Chapter 13: May Courage Be With You

As Kritiya climbed the slope toward the cabin, I saw Nolan sitting on the doorstep, lost in thought.

His right hand loosely held that poetry book, his head bowed, staring at the ground.

Honestly, the scene felt novel to me.

In the original novel, the male protagonist debuted as a seasoned adventurer, his skills still rough but his character fully formed, like most web novel protagonists.

Realizing that this sulky boy would become that person filled me with a strange satisfaction, like peeking into a secret.

I could guess why he was so down.

Kritiya, basket in hand, stopped in front of Nolan.

Nolan shifted his hips, clearing the way to the door.

She stepped inside the cabin and set the basket down.

Nolan sat for a bit, then felt a chill down his spine.

He turned and saw a pair of emerald eyes staring at him.

“You… why are you looking at me?”

Nolan asked, a bit unnerved.

“Read poetry,” Kritiya said abruptly.

“What?”

Nolan’s mouth fell open.

“I wasn’t going to read—”

“But you’re holding the book.”

“This is… just because I’m holding it doesn’t mean I’m doing anything with it,” Nolan stammered.

“Oh.”

Kritiya nodded but didn’t move.

“What’s wrong? Is standing there fun to watch?”

Nolan said, his face stern.

“Hm…”

Kritiya made a vague sound, like a baby.

I, sensing her mood, wanted to say for her: ‘I want to hear you read poetry—’

Oh?

Did my eager thoughts move the heavens?

At that moment, Kritiya spoke her mind.

“You—”

Being asked by a girl his age should’ve stroked his ego, right?

I saw Nolan’s pale face flush red, then turn ashen.

He looked down dejectedly at his shoes.

“The Epic of the Dragon Hero—you’ve memorized it all, yet you want me, who can barely read, to recite it. Is it fun to watch me make a fool of myself?”

Ah—teenage pride, like a balloon, puffed up huge and then popped.

I took it for granted, remembering my past life, when I’d been like that too.

“Then… learn to read,” Kritiya said.

“I want to learn…”

Nolan sighed, looking up.

“Fine, since you’re not from the village and you’ll leave soon, I’ll tell you—but don’t tell anyone, especially Diya.”

Kritiya listened quietly, nodding.

Well—as I’d said, I’d already guessed the reason.

Nolan paused, then continued.

“Mr. Berly’s a good man. For just a few coppers, he teaches anyone to read and write the common tongue. For a bright kid like Diya with potential, he gives everything—

Because Diya, unlike me, has the talent to become a knight. Next year, she’ll try for the Knight Preparatory Academy. With our grandfather’s heirloom, if she passes the basic literacy test, she could walk the knight’s path.

Don’t let our house fool you—we come from a knightly family. It fell on hard times, but if Diya enters the academy and graduates, she could become an Imperial registered knight.

With merits, she might even become a landed knight. One day, she could restore the Cyril family’s honor.”

Registered knights and landed knights—those terms sparked my memory.

The novel’s explanation was a mess, but after Kritiya started noble education, her tutors clarified the Imperial knight system.

Compared to the five-tier nobility of duke, marquis, earl, viscount, and baron, knights were lowly.

Only the Emperor and grand dukes could confer knighthood.

Landed knights, as tradition held, were hereditary nobles with estates, training in arms and fulfilling military duties.

Registered knights, however, came from the Royal Knight Preparatory Academy.

Graduates were knighted by the Emperor at a ceremony, listed in the knight registry, and assigned to one of the Empire’s four knight orders—those were registered knights.

While in service, they had no land but received the same honors as landed knights, funded by the treasury, with the title kept for life, though not hereditary.

Well—that’s just a professional soldier, right? I thought.

The four knight orders were the Emperor’s direct forces, their might elevating the kingdom into an Empire uniting many human nations.

My thoughts wandered a bit, but only for a moment.

I focused back on Nolan, who sighed heavily.

“Diya has knightly talent—she can sense Radiance. At the academy, she could awaken its power. But me… with the same blood, I feel nothing—”

“A knight’s Radiance and the church’s Holy Light are divine blessings, not bloodline…”

Kritiya responded calmly to his gloom.

“Yeah, I’m just not blessed,” Nolan said, a hint of shame on his face.

“I act like I don’t care in front of Diya, but it eats at me. I know studying with Mr. Berly is good, but seeing Diya learn makes me feel… it’s all set in stone, and my efforts are pointless.”

Nolan’s words trailed off, and with a thud, the poetry book fell to the ground.

Kritiya’s eyes flickered as she heard him.

I knew what she was thinking—she had a sister too, one with magical talent.

I remembered it was mid-this-year.

Sera Bron, a mage from the Royal Academy, visited Airandil’s ducal castle.

In the guest hall, she handed Kritiya a spellbook, asking her to recite its incantations.

Kritiya read from page one to five, her mouth dry, but got only a helpless headshake from the mage.

As Sera prepared to leave, six-year-old Claire, barely articulate, wandered in, just wanting to play with her sister.

Childishly mimicking Kritiya’s words, she caused a sudden gust to whip through the hall, flipping the spellbook wildly.

The mage, about to depart, immediately offered to stay and teach Claire.

Similar experiences breed empathy.

In the novel, one was a noble-born failure doomed to ruin, while the other, though down now, would soon rise as a hero.

Their fates were worlds apart, yet in this moment, they strangely resonated.

And me?

What did I think?

After transmigrating, Kritiya’s life became mine.

In my past life, I only remembered being bedridden.

Back then, anyone walking freely seemed blessed to me.

“Lots of people… aren’t blessed.”

Kritiya slowly bent down, picking up The Epic of the Dragon Hero.

“I know—even without Radiance, you can’t be a knight, but you could be a warrior, a mage, or, with no talent, a farmer or hunter—”

Kritiya spoke of herself, but Nolan misunderstood, going on.

“But—as a knight’s descendant, not striving to be one feels like betraying myself.”

“You want to be a knight?”

“Yeah, pretty delusional, right? Laugh if you want…”

Nolan kept his head down.

A slender shadow fell across the ground before him.

He looked up, seeing the silver-gray-haired girl standing in front of him.

She held the poetry book, raising it lightly.

“You—”

Nolan looked up, words cut off.

Thwack!

The hand holding the book came down.

Nolan thought Kritiya was angry, about to hit him, but the hardcover tapped his shoulder.

“May courage be with you—”

Kritiya pressed the book to his right shoulder, staring for a moment, then pursing her lips.

She let go, and the book slid off his shoulder.

“Wait, what are you doing!”

Nolan, confused, caught the book, looking up, but Kritiya had already stepped past him into the cabin.

***

In Airandil’s domain, amidst howling snow, I gazed at the rugged northern mountains.

Below the peaks sat the duke’s castle.

The Grand Duke Airandil, a gray-haired middle-aged man, stood in full armor, helmet off, snowflakes dusting his brow.

He held a gleaming longsword, standing in the square before the castle’s main gate, flanked by marble paths lined with attending nobles, officials, and priests.

Before him knelt a fully armored warrior, snow melting on their silver plate.

The Grand Duke tapped the sword on the warrior’s left shoulder.

A white-robed priest, holding a tome, stepped forward, nodding to both, and spoke solemnly.

“Rolgen of Nivert, receive your title.”

“Under the witness of Danno, God of Radiance, in the name of the Grand Duke Airandil, guardian of the Empire’s six counties, governor of the Weilin people, lord of the northern mountains and plains, ally of high elves and gray dwarves—you are knighted.

Always uphold your oath.”

“Honor the true gods, bathed in their grace.”

“Serve your lord, fearless in death.”

“Be diligent and brave, loyal and kind.”

“Aid the poor, uphold justice.”

The priest’s voice fell, and silence reigned, broken only by the howling snow.

But the ceremony wasn’t over.

The duke raised his hand, moving the sword to the right shoulder, its edge clanging crisply against the armor.

He spoke himself.

“May courage be with you—”