Lionel de Montbar, watched on the magic box, his tag team partner in his second match for the evening. It was bloody, gory, and destructive. People were not walking away from this one without scars, bruises, and mental issues. He saw the barbed wire wrapped around Lim’s neck, like a gallows for a peasant. Lim was eliminated, leaving Han against Lightning Man and Sato. It was a bloody affair, but Sato and Lightning Man won, a very brutal bout, but not without controversy.
Lionel waited for his partner to return to the back, but he was in the medical bay and Lionel was not permitted entrance. The English knight sat and waited for hours, before being turned away and told to go elsewhere. He shrugged, strange rules for the second coming of the black death.
Lionel ended up where he always did after a battle, back at the tavern under Joey Talladega’s ever-watchful and oddly gleaming gaze. The knight ordered his standard fare: a mug of ale, simple and hearty, a taste that stirred faint echoes of home. He sipped thoughtfully, catching Joey's curious stare from across the counter.
Joey Talladega: Well, look who’s gracing my fine establishment! The man with the armor, the honor, and the swagger! Yet, here you are, moping like a bard with a broken lute. What’s got you dragging that shiny chin of yours through the mud, Sir Lance-a-feel-sad?
Lionel raised his head solemnly, taking a contemplative swig of his ale before responding, his voice heavy with purpose.
Lionel de Montbar: Kind sir, it is not the fruits of victory that weigh heavy upon mine heart, but the tempest brewing upon the horizon. The Royal Alliance, we approach the sacred team relics we desire most. Yet I find myself grieved, for Lord Lim, mine comrade-in-arms, is consumed by the fires of vengeance. His wrath leadeth him astray, risking all for the sake of retribution. Tonight, though we smote down our foes, he is now confined to the healers’ ministrations, and I am bereft of counsel.
Lionel took a mighty pull from his mug, nearly draining it. Before he could even lower the vessel, Joey had miraculously slid another full mug before him.
Joey Talladega: Ah, my knightly friend, you're painting quite the epic tragedy here, but let me tell you something, nobody writes songs about the guy who gave up! You’re the man who’s seen the sieges, the bloodshed, and the glory! They don’t just hand out tales like yours at the local ye olde Walmart, do they?
Lionel smirked faintly, though his shoulders remained burdened.
Lionel de Montbar: I know not of thine market, but thou art not wrong, Master Talladega. My campaigns number more than stars in the heavens. I have battled against the fierce Norsemen, crossed blades with the knights of France, and stood steadfast against the Holy Roman Empire's might. Yet in this strange land, I am deemed naught but an old relic, a remnant of a bygone age.
Joey Talladega: Whoa there, champ! A relic? I think not. You’re a classic, like fine wine or… vintage leather jackets. Sure, they don’t make ‘em like you anymore, but that just means you’re the real deal. Authentic! The people out there? They’re not gonna forget a knight like you just because the battlefield’s got a fresh coat of paint. They’ll remember Sir Lionel, the guy who stood tall when the chips were down!
Lionel paused, then sighed deeply, his tone tinged with lament.
Lionel de Montbar: Even so, the call to arms rings clear, and yet I am left idle. A warrior forged in the crucible of battle should not be made to sit as though he were a monk scribbling scripture! I am barred from the frontlines, where mine brethren clash against the foe. ‘Tis a cruel jest to bind me so.
Joey Talladega: Oh-ho, bind you? I think not! You’re not a knight who waits for orders; you’re a knight who makes the orders. You wanna be at the arena? You wanna see the fight up close? Then go! Be the banner that rallies the troops, the beacon that makes everyone stop and go, ‘Damn, that’s Sir Lionel!’ You don’t need their permission, my guy. You’ve got a destiny to chase, and trust me, it’s not chilling here with me and my excellent mug-filling skills.
Lionel straightened in his seat, his brow furrowing as though Joey’s words had lit a spark within him.
Lionel de Montbar: By the saints, thou speaketh truth, good sir! To the arena shall I go, where steel meets steel and honor is won! I shall stand firm as a bastion of resolve, a shield for my comrades and a scourge upon mine enemies. Thou art indeed wise in thine simplicity, Master Talladega.
Joey Talladega: Hey, wisdom and simplicity? That’s my middle name. Right after Joey Awesome Talladega. Now go out there and show ‘em what a real knight can do! And when it’s all done, come back and tell me the tale, yeah? Drinks’ll be on the house.
Lionel rose, his confidence rekindled, and clasped Joey’s cold hand firmly.
Lionel de Montbar: Thy kindness shall not be forgotten. A boon of ale for a knight restored! Fare thee well, noble barkeep, and may God’s grace shine upon thee.
As Lionel departed with purpose in his stride, Joey leaned back, grinning to himself.
Joey Talladega: Ah, I sure hope not on that blessing. Knights, they’ve got the drama, they’ve got the flair, and they’ve got the heart. Good thing I’ve got the beer.
—
The clatter of boots on polished concrete echoed faintly as Sir Lionel de Montbar made his way through the labyrinthine corridors beneath the arena. Clad in simple peasant garb, a coarse tunic and worn breeches, he walked with the quiet confidence of a lion masking its strength. His demeanor was humble, but his bearing betrayed the knight’s unshakable sense of purpose. The air here felt sterile, heavy with the faint hum of distant machinery and the tang of disinfectant. Lionel’s mind was a fortress of discipline, his thoughts a prayer for courage and clarity.
But the serenity of his meditations shattered as an unfamiliar voice slithered through the shadows.
???: Oi, Hayseed! Didn’t know we were bringing historical reenactors to the circus. You lost, or just out here scouting for a new lord to kiss up to?
The tone was mocking, sharp as a whip. A figure leaned casually against a stack of steel crates, the dim light casting jagged shadows across his face. A man covered in scars and tattooes, clad in bright patchwork of leather and grime, flashed a crooked grin.
Lionel stopped mid-step, his steel-gray eyes narrowing as he turned toward the source of the voice. His words laced with both disdain and patience.
Lionel de Montbar: Dost I know thou? Dost thou have business with me, or art thou merely here to vex mine ears with thy ceaseless prattle?
The figure let out a sharp, barking laugh.
???: Oh, listen to that! Straight outta the history books. You got a lute hidden somewhere too, Sir Loincloth? Gonna sing me a ballad about the glory of…what is it you’re fighting for again? Grain taxes? Seriously, man, the ‘humble farmhand’ look? A bit on the nose, don’t you think?
The man sauntered closer, the faint smell of smoke and cheap liquor trailing after him. Lionel’s jaw tightened, but his gaze remained steady.
Lionel de Montbar: If thou hast come to mock, then thou shalt find me ill-suited to thy games. Speak thy purpose, or else begone.
Kenny Volcano: The name’s Kenny Volcano, you would do well to remember that. Purpose? Oh, I’ve got purpose, alright. Big, fiery purpose. But you? You’re just a side quest, man. A little pre-game warm-up before I burn this whole place down.
He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, where the distant roar of virtual crowds bled through.
Kenny Volcano: This whole Rumble deal? It’s a joke. Sixty wannabe heroes fighting for a carrot on a stick. And you? You’re the punchline. Playing at valor in a game that’s rigged six ways to Sunday. And you aren’t even in the match. How thick can you be?
Lionel de Montbar: Thou speakest as though thou knowest of valor, yet all I see is a craven fool, hiding behind chaos because he doth lack the courage to face his own reflection.
That struck a nerve. Kenny’s grin faltered, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous.
Kenny Volcano: Oh, that’s rich coming from the guy pretending he’s not a cog in the machine. You think you’re better than the rest of us? You’re not. You’re just another puppet on a string, dancing for the crowd. At least I’ve got the guts to cut mine.
Lionel stepped forward, his frame imposing even in humble attire.
Lionel de Montbar: Freedom without direction is but a tempest, and thou art naught but a leaf, blown hither and yon. Thou mistakest recklessness for strength.
Kenny sneered, leaning in close.
Kenny Volcano: And you mistake rigidity for character. But hey, no hard feelings, Farmer John. I get it, you’ve got your script, your ‘destiny.’ Meanwhile, I’m over here writing my own. And spoiler alert: you don’t make it past Act Two.
Lionel’s eyes burned with quiet intensity, but his voice remained steady.
Lionel de Montbar: Thou mayest revel in thy madness now. But it shall avail thee naught when judgment falleth. For all thy bluster, thou shalt find that discipline shall endure where chaos doth falter.
Kenny chuckled, stepping back with a theatrical bow.
Kenny Volcano: Judgment? Consequences? Pfft, those are for people who plan to stick around. Me? I’m all about the now.
He turned on his heel, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder.
Kenny Volcano: Wish I could see you out there, Sir Dusty. Would be fun to see you try not to trip over your own moral high ground on the way. Just watch the chaos that unfolds. I bet you on your honor that UoW starts breaking its own before the bell rings.
As the echoes of Kenny’s laughter faded, Lionel stood alone in the corridor, his fists clenched at his sides. The encounter left a bitter taste, but it also strengthened his resolve. Chaos, for all its bluster, would never triumph over discipline. And Kenny Volcano, for all his theatrics, would soon learn that lesson the hard way.
—
The arena was eerily quiet, the simulated roar of the virtual crowd a hollow echo in the vast, empty space. A network of VR headsets projected the spectacle into countless homes, but the wrestlers in the staging area felt the weight of the silence despite the artificial noise. Sir Lionel de Montbar stood among the ranks, observing the ongoing match with a watchful eye.
Not far from him, Jeffrey James Roberts and Oswald Knight stood in hushed conversation. Their earlier agreement to collaborate in the Ronin Rumble seemed to be the foundation of a cunning plan. Jeffrey leaned in, his tone low and gruff.
Jeffrey James Roberts: Alright, Knight. Stick to the plan. I’ll go in first, cause some chaos, and soften 'em up. You come in clean when they’re tired, pick 'em off one by one. Simple, efficient.
Oswald adjusted his gloves, a thin smile on his face as he nodded along.
Oswald Knight: Indeed, Mr. Roberts, a most straightforward strategy. Your brute force paving the way for my calculated precision—an intriguing juxtaposition, wouldn’t you agree?
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing a hint of mockery but choosing to ignore it.
Jeffrey James Roberts: Just don’t screw this up. You might be all about your fancy words and sneaky moves, but I’m the one puttin’ myself out there. Don’t leave me hangin’.
Oswald stepped closer, placing a hand on Jeffrey’s shoulder. His tone was soothing, almost reassuring.
Oswald Knight: Perish the thought, my dear ally. I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you in the heat of battle. After all, partnerships such as ours are... priceless.
Before Jeffrey could respond, a flash of silver glinted in Oswald’s hand. With a swift, deliberate motion, Oswald plunged the blade into Jeffrey’s left side, inches from his heart. The larger man staggered, clutching the wound with a look of shock and betrayal.
Jeffrey James Roberts: You... you snake…
Oswald leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
Oswald Knight: Ah, Mr. Roberts, did you truly believe I would tether myself to a blunt instrument like you? You served your purpose, entertaining me with your naivety. But alas, emotions such as trust are a liability I simply cannot afford.
Jeffrey collapsed to his knees, blood pooling beneath him as Oswald turned away, straightening his cape with a flourish.
Oswald Knight: And so, another chapter closes. How utterly predictable. Perhaps in your next life, you’ll learn the folly of relying on others. Let this be a lesson to all those that wish to betray me.
Lionel de Montbar froze a mere pace away from Jeffrey James Roberts, who clung to life, his hands trembling as they pressed against the fatal wound. Blood pooled and stained the floor like the ink of a quill scrawling a grim epilogue. Lionel's gaze flickered to Oswald Knight, who heard his number coming up. Walking briskly through the curtains and into the chaos.
Lionel de Montbar stood over the crumpled form of Jeffrey James Roberts, his stoic expression masking the storm within. Blood pooled around Jeffrey, a stark reminder of the corruption festering in the heart of the federation. A knight could not turn away from such treachery. He knelt beside Jeffrey, his calloused hands hovering uncertainly above the wound.
Jeffrey James Roberts: D-damn him... Don’t let... that bastard... get away with this...
The words rasped out, each syllable a fight against the darkness creeping in. Lionel's jaw tightened, and he placed a steadying hand on Jeffrey's shoulder.
Lionel de Montbar: Hold fast, brave soul. Thy wound is grievous, but thou shalt not perish this day. Medics! Quickly!
The urgency in his voice summoned the attention of nearby staff. Within moments, a team of medics rushed into the staging area, their equipment in hand. They surrounded Jeffrey, expertly working to stabilize him. Lionel stepped back to give them space, his fists clenching at his sides. His gaze followed the path Oswald Knight had taken, but he made no move to pursue. A serpent chased in haste often eludes the blade, but justice would come, swift and unerring.
Lionel de Montbar: Fear not, warrior. Thy betrayal shall not go unanswered. Rest now, for justice shall be thy shield and sword.
As the medics carried Jeffrey away on a stretcher, Lionel turned to face the other wrestlers and crew who stood frozen in shock or indifference. His commanding presence drew their eyes, the righteous fury in his gaze demanding their attention.
Lionel de Montbar: Behold what hath transpired this day! A man lies stricken, not by the sword of a noble foe, but by the dagger of treachery. This…
He gestured to the trail of blood left behind
Lionel de Montbar: Is but a symptom of a greater blight. The corruption, the deceit, the avarice that hath seeped into the foundation of this federation cannot be ignored!
The murmurs began to spread, some wrestlers exchanging uneasy glances, others listening intently. Lionel stepped forward, addressing the room as though he were delivering a sermon.
Lionel de Montbar: I have borne witness to dishonor in its many forms, alliances forged in deceit, battles waged with no regard for valor. Yet, through it all, I remained silent, believing that mine blade and mine honor could endure unscathed. But no more. This act of treachery is the final toll of the bell. It is time for a reckoning.
He turned, raising his voice to carry through the corridors and echo into the hearts of all within earshot.
Lionel de Montbar: I call upon thee, warriors of the ring! Let us rise as one and cast out the vermin that taint our noble cause! Let us rid ourselves of this pestilence, this vile decay that seeketh to consume all that we hold sacred. I call a crusade, a crusade of honor, to restore this place to what it should be: a proving ground for the brave, a sanctuary for the just!
The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in. For a moment, it seemed as though the very walls of the arena were listening. Lionel turned toward the curtain, the light beyond a blinding contrast to the shadows he was leaving behind. His heart burned with purpose, his mind steeled with resolve.
The Ronin Rumble would no longer be just a battle for glory. It would be the battlefield upon which Lionel de Montbar would wage his crusade. And no serpent, no deceiver, no vile betrayer would escape the cleansing fire of his justice.
Lionel picked up Jeffrey’s number, blood still staining the piece of paper. He heard the count down, the numbers agonizingly slow. As it hit zero, the Medieval Crusader walked out onto the stage to “Goldberg Variations” by Johann Sebastian Bach, Jeffrey’s own music, a catalyst to the start of this crusade.