Chapter 322: Publicity Ambassador (Bonus Chapter)

The royal seat was reserved in the main stand, where Blanche and many noble ladies also sat.

No matter how the nobility had spoken of Blanche behind her back on ordinary days, today was the princess’s birthday, and they all gathered around her, offering praises of her beauty and words of blessing.

Blanche responded with grace; only on her birthday did she feel truly like a princess surrounded by stars.

“Your Highness, your shawl seems… different?”

The noblewomen and ladies’ eyes were sharp, especially when it came to attire—their daily obsession.

They had already noticed the difference in Blanche’s shawl.

For it possessed a unique luster, unlike their own garments, woven from fine wool and fur, which lacked such brilliance.

Blanche glanced down at the shawl, and two tiny dimples appeared on her cheeks as she smiled.

She proudly announced, “This shawl was a birthday gift from Count Ronin of Wushan. They say it is woven from a special material unique to the northern Wushan region.”

“Oh? What material could be so extraordinary?”

This immediately ignited even greater curiosity.

Pleasure and beauty were their pursuits; to hear of something new—especially worn by the princess—naturally stirred their desire to possess it.

“Count Ronin said it is called silk. The fabric woven from it he named silk.”

Silk. Silk.

The noblewomen heard such words for the first time.

Instantly, many began asking about the differences between silk and what they knew.

But Blanche had no idea what silk truly was—she had never seen it. As for the fabric itself, she could only describe the shawl.

“This fabric, besides its brilliant luster, is incredibly soft, smooth to the touch. And its breathability is exceptional—it feels cool and refreshing.”

Her description pushed their curiosity to its peak.

“Your Highness, may I touch your silk shawl?” Some even dared to ask.

Blanche paused, then smiled broadly and removed the shawl from her shoulders: “Of course!”

She knew this silk might become an economic product of Ronin’s lands, and promoting it now would benefit him.

Had it not been for the white cup engraved with her and Ronin’s names—too intimate to display now—she might have brought it out too.

They had not realized until they touched it just how profound the sensation was.

“It is truly unlike any fabric we have!”

“Yes, yes—our shawls could never be this silken!”

“The cool, soothing sensation is marvelous…”

They spoke in overlapping voices, a chorus of admiration.

Blanche listened, delighted. After all, this was Ronin’s gift to her; to be so widely admired reflected both his thoughtfulness and her own prestige.

“Your Highness, do you know if more of these shawls exist?” Finally, someone asked the question they all longed to pose.

Blanche took back the shawl and nodded with a smile. “There are more. But Count Ronin did not bring them. He says he intends to make dresses, gowns—all manner of garments—from this silk.”

Their eyes lit up.

“Could you perhaps introduce him? Might we purchase silk garments?”

Suddenly, the stand seemed transformed into a marketplace.

Blanche had never before been so earnestly queried by so many.

She pointed toward Ronin’s direction: “He is currently preparing for the upcoming tournament. When the evening banquet begins, I shall introduce him to you.”

In an instant, a dozen or more noblewomen turned their gaze squarely upon Ronin.

“Sir, they’re all looking at you!”

David, startled by the spectacle, quickly whispered a warning.

Ronin turned—and was equally surprised.

Yet the noblewomen’s smiling greetings suggested Blanche had been speaking of him.

Out of courtesy, Ronin rose and bowed his head.

The gesture delighted them immensely—as if they had already secured their silk garments.

…

At ten in the morning, after the King arrived and delivered a brief speech extolling the generosity of the Four Great Houses, the tournament officially began.

The square erupted in thunderous cheers.

Though knightly contests included many events—horsemanship, archery, lance combat—today’s was close-quarters combat: swordplay, agility, martial skill.

The names of contestants had been written on identically sized wooden sticks, drawn at random by the tournament master, who called each pair to the field.

Clashing swords, roaring martial techniques filled the arena with deafening noise—and the fiercer the battle, the louder the applause.

Soon, it was Ronin’s turn to step forward.

His opponent was a noble youth from the Duchy of Ferenburg named Yar, said to study at the Royal Knight Academy.

His entrance drew a roar from the Ferenburg nobility.

“Yar! Crush him!”

Harlington Grigor, who had clashed with Ronin days prior, shouted encouragement.

Though he knew Yar could not win, he still hoped to leave a few scars on Ronin’s body.

Whereas Yar’s side roared with support, Ronin had only Tom and David cheering for him—Ris remained silent as a stone.

Yet suddenly, the noblewomen in the stands began shouting too, leaving Ronin bewildered.

Not just him—even many nobles were puzzled.

Was this Blanche’s personal fan club?

Unlikely. Blanche had no such influence.

The match erupted instantly.

All confusion vanished as the crowd focused entirely on the contest.

Everyone had heard the rumors of Ronin fighting ten men at once.

They wanted to see what kind of strength this young knight from the long-silent House of Wushan truly possessed.

Whoosh!

Whoosh!

The two knights accelerated toward each other, speed slicing the air with a hiss.

Neither used aura in their first strike—only blade met blade.

In the stands, Blanche’s heart rose to her throat. Her small hands clenched tight; her eyes never blinked.

Clang!

The longswords collided, erupting into a violent, screeching wail of clashing steel.

With that first exchange, the knight named Yar was hurled backward by a colossal impact, slamming heavily against the earth as his weapon flew from his grip and clattered into the distance.

It was an overwhelming, crushing victory.

Tom and David watched with blood boiling, screaming at the top of their lungs in sheer frenzy.

The rest of the crowd, witnessing such a spectacle, grew no less generous, letting loose a torrent of cheers.

Yar rose unsteadily to his feet and retrieved his sword, murmuring, "You win."

Though he was still capable of fighting, there was no longer any point.

The disparity in their strength was too vast; to prolong the match would only invite humiliation, if not severe injury.

Rather than suffer that, it was better to gracefully concede defeat—after all, losing in a grand tournament was hardly a matter of shame.

Roning took the field several more times after that, yet he concluded nearly every bout within five exchanges, including his match against Facundo of Screaming Island.

Though his opponent was of the Bronze tier, outmatching the others, Facundo’s resolve evaporated before the fight even commenced, leading to a thoroughly seamless defeat.

Aside from Roning, a few others maintained an unbroken streak of victories.

Among them were Misi, as well as the previously introduced knight of common birth, Karada.

As for Rhys, his skill was commendable, but his luck proved poor; he crossed blades with Karada and, after a fierce struggle, sustained minor wounds before conceding and stepping down.

The tournament pressed on, but the number of knights fit to take the stage dwindled.

By the arrival of the afternoon, a mere four contenders remained standing—

Roning Wushan, Misi Cox, Franz Silva, and Karada.

From among these four, the top three victors would emerge.