The Female Knight of Doom - TFKOD 59: The Legend Continues

Kent regarded her with a hint of confusion as she carefully examined Grumpy’s freshly shod hooves and then offered apples and carrots.

“Are you planning to ride Grumpy in the competition against Old Man Philo?”

Alice simply nodded in response.

“Honestly, regardless of who emerges victorious between you two, our group’s overall standing won’t shift. Still, Grumpy is quite peculiar—he hasn’t even entered the contest, which leaves things feeling uncertain and full of variables. Since you have a superior horse, why would you choose to ride him?”

If Alice intended to explain her reasoning to him, she would need to reveal everything about Cecilion, but she could only offer a vague explanation, “It’s a rather complicated matter. I’ll tell you more about it later.

She had used this excuse multiple times before, yet Kent’s forgetfulness about her explanations meant he never pressed her further.

He is quite easily deceived, but Grumpy is a creature not so easily enticed.

Recently, Alice has been preoccupied with the competition, and her visits have become infrequent, bringing only the usual Grumpy’s treats—apples and carrots. Moreover, Grumpy witnessed her riding away on a striking black horse, an incident that ignited an unprecedented fury within it.

Truly angered, it refused even the tempting carrots to soothe its temper.

Fortunately, Alice’s patience never wavered; she gently offered treats, softly stroked its neck, and soothingly reassured it. By the time the competition commenced, Grumpy had completely softened, leaning into her caress and exhibiting its endearing, adorable side.

The bond between them has deepened to such a degree that there is no doubt in their readiness for the final challenge.

Time was running out, so she led Grumpy to a tent beside the arena. There, she was to change into her armor and enter the arena for the match.

While Knight Philo and Alice were obviously taking part in the match, Kent was the busiest man before the match. He was running between the tents on either side of the field, checking on Alice’s preparations and reporting on Knight Philo’s progress.

“Old Man Philo doesn’t seem to be feeling too well,” he told Alice worriedly. “He seemed fine a few days ago, but he seems a little unwell again today. He was sweating profusely when Her Grace’s squire helped him into his armor earlier,” his words made Alice a little uneasy.

“Is Sir Philo really okay? Should we postpone the match until tomorrow?”

Kent shook his head, “Someone said that earlier, but they refused. Someone just went looking for Her Grace… I’ll go and see if she’s here.” He finished speaking and ran to the tent opposite.

He returned a moment later, “Her Grace went to see Old Man Philo with the physician and the mage, Lady Meredith. He refused to see a physician, but he took a little bit of the magic potion that Lady Meredith had prepared.”

In Alice’s mind, potions could cure almost any illness. She was relieved to hear that he was willing to take the potion.

“How’s it going? Is he feeling better after taking the potion?”

Kent hesitated for a moment, “At least he still has the strength to wear his armor, and I think he can ride a horse. But… his breathing heavily. He won’t let the physician near him, so even the physician can’t tell for sure what’s going on.”

His expression remained scarcely improved from before, “However, Lady Meredith secretly confided that, given the condition of the Old Man Philo, even if he abstained from participating in this perilous contest and took meticulous care of himself each day, he likely wouldn’t survive until winter.”

“So… is there still a chance for him to compete today?”

“Her Grace also urged him to forgo the competition, but he steadfastly refused. Ultimately, she invoked her authority to order him to withdraw. Yet, Old Man Philo responded, ‘This is my final wish—don’t you want to help me see it fulfilled?’ Moved to tears, Her Grace had no choice but to consent.” Kent recounted these words with a quivering voice, as if he were on the verge of tears.

Alice pressed her lips together, fighting back the rising sting in her nose.

Since Knight Philo wanted to win the match at all costs, she had to concentrate and not let him down.

She looked at her watch – it was almost time – so she mounted her horse and rode to the center of the field.

The official competition had not yet begun, but at the other end of the field, Knight Philo was already on his horse in full armor, although he did not have his helmet on.

Alice wanted to talk to him, so she rode up to him, “Is there anything else you want to say to me before the game?”

He seemed glad to see her at this moment and to talk to her again.

He smiled, and his dark blue eyes seemed to look into her heart, “You are the best student I have ever taught. I hope you will always be honest and firm, and be a true knight.”

Alice recognized that the word “knight” held a profound significance for him, embodying a noble code of conduct.

Throughout his life, he had steadfastly upheld these principles, and now, in this poignant moment, he wished to pass them on.

The words sounded almost like a farewell, and she blinked rapidly to keep her tears at bay.

She understood the weight of Knight Philo’s expectations. Though she was uncertain if she could ever emulate his unwavering integrity, she knew that, in this moment, she must accept his request.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “I will remember.”

He regarded her with a genuine smile, a gesture of warmth and trust. Then, he donned his helmet, concealing his gentle smile, yet Alice could still glimpse his resolute eyes through the helmet’s visor—eyes that shone with unwavering conviction and absence of doubt.

As the final moments of the competition drew near, she pressed her lips together in quiet determination, remaining silent.

Without hesitation, she turned her horse and retraced her steps to the far end of the arena. There, she accepted the wooden lance from her assistant, each movement deliberate, as she began to prepare for the decisive charge.

She understood that this was her opportunity to give everything she had; Knight Philo deserved no less. He would not accept pity, nor would he accept a victory granted out of mercy. To do less would be an insult to his honor.

When the referee finally signaled the start, Alice summoned her courage and launched herself forward with her lance, pouring all her strength into the charge.

Simultaneously, Knight Philo advanced, his posture immaculate, every movement embodying the ideal of knightly perfection from the pages of a textbook—his armor concealing any sign of vulnerability.

When her spear made contact, Knight Philo responded in kind, his wooden lance piercing through the narrow gap in her armor, delivering a blow to her shoulder.

In an instant, everything unfolded with breathtaking swiftness. Their gazes intertwined, and Alice gazed through the visor of the knight’s helmet once more, perceiving within his eyes a profound and unspoken longing: Knight Philo’s desire was to meet his end in battle.

This silent prayer blazed within him like an unwavering flame, and in that fleeting moment, she felt she understood the essence of the venerable man before her.

His soul shone with a purity as radiant as fire, and possessed a strength as fierce; it could not bear to be confined within a body already weakened by age and hardship. For a brief, luminous instant, Alice saw him surge with an extraordinary vitality—so dazzling that it was almost impossible to gaze directly at him.

In that fleeting glimpse, she believed his indomitable spirit might carry him through to continue fighting. Yet, in the very next moment, the old knight tumbled from his horse as if struck down by an unseen force, collapsing onto the earth in silent stillness.

The attendants and Lady Meredith swiftly approached, encircling him with urgent concern.

They gently removed his helmet and endeavored to pry open his lips, attempting to feed him the precious potion. Yet, despite their efforts, the vital elixir spilled from the corner of his mouth, rendered useless in his moment of need, and with it, a generation of legends began to fade.

The referee’s voice rang out clearly, proclaiming Alice’s victory to all present.

Many in the audience seats remained unaware of the true gravity of what had transpired. A mixture of cheers and sighs filled the air, as if the crown of legend was being transferred from the venerable hero to the new champion.

Nonetheless, Alice showed no trace of triumph. She rode her horse silently, her gaze fixed upon Knight Philo’s lifeless form, as if still holding onto the hope that he might somehow stir.

The rescue efforts continued unabated. The attendants carefully removed his armor, pressed firmly upon his chest, and breathlessly blew air into his lungs. Lady Meredith repeatedly offered him medicine, pouring out an entire vial of precious elixir without hesitation, yet all her efforts proved futile.

Death is an irreversible passage; once cast in its shadow, even the God of Darkness—its master—cannot reclaim what is lost.

As black-feathered birds began to circle overhead, a dark-robed figure bearing the same name as the birds appeared beside the arena.

The duchess stood silently nearby, her presence unnoticed until that moment. She watched as her noble knight and her dearest friend ceased to breathe. Having shed tears before, she now remained expressionless, embodying the composure and dignity befitting her station.

“Select the finest coffin for Sir Philo and arrange his funeral three days hence,” the duchess issued her commanding decree. “Crow, ensure his burial in the cemetery behind Cloudmist Castle, and let him rest alongside the heroic spirits who safeguard the realm.”

The Crows bowed respectfully to the duchess, gently lifting Knight Philo’s body onto a stretcher, veiling his face and form with a pure white cloth, and then proceeding to carry him away.

As they advanced toward the setting sun, their shadows stretched long and solemn beneath the fading light.

Alice watched the procession of the Crows depart, her heart acknowledging that the legend of the past had truly come to a close.

A medic called to her, urging her down from her horse to tend to the wound on her shoulder.

As she looked down, she saw that Knight Philo’s attack had stained her armor with blood. Carefully removing her armor, she rested her injured shoulder in the medic’s gentle hand, seeking solace in the quiet aftermath of sacrifice.

The attendant gently washed away the blood and carefully applied a healing elixir to aid her wound. As she reached for a rare potion—one said to prevent scarring and preserve the memory of the injury—she offered it to her.

Yet, Alice declined with a steady resolve, choosing instead to retain the scar as a lasting testament—a mark left by Knight Philo in his final moments.

For heroes may fall, but their legends endure eternally.