WeTried Translations

Translator: ZERO_SUGAR

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ I Pulled Out Excalibur

Chapter 368

──────

Hero, Commoner, Nation (2)

The color that symbolized Londinel was blue.

Not the blue of a lake but a deep, sea-dark blue, that was Londinel's emblem. So the gardens of Londinel were filled with blue flowers.

Azure hydrangeas, blue roses, blue peonies... whatever was planted there, every flower bloomed blue in Londinel's gardens. It was one of the few gifts the late king had left to the young princess, who had loved blue flowers since childhood.

Even after ascending the throne, she would steal away whenever a moment opened up to walk this garden alone. It was one of her few hobbies, her one small escape.

"It's been a long time, Kirchhoff."

Three hundred years had passed.

"What's with that expression? Were you hoping not to see me?"

"...As if that could ever be the case."

"I'm joking. One look at your face tells me enough."

She was still there.

Not a trace changed from three hundred years ago, walking among the blue flowers. The sight of her made Kirchhoff's throat close up. He had so much to say, yet not a single word could push its way out.

"You look like you're about to cry, Kirchhoff."

Londinel's last queen, Yuria.

She let out a small laugh and walked toward him. Her steps were light, almost bouncy, she hopped close and stopped right in front of him.

His head bowed on its own. He had barely remembered in time that staring openly at Her Highness was a breach of decorum. But Yuria looked displeased. "Same as ever, you are," she muttered, and bent forward.

She stooped, lowered her head, and looked up at Kirchhoff's face from below.

"Hmm. I'm fairly certain I told you to hold your head high and live boldly. Bowing your head right now would mean defying my order... it seems you've gotten rather unruly in my absence."

Kirchhoff smiled, though it tasted bitter.

"It has been three hundred years."

"Three hundred years!"

Yuria clapped her hands together with a sharp crack.

"You must have a great deal to tell me. Don't you?"

With a mischievous grin, she grabbed his sleeve and dragged him to a corner of the garden, sitting him down across from a tea table.

"Go ahead, Kirchhoff. You're free to ramble."

"......"

"Where did that silver-tongued man go, the one who used to chatter away in front of me without pause? How strange. Surely you aren't telling me you have nothing at all to share? I believe I asked you to build the kind of heroic narrative that bards would sing of together."

"You did give that order."

"It wasn't an order. It was a request."

Resting her chin in both hands, Yuria smiled at him.

"So then. Go on."

She nudged him along.

"I'd like to hear your story. Just like the old days, when you'd sneak into this garden and tell me your tales of adventure."

"...Those were reckless days. No manners to speak of."

"Were they? I rather liked you back then. That boldness especially, when you stole a knight's armor and introduced yourself to me as Londinel's finest knight."

"Please forget about that. It's an embarrassing piece of history."

"I'd rather not."

Yuria grinned.

"If you want me to forget, you'll have to tell me something far more impressive. So, can you manage it?"

"Ah."

Kirchhoff dragged a hand down his face and steadied his breath.

"Of course I can. And who am I? None other than the knight who promised heroic tales to the most beautiful person in Londinel."

He swept his hair back and dropped his voice in that old familiar way, full of swagger. Like an actor taking the stage, he opened his mouth with an exaggerated flourish.

There were many stories to tell.

So many that telling them all would wear him out.

Looking very much like he might cry at any moment, Kirchhoff began. Watching him, Yuria smiled warmly. She lent an ear to the heroic narrative her knight was spinning.

Just as she had three hundred years ago.

2.

Kirchhoff was the son of a prostitute.

He had no way of knowing who his father was, and barely any more certainty about his mother. By the time he was old enough to understand the world, she had already gone.

Naturally, his childhood was miserable. Born and raised in a tavern, the only things he learned were how to swindle others and how to cheat at gambling. From a very young age, Kirchhoff learned to deceive.

Because that was the only way to survive.

A harsh world doesn't let children act like children. To survive alone, Kirchhoff learned how to puff himself up, how to bluff, how to lie to anyone who crossed his path.

"A true knight, see, must have honor and pride! Hold that bearing just right, and women fall head over heels. Drives them absolutely wild."

A retired knight who was a regular at the tavern. Listening to the old man's stories, Kirchhoff, now a young man, thought: honor, pride, knights. What a joke.

What use were any of those things?

People who went around preaching honor and pride would be crawling on all fours like dogs after a few days without food. In the face of hunger and poverty, all of that was hollow. Kirchhoff knew well how low a person could sink for a single piece of bread.

And so he thought.

Honor. Pride. Knights.

Nothing else could be sold so dearly. Wasn't it all just a worthless illusion? An illusion you could peddle at a high price, now that was a spectacular business.

"Knights."

From that day, Kirchhoff began to imitate one.

He put on the armor he had won from the retired knight in a bet, learned the speech and manners of knighthood from that same man, lowered his voice, and pulled his visor down to hide his face.

"Wandering Knight Hope."

He introduced himself as a wandering knight. His name was Hope, and he was an adventurer touring the continent, currently passing through Londinel. Like an actor stepping onto a stage, Kirchhoff began to perform.

And something remarkable happened.

The distinctive stench of the slums that clung to him, having been born and bred there, became the honest sweat of a road-worn wandering knight.

The old, rusted armor covered in nicks and scratches became proof backing up the wandering knight's tales of adventure.

Even the bluster he had always thrown around to seem bigger, the lies of a slum boy that no one had ever believed, came out of Wandering Knight Hope's mouth sounding entirely plausible.

The odd jobs he took to put food on the table that very day, done under the guise of a knight, were seen as the conduct of a diligent, frugal man who shunned extravagance, a model knight.

"Isn't that Sir Hope! Come in and have a drink. Ah, don't refuse. It's on me!"

"Sir Knight, have something to eat while you talk!"

The slum boy no one had ever looked twice at was now welcomed wherever he went. To the people of the slums, Kirchhoff was a flower blooming in the mud, a bard who brought them tales of a world they would never get to experience themselves.

"Sir Knight."

"Sir Hope."

"Hope-nim!"

"Isn't that Teacher Hope?"

"My lord."

Respect, admiration, longing, expectation. Receiving looks he had never once been given in his life, Kirchhoff felt something stir inside him. At first he had planned to run a simple con and move on, but somewhere along the way he found himself absorbed in the act.

He was consumed by the role of Wandering Knight Hope.

To behave more like a true knight, Kirchhoff started to study. He read epic tales. He learned rhetoric. He attended plays and cultivated himself. Under the pretense of correcting mercenaries' stances, he watched how they handled their swords, and every night while others slept he drenched himself in sweat training alone.

Because he didn't want to disappoint them.

Because he loved the expectations they placed in him.

Because he didn't want this performance, this life, to end.

And so Kirchhoff began to hone himself.

...Kirchhoff had a gift.

A talent he hadn't known existed came to meet him, and Kirchhoff grew fast. Once he could handle a sword, the things he could do multiplied.

"My lord, the Vincen Gang is causing a scene outside the tavern again. Can't something be done? Those bastards are ruining business. Business!"

"That simply won't do. Disrupting the business of a tavern where I, Wandering Knight Hope, am a regular? They've lost their nerve."

"Are you actually going to help?"

"Of course. Though I'll need payment."

"Payment?"

"One drink is plenty."

"Ha ha ha! One drink? Two, three, as many as you like, my lord!"

And then.

"Sir Knight, my child, my child......"

"Don't cry. Tell me."

"My child was taken by the Vincen Gang. They said they'd sell the child to some noble. I don't know what to do......"

"Don't worry. I'll bring the child back."

Wandering Knight Hope.

"Word is the Vincen Gang brought in a knight! Looks like they mean to flatten this whole area. What are we supposed to do? If they swallow this block......"

"Damn it, and Uncle Hans too......"

"The mercenaries have already cleared out. They said there's nothing to be done."

"Isn't that the gang that runs child trafficking, collects toll money, and causes every kind of trouble? We can't let this block fall to them. We have to fight back!"

"But how......"

"Indeed."

He came to be called the knight of the slums.

"I understand the situation."

He helped people for the smallest price.

"Don't worry."

He cried out for honor and pride and defended the weak, gladly taking up his sword for any lady in distress.

"I'll handle it."

He fought back against the strong without fear.

Against the knight the Vincen Gang had brought in, Kirchhoff fought with everything he had. His armor was smashed to pieces, but he clung to his visor to the last, stubbornly holding on while he fought.

"I am Hope."

And on that day, in that moment.

"Hope, the knight who protects the weak."

Kirchhoff drew sword aura and defeated the knight. A fake knight had beaten a real one. From that day, Kirchhoff began to change.

He moved toward a wider stage.

He left the slums and wandered Londinel's city, building a reputation. The more that fame intoxicated him, the more he lost himself in his role, and the more hollow he felt. Because in the end, all of it was still a performance, and he knew he was a fraud.

...And then.

Kirchhoff came to break into a garden on the outskirts of the royal palace. He had heard a rumor that a truly beautiful lady could be found there. Slipping secretly inside, he came face to face with her.

"Who are you? You must have lost your nerve to intrude on the royal palace."

"Hope. Wandering Knight Hope. Having heard there was a beautiful lady here, how could I possibly stay away? Even if it costs me my life, I simply had to see the lady's face before I died."

Yuria.

"Ha ha ha ha! Is that so? Is that what you're saying... and what do you think? Is my face worth staking a life on?"

"Oh, without question."

That was the first meeting between Kirchhoff and Yuria.

"Your silver tongue earns you a pass on the impertinence. Hmm, but that alone is a little lacking."

"As if I would come empty-handed to meet the most beautiful lady in Londinel."

"Your hands appear to hold nothing."

Kirchhoff snapped his fingers. A red rose appeared out of thin air, and Yuria's eyes went wide.

"But how?"

"I have a few tricks."

"Well, I'll be."

Yuria laughed in disbelief and waved him over, she meant for him to sit across from her.

"Now you have me curious. I believe I've caught wind of stories about you through the walls. The wandering knight who has set all of Londinel buzzing."

"I'm honored."

"Could I hear more? There's so little of interest to hear about in this place."

At that, Kirchhoff answered with his most polished smile.

"Of course."

Who am I, after all? Wandering Knight Hope, the one who has set all of Londinel buzzing. I have more stories than you could ask for.

3.

"Yes, that was when we first met."

The sudden turn to old memories made Yuria burst out laughing. Kirchhoff scratched the back of his neck, a little sheepish. She let out a short breath, then wiped the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes from laughing so hard.

Not a thing had changed from that day three hundred years ago.

Yuria still laughed and cried listening to Kirchhoff's stories, she laughed with such pure delight, and the garden she inhabited looked no different from three hundred years past.

Everything.

Every single thing was exactly as Kirchhoff remembered it. The blooming azure hydrangeas were beautiful, and she, who outshone every flower in that garden, was beautiful too.

...His mind drifted to the things he had seen on the way here.

Passersby laughing and talking, children running through the streets, the knights of Londinel, those who had met wretched deaths, all of them were alive and breathing here. And above all, Her Highness was smiling right in front of him now.

"......"

Everything he had tried to protect was here.

Here, Londinel was alive.

But to fulfill his liege's wish, Kirchhoff would have to tear this place down. Caught in that contradiction, he let out a low sound of anguish. Was that truly the right thing to do? Was Londinel not living and breathing right here?

"Kirchhoff."

His expression had gone complicated.

"Wandering Knight Hope?"

He lifted his head at Yuria's voice.

She was there, looking at him.

"What are you thinking about right now?"

"...I'm wrestling with something."

"With what?"

Kirchhoff couldn't answer.

'I am thinking about whether to tear down Londinel, and you along with it.'

He couldn't bring himself to say those words.

Join our discord at https://dsc.gg/wetried