Act X: The True Knight (18)
eighteen
Yakov lay down in his tent. He was delirious, feeling as if he could fall asleep the moment he relaxed. The pain made it difficult for him to see or hear anything, and he didn't even know whose hand was groping his chainmail.
"Get out, Nuk," a very familiar voice said. "Don't let anyone in."
Yakov tried to get up, but he was too exhausted and could only stare with bloodshot eyes under his helmet. "I'm going to fail," he murmured, his chapped lips moving. "It's not fair."
“I know,” his master said softly. “It’s my fault, Yakov.”
How is it your fault? Yakov felt his mind already had enough questions to fill this one. He felt a cold hand slowly touch the mark on his chest. This seemed to ease the shattering pain in his chest.
"What do you think I should do?" the blood slave asked, coughing and choking on blood. "What do you want me to do?"
“What do you want me to do, Yakov?” Yubi’s voice was extremely sorrowful, sounding less like a young nobleman and more like an old hermit, like his mother. “Can you promise me that no matter what I become, you will not leave me?”
Why is he asking this question again now? Yakov closed his eyes in annoyance. He had no energy left to think about these affected, coy, and whiny questions. "I already answered you," the Blood Slave said, leaving only these words, "Don't ask me again."
A familiar scent approached him, like benzoin. Yakov thought regretfully that Yubi had finally used the gift when he couldn't smell the spices anymore. His master embraced him, rested his head on his lap, and kissed his sweat- and blood-stained forehead through his helmet.
“I’m so sorry,” Yubi said close to him. “If you’re going to leave me, then leave me.”
Yakov felt as if he were floating on clouds. The pain was so intense it was almost numbing, and then, after a while, the numbness disappeared. He tried to understand why Yubi was saying such things to him, and he was furious. How had he become speaking in ways he couldn't understand? Had they become too far apart to communicate, unable to comprehend each other's thoughts? The Blood Slave couldn't bear this. He gritted his teeth, trying to get up and reprimand Yubi—but then he found his heavy body becoming light.
A deafening clap of thunder snapped Yakov out of his reverie. He quickly got up, turned around, and found no one behind him.
The Blood Slave touched his palms, chest, and forehead through his armor. All traces of pain and raw wounds vanished like smoke, as if suffering and wounds were not the essence of life, but rather that he had just awakened from an endless nightmare and was beginning to touch the real world like a newborn infant. Yakov struggled to breathe, trying to feel his own heartbeat. These signs of life were too light, without pain, almost unreal—Yakov couldn't distinguish between reality and illusion. He drew back the tent flap.
It was pouring rain outside. Nuk was waiting for him by the tent, seemingly unsurprised by his recovery.
To be fair, Yakov and Seilman were placed in the central area of the battlefield, and the two began the match with close combat, each armed with weapons.
“There’s no point in us doing this now,” Seleman said helplessly. “Do you want to fight endlessly in front of everyone until your two masters are at their wits’ end?”
“Since you put it that way,” Yakov raised his longsword, “then let’s see whose perseverance and determination are stronger.”
“…It’s not our perseverance and determination, Yakov,” Seilman said, picking up his saber as well, “but our master.”
The colorful flags fell, and the two, without any confrontation, charged forward to fight. All eyes in the stands were fixed on their movements, watching the flashing swords and shadows in the torrential rain. But after a while, some people gave up watching because of the rain, and the cheers subsided considerably. People put up curtains or donned cloaks. Yakov realized that the shouts of a hundred thousand cheering men couldn't drown out the grandeur of a small downpour. Luck, he thought sadly yet excitedly, what is luck? Luck is nothing more than the gaze and charity of the gods, the pity and compassion bestowed by a high and mighty being. There is no such thing as chance in this world; if there is, it's just that the underlying truth has not yet been realized.
Seilerman's saber grazed his ribs, cutting a small wound where his chainmail was damaged. The pain vanished in an instant, and not a drop of blood flowed. Yakov roared, swinging his longsword in a fit of rage, hacking at Seilerman's helmet. He used so much force that he shattered it—Seilerman threw off the damaged equipment. There wasn't a single scratch on his head.
The two blood slaves moved their limbs like manipulated puppets, endlessly repeating these ridiculous and pathetic scenes. The rain turned the sandy ground into a muddy mess, and both their black armor and white robes were gradually stained with mud. The two fought mechanically in the swamp-like cage, their weapons falling to the ground and they resorting to hand-to-hand combat until they rolled on the ground and wrestled together.
"Give up." Yakov pressed down hard on the neck that he couldn't break no matter how hard he strangled. "Give up!"
“No.” Seylman’s face and mouth were covered in filth. He grabbed Yakov’s crooked helmet and threw it aside, then punched him in the face.
What were they fighting for? Yakov couldn't understand. Was it for a city in Egypt, for a general's seat on an expedition, or for something more obscure and private? He and Seleman were like two children wrestling in a mud puddle, their ugliness exposed, their filth utterly exposed. All pain was gone, all wounds were healed. If that was the case, what was the point of the fight, what was the point of victory or defeat? But Yakov wouldn't stop. He grabbed Seleman's neck for the third time, tightening his grip. "Give up!" he had lost count of how many times he had shouted angrily, "I will never give up, I will never surrender!"
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the emperor in the stands. The old man leaned back wearily in his chair and yawned.
Sellerman struggled painfully under his palm, his face contorted and drool dripping from his mouth.
As if a string in his heart had snapped, Yakov slowly released his hands, allowing his opponent to breathe and speak. A faint, almost imperceptible voice drifted out.
“I give up.” Bruising was visible on Salman’s face. The veins stretched across his brown skin. He forced a smile, his eyes vacant.
The torrential rain had turned the place into an ocean, making it hard for Yakov to breathe. He stood up, lost in thought, to embrace the rain and the baptism of victory—but his master was nowhere to be seen. The Blood Slave looked around in bewilderment; the sky and earth spun, disorienting him and leaving him disoriented. Yet, one thought kept him steady.
The referee, his face not particularly pleased, raised his arm and announced the champion. Yakov couldn't tell if the cheers from the audience were enthusiastic enough. Before he could even receive the flowers and applause, he struggled to shout out, "I have a request!" His voice was hoarse like a crow's, rain dripping into his throat. "I don't want the laurel wreath, I don't want the ransom. I have a request!"
The emperor slowly rose from the stands, his magnificent robes spotless. "A valiant knight," he praised. "What is your request?"
“I am a Knight Templar, Your Majesty. I have no right to command your army, nor am I qualified to accept this honor,” Yakov shouted with his last remaining strength. “I dedicate this victory to my former master. I beg you to grant him a seat on the Egyptian expedition and the right to rule the cities!”
As expected, the Great Arena erupted in uproar. Yakov dared not blink, his bloodshot eyes straining to stay open. He saw someone whispering in the Emperor's ear.
"Who was your former master?" The emperor looked down at him with extreme indifference.
“Jubius of Transylvania.” Yakov met those terrifying, power-symbol eyes. “The third son of the Noctenias family.”
He saw the emperor's eyebrows twitch slightly, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
“He has a loyal knight,” the emperor said jokingly, as if talking about something trivial. “I grant your request.”
Yakov felt all the tension in his body relax. He fell to his knees, nearly collapsing into the mud. Just as the Blood Slave was about to breathe a sigh of relief, lost in a dreamlike victory—"I know this Jubius is doing spice business in Constantinople," the Emperor spoke again, "If he wants to lead an army to attack the city, he should use his accumulated wealth to pay the Cuman mercenaries' wages."
When Yakov rushed back to his villa in Golden Horn from the Grand Arena, he found it surrounded by nobles. They were vehemently criticizing Yubi for squandering their investments in land and army. But as soon as Yakov appeared, no one dared to say another word.
"Why don't you surround the Brechner Palace?" the Blood Slave mocked, "and go to the Purple Chamber to speak ill of the Emperor?"
Accompanied by his attendants, dragging his tattered armor, he rode straight through the gate and into a deep, dark abyss.
Yakov began his inspection from the kitchen and stables. He picked up a candlestick and wandered down the corridor, grabbing every passing slave and servant and tearing open their garments. One after another, bright red, familiar marks appeared before him—Yakov closed his eyes in agony. It felt like being thrown into a well, surrounded by suffocating, cold walls that threatened to crush him into dust. He shook off these walking corpses and stumbled forward, groping his way.
“My lord…” Nuk began tremblingly beside him, “Lord Jubius forbade us from telling you…”
Yakov snapped out of his daze, grabbed the boy's servant's robe and tore it open—in the firelight, a bright red mark appeared on the boy's soon-to-be-adult chest, forming a peculiar pattern. It resembled a smiling, evil mouth, with two sharp teeth protruding from its lips, dripping blood from beneath them.
A suffocating anger almost suffocated Yakov. He abandoned Nuk and continued his search along the corridor. Schumeer was sitting quietly by the hot spring in the drawing room, waiting for him. Yakov grabbed his robe and pulled it open from the collar—the chest was empty, only covered with age-related spots.
“You’ve returned.” The blind Jew slumped limply in his arms. “Please plead for Lord Jubius for me.”
"Why didn't he treat your eyes?" Yakov asked.
“It’s all your fault,” Schumacher said scathingly. “You say I’m not his slave, but I’d rather be his slave.”
Yakov simply released him, letting the poor blind man lie prostrate on the marble floor, weeping without shedding a tear. Blood Slave went up the stairs to Yubi's familiar bedroom, the darkest of the three.
His master was already waiting for him there—Yubi stood before the mirror, seemingly having just bathed. His wet, black hair draped coldly over his shoulders, the ends dripping water and soaking his thin silk robe, which clung to his pale body. His red eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness, utterly malevolent.
Koyakov saw his appearance and met those pitiful eyes. The flames of anger and sorrow intertwined and ignited for a moment, only to turn into a handful of cold ashes in an instant.
What should he do? Should he kneel before Yubi and swear to be his most loyal servant, or should he seize the vampire and unleash a torrent of abuse, pouring out his disappointment and resentment? Yakov hesitated, opening his mouth and then closing it again. He finally realized that he was powerless to change anything, that any choice was meaningless—this was not something he could control in the first place.
They stood there speechlessly, like two sinners awaiting each other's judgment. The Blood Slave lowered his head and noticed that his filthy shoes had covered the clean floor and stairs in mud.
“We’re going to the Holy Land,” Yakov said calmly. “We’ll leave in August.”
Yubi smiled at him, her eyes crinkling like a melting block of ice. Two sweet dimples reappeared on the vampire's cheeks.
"good."
The Constantinople chapter is complete.
Tbc.
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