated this well. Ignored how anachronistic such abundance was in a time of scarcity.

It didn't matter.

He drank the soup like water. Then the meat, the vegetables—everything.

His body absorbed it like a dry well. No bloating. No choking. The taste was dull, flat—but he hadn't eaten more than a crust of bread and a little water in days.

Within minutes, half the table was empty.

He only paused when the doors opened once more.

A young man walked in. He couldn't have been much older than Giotto. Blond hair, a gallant smile, golden eyes. Armor of polished silver.

«A woman?» Giotto thought at first. But with a closer look, he dismissed the notion.

He didn't stop eating, though his pace slowed. He studied the newcomer with the sharpness of a hawk. No gesture escaped his notice.

He recognized him.

«Wasn't he standing beside that knight during the trial…?»

Giotto swallowed his mouthful and stood up, slipping into the role of the timid youth.

"Lord… Sir… I'm sorry. I'm still not used to how I should address people like you."

Dangerous, Giotto thought, easing back into his seat, careful not to let his guard drop.

Alexander pulled a chair from another table and dragged it over. He sat beside him, leaving just enough space for a quick strike. Giotto noticed. And responded in kind: his posture relaxed, but alert. The fork remained in his hand, ready to become a weapon if needed.

"I remember you," Giotto said, setting a chicken leg aside and fixing his gaze on the man's face. "You were with that knight. A fearsome man… and an honorable one. What was his name?"

"Sir Benjamin. He's my grandfather."

"Your grandfather…" Giotto paused, examining the man's features. "Yes, I can see the resemblance."

The knight gave a brief, measured laugh. The joke had amused him; Giotto could tell by the faint flare of his nostrils. But not enough to draw more than a restrained smile.

«He's got good control over his reactions.»

"I must say, ahm… Sir? I wasn't expecting visitors. Least of all someone of your standing."

"My standing?" the knight murmured, raising an eyebrow. "And what standing is that?"

"Noble. Cultured. I'm not sure I can offer much conversation to a man of your caliber."

"There's no need for such formality. I hold a title now, but I was born a commoner. No need for titles—Alexander will do."

Giotto regarded him a moment before shifting his gaze to a polished red apple.

"Very well, Alexander," he said at last, picking up the fruit. "What can I do for you?"

The question was more than polite—he meant to steer the conversation, a simple yet subtle move. To his surprise, Alexander caught it. His smile sharpened slightly, and he held Giotto's gaze with a glint of challenge before replying:

"Just… curiosity."

"Curiosity. A delight for some… a danger for others."

Alexander didn't respond. He merely studied Giotto, as if testing his mettle.

"Despite the courtesy I've been shown, I still know nothing. Perhaps you can help satisfy my curiosity. Tell me—what is my opponent like?"

"A man truly skilled in the art of combat. A difficult opponent, if I may say so."

"Of course. If it were easy, it wouldn't be any fun."

"Fun…? You see combat as entertainment?"

Alexander smiled. But inwardly, he congratulated himself for baiting the hook.

Giotto stayed silent, weighing the question before answering.

"I don't know if 'entertainment' is the right word. Forgive me if I'm using the language poorly. The correct word would be… 'interesting.'"

«Intrigue upon intrigue,» he thought, weary of the verbal dance.

Alexander wanted to continue. For both of them, the exchange had been as fruitful as it was revealing. But a guard entered the hall and approached with a stern face.

"Sir Alexander, pardon the interruption. You're expected."

The soldier shot a disapproving glance at Giotto.

"Oh, what a shame," said the blond knight, his face delicate, almost wistful. "We'll have to continue this conversation another time."

Alexander rose and began to leave, but Giotto stopped him.

"Before you go…" Giotto began, catching the knight off guard, "Is there any custom before a duel? Some gesture to show respect to one's opponent?"

He gauged him carefully. Before inheriting the Traveler's legacy, he might have been ignorant of history and customs, but now—depending on the answer—he might better situate himself in this world. A clear context would enhance his future deceptions.

"There's nothing in particular. In these lands, when two men face each other, they speak their names and a phrase that shows their intent to see the battle through. The phrase varies with each combatant."

With that, Alexander took his leave, leaving Giotto alone with the guard.

«This is not my world.»

In hindsight, the thought was redundant. Of course it wasn't. None of the abilities he'd inherited from the Traveler included time travel… Yet he had believed himself in an alternate version of his own universe.

«I need more context. But with what I have, I already know where history diverged.»

"It's time," the soldier called impatiently. "The duel is about to begin."

Giotto snapped out of his thoughts. His gaze hardened.

"Ah. Right. Very well. Please, lead the way."

«I only hope whatever that man got from our talk is enough to keep me out of his schemes.»

---------------------------------------

--------------------------------------

Next Chapter... The duel.

 —The Author