The competition officially begins.
Due to Lot's mischievous tendencies,
He directly emulates the tournament format from his previous life:
A 64-person bracket, narrowing down to 32, then 16… until only one champion remains.
At the same time,
Throughout this process, the judges will also score the participants based on their performance.
This is to prevent those with genuine strength from being unfairly eliminated early due to bad luck.
Lot has done his utmost to ensure complete fairness for everyone.
At one point, Lot even considered adding a popularity vote outside the tournament where knights with
high popularity could directly enter a revival match.
But after some thought, he decided against it.
Competition should be competition. Injecting "idol fan culture" into it would be utterly disgusting.
As knights, they ought to rely on their own strength plain and simple.
Besides, if it were based on popularity, it would inevitably come down to looks.
The more handsome ones would easily get voted back in by the audience.
Lot still needed to recruit a few who had skill but not necessarily looks.
Otherwise, their Round Table Knights would just be mocked as the "Round Table Host Club" again.
And compared to his previous life, this iteration of the "Round Table Host Club" now included someone even more handsome himself.
Wouldn't that just take things to the next level?
The competition has already begun.
The citizens of Camelot have gathered around the outskirts of the venue, eager to observe the martial contest.
Lot is no heartless capitalist.
He didn't force the knights to fight in an arena surrounded by spectators,
Turning them into performing monkeys for the crowd's entertainment.
The onlookers here have all come voluntarily,
Standing at the edges, watching from a distance.
This arrangement pleases the knights greatly.
Basking in the admiration of the people, securing victory after victory
This is the greatest honor a knight can achieve.
The one-armed Bedivere prepares to face his first opponent.
As for the tournament draw…
To claim there's no manipulation at all would be a lie.
Lot has already arranged things behind the scenes.
He separated the top performers from the first two tests as seeded players.
Given Bedivere's strength, he is undoubtedly one of them.
His first opponent is just an ordinary wandering knight.
The wandering knight grips his greatsword with both hands, trembling slightly as he faces Bedivere.
He'd already witnessed Bedivere's performance earlier.
This man is undeniably a powerhouse.
The strength of his single arm far surpasses that of many who have both.
As an utterly average knight, there's no way he can win against this.
Damn it, why is my luck so bad? My first opponent is him!
Little does he know…
This isn't just bad luck.
He's already been "arranged" by Lot and the others.
One could say the people of this era are far less scheming than Lot.
The wandering knight merely blames his misfortune.
"Knight Bedivere."
"Knight…"
The two exchange names.
Then, at the referee's signal, the battle begins.
The wandering knight raises his greatsword high, mustering all his strength to strike at Bedivere.
Seeing the attack coming, Bedivere simply sidesteps lightly.
As the blade swings down, he shifts to the right.
He doesn't attempt to parry or block.
Though he knows his strength surpasses his opponent's, a direct clash would still carry unnecessary risk.
So, he opts for the safest approach.
Missing an arm actually works to his advantage here his movements are more economical, disrupting his opponent's expectations.
Predictability becomes a weakness.
The wandering knight's sword cleaves only air, slamming into the ground.
Bedivere dodges with ease.
The gap in their skill is too vast.
Dragging out the fight would be meaningless.
In the next instant, Bedivere extends his sword, resting the tip against the wandering knight's back right where his heart lies.
"Well, it seems this match is my victory."
Bedivere speaks in a relaxed tone.
"..."
The wandering knight has nothing to say.
He was defeated almost without resistance.
The loss was too swift.
He knew he stood no chance against Bedivere from the start.
But couldn't he at least have put up a bit of a fight?
With this dejected thought, the wandering knight departs.
"The winner of this match Knight Bedivere!"
The referee announces the result to the crowd.
Bedivere sheathes his sword upon hearing the verdict.
He now prepares for his next opponent.
"Hmm, it seems Bedivere's intelligence is indeed remarkable."
Morgan, observing Bedivere's match, nods in approval at his effortless victory.
Truly worthy of being a future member of the Round Table Knights.
Not only is his skill commendable, but his tactical acumen in battle is also exceptional.
Among the knights of this era, most duels emphasize brute force clashes.
Especially when there's a significant power gap, the stronger side typically overwhelms the weaker through sheer strength.
Yet Bedivere chose to fight like this.
To Morgan, who isn't well-versed in knightly swordsmanship, his battlefield IQ is the second-best she's ever seen.
As for the first…
That would, of course, be her husband sitting beside her right now.
After all, who else would think of suddenly pulling out a fire-spitting, projectile-launching weapon mid-duel?
Call it underhanded? Unknightly?
What nonsense!
My Lot's tactics are the epitome of wisdom!
You knights just lack the creativity to think of it yourselves, so you resort to slandering him.
Morgan muses to herself.
Speaking of Lot, she shifts her gaze to him, curious about what he's doing now.
She finds him still engrossed in grading the exam papers.
"Lot, aren't you watching the swordsmanship matches?"
"What's there to see in the first round? I'm reviewing the exams right now."
Hearing Morgan's question, Lot holds up the stack of papers.
He's spent this time channeling his inner elementary school teacher, grading them one by one.
Morgan asks with interest, "How are the papers? Did many solve the first question?"
"You really have no idea about the state of mathematics in this era's Britain, do you?"
Lot answers bluntly.
After reviewing numerous papers, one thing is clear:
This era has no shortage of honest folk.
A significant portion of the papers are completely blank.
Many others have the correct answer written
But upon closer inspection, their method is just counting one by one.
Good grief.
Such dedication.
Lot skims through the rest.
Unsurprisingly, these candidates left most of the later sections blank.
Hmm.
These people are only fit to be low-ranking supply officers in the army for life.
Anywhere else, they'd be cheated out of their wits.
At least in the military, hardly anyone would dare exploit them.
Well, "hardly anyone"…
Because there's always that shameless monarch considering whether to pull a "Cao Cao" and raid their supplies if food runs short in the future.
After listening to Lot's rant, Morgan continues, "What about Bedivere's answers?"
Mentioning Bedivere brings a smile to Lot's face.
He pulls Bedivere's paper from the stack and shows it to Morgan.
"This guy… he's really clever."
"Oh? How so?"
Intrigued, Morgan leans in.
Lot explains, "He actually used the 'Lifting Legs Method' to solve the problem. If you chop off two legs from each rabbit, then calculate how many legs remain… Wait, no he said to just lift the rabbits' legs instead of chopping them. Hah! 'Rabbit legs are too cute, eating just two isn't enough'?"
Perhaps due to missing an arm, Bedivere came up with this unorthodox approach.
"Your focus is a bit off, isn't it? I've never tried rabbit meat before. Let's have the cooks prepare some later."
"Sure. I've already taught that chef how to roast rabbit. Just tell him to make it."
Lot readily agrees with Morgan's suggestion.
Satisfied, Morgan returns to evaluating Bedivere.
"He'll make an excellent adjutant."
"Of course."
Lot nods in agreement.
[After all, this is the knight who ultimately returned Excalibur to the lake for King Arthur and survived until the very end. His skill is one thing, but his quick thinking is more than sufficient even surviving battles against Mordred.]
Wait.
What did you just say?
My sister Artoria will die in battle against my child Mordred?
This outcome…
Is undoubtedly tied to my own actions.
Having failed to seize the throne, I'd be the unequivocal villain.
Morgan is self-aware enough to recognize this.
As she pictures Artoria's face, a pang of regret stirs within her.
"Perhaps in another timeline, I'd feel the same remorse as I do now. That version of me truly led a tragic existence. Thankfully, I've not reached that point here there's still every opportunity to change fate. To grant everyone happiness something neither that timeline's Morgan nor my sister Artoria could achieve. But in this world, whether it's me, my Lot, or those around us, we will all have a happy ending."
"Take Bedivere, for instance. In the original world, he might have been merely a witness to my sister's demise. But here, I won't let him be confined to such a passive role."
This is what her Lot desires and what she now strives for.
This thought deepens her gratitude toward Lot.
And fans her boundless hatred for a certain white-haired charlatan.
Who caused all this in the first place?
Some people ought to reflect on themselves.
Meanwhile, in a certain brothel in Camelot…
Merlin, bored since all the "skilled workers" have left to watch the knightly matches, sneezes.
"Though I can't see anything, I can guess Her Majesty Morgan must be cursing me again."
With this thought, he adjusts his posture into a more comfortable sprawl.
Time to nap.
It's not yet his moment to act.
Slacking off continues.
Back at the tournament grounds…
Bedivere's matches continue.
His next opponent is a knight of minor renown from southern Britain.
Unlike the previous knight, this one shows no timidity.
"Your skill is impressive, but I won't lose either."
The knight brims with confidence.
With both arms intact and prior experience against notable knights, he considers himself far superior to this obscure opponent.
Even if Bedivere seems capable, victory should still be his.
Thus resolved, the knight charges at Bedivere, aiming to swiftly defeat him.
Yet…
It is he who ends up knocked to the ground.
Bedivere secures another easy win.
And so, Bedivere's streak continues.
He cuts through opponent after opponent.
However, both Tristan and Lot, quietly observing, notice a growing issue:
Bedivere's victories are becoming harder-fought.
In the fourth round, he exploits his opponent's impatience to claim victory.
In the fifth, a prolonged battle of attrition barely ends in his favor thanks to his experience and stamina.
"He's reaching his limits," Lot remarks.
Among the current participants, truly renowned knights are few. This being the first recruitment, many are still waiting and watching.
Yet even against this level of competition, Bedivere seems to be hitting his ceiling.
His swordsmanship has no further room to grow.
When opponents are close in strength, tactics can compensate.
But against overwhelming power, intellect alone won't suffice.
What good are traps when your enemy can obliterate both you and your preparations in one strike?
Moreover, the mightier the knight, the fewer weaknesses they exhibit.
[This is why he remains as an average member of the Round Table even after receiving Merlin's "Silver Arm."]
Lot thought to himself.
Morgan came to a stop.
"Hmm, I'll need to scam that old fraud Merlin one more time about this."
After further consideration, she summoned Tristan, the chief examiner.
"Your Majesty the Queen, for what matter have you called me?" Tristan inquired of Morgan.
"I require you for one task," Morgan declared, pointing at Bedivere.
"From now on, you shall be Knight Bedivere's opponent."
"Me?" Tristan appeared surprised.
"Yes, you shall face him. Remember - you must defeat him decisively," Morgan nodded.
Though confused, Tristan remained grateful for what Morgan and Lot had previously done for him. Even without understanding, he would execute the order without question.
"As you command."
Tristan departed.
...
Bedivere had rested sufficiently.
He prepared for his next match.
At this moment, the referee approached to announce his next opponent.
"Knight Bedivere's next opponent is "
Halfway through the announcement,
Tristan arrived on the scene.
"There's been a change. I shall be Knight Bedivere's opponent," he declared simultaneously to both the referee and Bedivere.
The referee naturally dared not voice any objection.
Meanwhile,
Seeing Tristan as his new opponent,
Bedivere's expression shifted slightly.
Tristan addressed Bedivere: "Come then, face me. Show me your true capability. I look forward to learning from you."
In Tristan's mind, Queen Morgan never acted without purpose. Though he found Bedivere quite agreeable, orders were orders - he would have to engage Bedivere seriously.
"I shall," Bedivere nodded lightly, raising his longsword.
He waited for Tristan to ready his weapon.
After a pause,
He saw Tristan pick up... his harp.
Hmm?
What's this?
Does he mean to play a tune before combat? Bedivere wondered.
Very well, I'll wait.
The two stood motionless for quite some time.
Neither made the first move.
Had either been hot-tempered, things might have progressed.
But both happened to be exceptionally patient individuals.
They remained in silent standoff.
Thirty minutes passed.
Still no movement.
Observing this, Lot stroked his chin and commented:
"Are these two engaged in some mental battle? Isn't that supposed to be a skill unique to China? Yet I can conceive no other explanation for this frozen standoff."
Morgan shot Lot a glance.
What exactly was this "China" that could produce such abilities?
The referee grew impatient.
"Knight Tristan, Knight Bedivere, why do you not begin?" he demanded.
"I await his attack," said one.
"I await him taking up arms," said the other.
Simultaneously.
Then,
Tristan and Bedivere looked at each other, the situation turning awkward.
"You're waiting for me?!" they exclaimed together.
"Aren't you going to draw your sword?" Bedivere asked Tristan strangely.
"This is my weapon," Tristan indicated his harp.
"You fight with that?" Bedivere frowned.
"Indeed. Now attack!" Tristan nodded.
"Very well."
Bedivere gripped his longsword and launched his assault.
Tristan, in turn, wielded his harp to counter.
Sword strokes flew as Bedivere sought to gauge Tristan's true capability.
Yet every attack was either deftly dodged or blocked by the harp.
Tristan's skill was such that even in one-on-one combat against Lancelot, though he might ultimately lose, it would only be after an extended battle.
Bedivere with his longsword stood no chance by comparison.
His repeated attacks were effortlessly neutralized.
Bedivere attempted setting tactical traps,
But Tristan proved fundamentally different from previous opponents.
The deliberate openings Bedivere created
Not only failed to lure Tristan in,
But were instead exploited for counterattacks.
It was like sacrificing a child to catch a wolf, or offering one's wife to trap a rogue - only for the wolf to abscond with the child packaged up, and the rogue to turn out to be some devastatingly handsome blond.
Bedivere soon found himself completely overwhelmed.
Each harp strike landed at critical points.
With only one arm,
Bedivere's sword grip lacked sufficient strength.
Before long, he was at a distinct disadvantage.
"You should yield," Tristan suggested after a powerful strike sent Bedivere stumbling back several meters, now breathing heavily.
"I've not reached my limit yet!" Bedivere gritted his teeth.
"Is that so? Then prove it."
Tristan decided to end this quickly.
Gripping his harp firmly,
He prepared a more aggressive assault to decisively defeat Bedivere.
The attacks rained down.
Even knowing resistance was futile,
Bedivere raised his sword to meet them.
Yet as he charged,
A voice suddenly rang in his ears:
"Catch!"
Something black came flying toward him.
Instinctively releasing his sword, Bedivere caught the object - a spear.
The moment it touched his hands,
Strength seemed to flow into him.
Just then, Tristan's attack arrived.
Bedivere swung the spear single-handedly to block.
Tremendous impact traveled through the shaft into his arm –
Yet with a subtle twist,
Bedivere redirected the force harmlessly away.
Where a one-handed sword demanded brute force clashes,
The spear offered far more options.
"What?!" Tristan's eyes widened in disbelief.
How? His full-power strike had actually been blocked!
In that moment of shock,
Bedivere instinctively counterattacked with the spear.
...
"Just as I suspected. Bedivere's true strength was never swordsmanship."
Morgan watched with satisfaction, having eavesdropped on Lot's thoughts to understand Bedivere's nature.
Filled with sensitivity and indecisiveness, he might show resolve in major matters, yet often hesitated over minor choices.
His weapon preference reflected this.
The spear thrusts had proven Bedivere's exceptional lance skills.
Yet even so, he stubbornly used a longsword in combat.
"All knights use swords in tournaments" –
Such conventions had constrained Bedivere.
Hence Morgan arranged for Tristan, a non-sword user, to face him
To demonstrate that knights needn't be bound by tradition.
Then at the critical moment, she had a spear thrown to him
Revealing where his true talent lay.
Understanding one's gifts is the first step toward loyalty.
Beside Morgan, Lot - who'd thrown the spear - seemed surprised by Bedivere's performance.
"Lancer Bedivere is actually this strong?" he murmured.
...
The battle continued.
With the spear in hand, Bedivere felt markedly stronger,
While Tristan faced unexpectedly stiff resistance.
"A changed weapon, a changed man," Tristan mused, his expression growing even more mournful - though his movements never slowed.
Harp against spear,
The exchange grew intense,
Neither gaining clear advantage.
Ultimately,
After fierce combat,
Tristan still emerged victorious.
One-handed spear use inevitably limited Bedivere –
Many techniques remained impossible.
The loss was understandable.
Yet his performance left spectators astounded.
Such skill entering this competition was like a great shark suddenly appearing among sardines –
How were the rest supposed to compete?
"I look forward to our next duel," Tristan told Bedivere.
"And I shall claim victory next time," Bedivere replied with mutual respect.
"Don't count on it."
After this exchange,
Bedivere moved to return the spear –
Only to spot Morgan and Lot.
Had they provided it?
As he wondered, Morgan asked: "Well? Does the spear suit you?"
"It... does," Bedivere admitted honestly.
"Then why not switch permanently starting today?"
"But... don't all knights use swords?"
Morgan gestured at Tristan, who raised his harp pointedly.
Bedivere's expression shifted.
"Moreover, if we followed all traditions, Camelot wouldn't have a queen to begin with," Morgan added, indicating herself.
"Let the world say what it will. Only what you believe right matters most."
"My and Lot's knightly order has no need for hidebound traditionalists."
Her tone turned earnest:
"Don't waste the talent you possess."
With a slight smile, she added:
"Besides, who in all Britain would dare claim spears inferior to swords?"
Make such claims, and you might find someone coming after you from the Land of Shadows...
"I cannot promise what honors or status you'll gain under me. But I swear you'll find what you seek with Lot and myself."
After consideration, Morgan added one final incentive:
"Join the Round Table, and I'll have someone craft you a proper prosthetic arm."
"Then you could wield that spear with both hands."
That old fraud Merlin probably wronged me plenty in another world.
I'm just collecting some interest –
No issue there, right?
Just one prosthetic arm –
Surely no challenge for the great Court Mage Merlin.
"Now then, Knight Bedivere - your answer?"
"After such an offer, how could I refuse? Besides, I came here precisely for this."
Bedivere smiled freely,
Then knelt on one knee before Lot and Morgan:
"Knight Bedivere pledges his service to Your Majesties."
Morgan's offers had moved him,
But more so her demonstrated attitude.
She didn't seek to suppress individuality,
But encouraged each to find their proper path.
Unlike other lords who demanded strict conformity –
All knights must use swords! Anything else is heresy!–
Morgan actively urged Bedivere to embrace his strengths.
A ruler who cared for subordinates' growth couldn't be all bad.
As Bedivere knelt, Morgan maintained her regal composure –
While inwardly rejoicing.
Hehehe...
Her joy stemmed not from winning the wager with Lot
What would that gain her? A little charm from that husband of hers and she'd surrender completely anyway,
But from adding another powerful warrior to her ranks.
Her Round Table had acquired another member –
And the perfect adjutant at that.
Kay would anchor their rear lines,
Her sister would lead the vanguard,
Galahad would serve as their blade against powerful foes,
Tristan would command ranged units –
Leaving only the crucial adjutant role beside herself and Lot unfilled.
Bedivere was the ideal candidate.
Now the Round Table's framework neared completion.
Any future additions would simply bolster their strength.
"Gawain, grow up quickly so that you can increase the fighting power of the Knights of the Round Table."
Morgan mused to herself.