Chapter Fifty-Seven: War of Words

Although he hadn’t spent much time in taverns over the past few months, his craft was not so easily forgotten. Kevin was indeed a new soldier, but he was an “old” bard. In that fleeting moment, it was as if he had returned to his former life—his words, as always, held a cleansing power; his perspective remained unique. Sometimes he would overwhelm his opponent with the force of a storm, other times he would simply chuckle, leaving his adversary feeling inadequate.

Within moments, his opponent was at a loss for words, retreated, grew bewildered, and became afraid. No one could understand why a soldier would suddenly barge in and unleash such a tirade—was it the result of a new decree, or had their words touched someone’s interest?

Truth be told, those who recounted the Tale of Rex in taverns were mostly the lowest rung of bards, and at this moment, they were terrified. Nearly all scrambled away in panic.

Kevin watched their backs coldly. “Not worth a single retort,” he muttered.

The tavern fell into silence, the patrons all stunned. In all their years of drinking, they’d never witnessed such a scene. Insults were common, and officers coming in to eject people wasn’t rare, but the two together was a first.

The barkeeper approached respectfully. “Sir, would you care to sit over here?”

Kevin paused for a moment. “I’m not here to drink.”

“Then what brings you?” The barkeeper asked in surprise, wondering if he was a constable on a security inspection.

“I’m here... I mean, I’d like to take the bard’s spot for a while.” Kevin tried to remain composed; he hadn’t thought much when leaving the barracks, but now his uniform felt awkward.

“Sir, surely not?” The barkeeper’s disbelief was written across his face. “With your monthly salary, do you really need to tell stories here?”

“It’s just a hobby,” Kevin replied.

The barkeeper hesitated.

“Let me give it a try—I used to do this for a living,” Kevin suggested.

The barkeeper did not object further; the other patrons found it novel and settled in, ready to listen and be entertained. Kevin considered for a moment—telling bawdy jokes in his military garb was hardly appropriate. The army had its discipline, and a soldier’s public image was important. He was already under scrutiny and did not wish to give anyone ammunition.

After some thought, he decided to discuss obvious flaws and loopholes common in formulaic novels. Kevin had read plenty; though he hadn’t prepared specifically, he had no shortage of grievances to vent. He began with the Tale of Rex.

The Tale of Rex, a classic invincible-hero novel, had been mocked by hundreds before him. In nearly every battle, there were always a few civilians nearby; these civilians seemed to know everything, the fight dragged on so slowly that those on the sidelines could shout out the names of the moves, and there was always some inexplicable reason to bring in a slew of families, each sending forth brainless challengers willing to die against the protagonist—all points ripe for criticism.

To be fair, real combat and fictional combat are necessarily different. Real battles can be dull, and if a novel portrayed them as such, no one would read it. Therefore, a novel can use the power of words to slow time, magnify details—a single move, a tiny margin, can fill thousands of words, intensifying conflict and tension.

But in reality, if everything happens in the blink of an eye, how much tension can there be? The moment is over before you can feel anxious. Even if there were civilians watching, at most they would have time for a facial expression and a handful of exclamations: “Ah! Oh! Hmm!”

Nevertheless, in terms of excitement, the former is clearly superior. Yet everything must be measured; overdoing it time and again feels like it lowers the audience’s intelligence.

Kevin casually described a battle from the Tale of Rex, omitting the protagonist’s move names and the enemy’s name, then asked everyone which battle it was. The crowd was baffled, discussing for a long while, each offering a different answer.

When Kevin revealed the truth, many were incredulous. Several said they would check at the local library, but Kevin was confident and unafraid.

That night, Kevin earned twenty copper coins. It was hardly military pay, but if he gave the coins to beggars, they would surely be grateful.

Regardless, the solution to his problem lay within the city. The next day, Kevin wandered about, hoping to find opportunity or gather information.

He learned much. Since Kevin’s return to the barracks after the events at the Kingdom of Lebozier, news had been sparse, and only now did he gain some understanding.

Rumor had it that the lord of the border city had been threatened; upon waking, he found his sword broken within its scabbard. The city was placed under martial law, but nothing came of it.

Meanwhile, the country of Loupaul was giving Lebozier the cold shoulder, restricting visitors, and ordering that mercenary commissions not be fulfilled by mercenaries from Lebozier, instead relying on their own domestic companies.

Deeper developments rarely spread, but Kevin remembered the assassin guild leader he’d met at the border, guessing he was behind certain things. With him involved, even if Loulu was imprisoned on the other side, they wouldn’t dare mistreat him. That investigation had confirmed that spies from the other side had infiltrated Loupaul, gathering forces and launching attacks. Loupaul’s countermeasures were reasonable—if anything, they were still mild.

Kevin was puzzled, though—he and Jack had hauled back a cart of equipment from the border, and the official had promised a reward, but nothing had come of it.

Such matters were beyond his control; he could only make inquiries. Kevin mainly sought opportunities to earn money, as well as a craftsman to repair his catapult.

Unfortunately, while jobs were plentiful, few suited him. The Mercenary Alliance had commissions, and Kevin could take them, but as a soldier, not a mercenary, he could only accept those untouched for three months—an impossibility at present. He searched the city, but not a single craftsman had experience repairing catapults.

As evening fell, Kevin, frustrated, returned to the tavern. If nothing else worked, perhaps he’d be hauling sandbags tomorrow.

“Oh, welcome, welcome!” Applause rang out inside. “Welcome our officer, here to enlighten us.”

Kevin pulled himself together and greeted everyone with a smile. “What would you like to hear today?”

The crowd murmured, unable to decide. Suddenly, the door was pushed open; turning to look, Kevin saw yesterday’s bard, now accompanied by two colleagues—a bearded bard and a one-eyed bard.

“That’s him!” Yesterday’s bard pointed at Kevin. “He interrupted my performance for no reason yesterday.”

Kevin nodded politely.

The bearded bard stepped forward. “Is there some new regulation issued recently?”

“No.”

“Do you represent the military?” he asked again.

“No, I only represent myself,” Kevin replied.

The three bards exchanged confident glances. The bearded bard sneered, “According to the law, bards must wear their badge and proper attire when performing in public. As you represent yourself, not the military, you are not qualified to speak here!”

Kevin chuckled coldly. “But the law states that when a bard spouts nonsense in public, a soldier has the right to refute him and clarify matters for the people. Though I don’t represent the military, I am a soldier, and as such, I have a soldier’s responsibilities. So even representing myself, I can still take the stage.”

The bearded bard stepped forward, “Don’t try to twist words with me! You said you only represent yourself; you’re a civilian. By regulation, you have no right to speak here!”

“Exactly!” the one-eyed bard chimed in. “We bards spread art. What would a brute like you know about art? Tell me, what is art?”

“Hmph!” Yesterday’s bard added, “You accuse me of formulaic writing—tell me, what isn’t formulaic? Isn’t your criticism also a formula? Why is your formula allowed to criticize mine? What makes you superior?”

“Formu—” Kevin tried to respond, but was cut off.

“You have no right to speak,” the bearded bard roared. “Go home and put on bard attire if you want to talk!”

“Go on, what is art? Why don’t you answer?” the one-eyed bard shouted.

“So what about formulas? I use formulas, so what?” Yesterday’s bard repeated.

Unable to get a word in, Kevin waited quietly, observing them calmly. He no longer relied on this for his livelihood; his composure far exceeded that of the three before him.

“Why stand there silently?” the bearded bard roared again. “If you won’t speak, get out!”

“Isn’t that fake beard hot in this weather?” Kevin suddenly interjected.

The bearded bard’s face changed instantly, and the other two turned to stare in surprise.

“The beard is well-made, but don’t you think there’s a subtle color difference between your beard and your hair?” Kevin asked. “Do you dare remove it? Do you think a beard alone makes you a noble?”

“And you!” Kevin turned to the one-eyed bard. “Both your eyes are healthy—why pretend to be a one-eyed man? There’s a faint mark on the right side of your hairline, clearly from tying your eye patch to the right. Obviously, you’re worried about losing sight from keeping an eye closed too long, so you alternate between a left-eyed and right-eyed persona. Has no one noticed?”

The one-eyed bard was stunned. There was truth to it; some said that keeping an eye closed for years could lead to blindness. Thus, the one-eyed bard played the role, but didn’t wish to become truly blind. Thanks to improved transport, he could visit one city in the morning as a left-eyed bard, another in the afternoon as a right-eyed bard.

Such people were often linked to pirates, telling tales of the sea, and the costume enhanced their appeal.

“What’s wrong, afraid to take it off?” Kevin smiled, turning to yesterday’s bard. “Formulaic writing—do you not know there’s a difference between the ordinary and the extraordinary? Everyone knows formulaic fiction is usually ordinary. You quibble, claiming all writing is formulaic—but what does that achieve?”

“And art!” Kevin turned again. “The definition is broad; anything can be art. A pile of dung placed in picturesque surroundings, made into a picture, can be called art. Do you think hiding behind the banner of art disguises its essence?”

“You—”

“Silence!” Kevin roared in his turn. “And you—you keep questioning my right to speak! Let me tell you plainly: I was once a bard myself! Currently, I am the captain of the seventh squad of the Thunder Knights, one of the kingdom’s three great knight orders, and catapult chief, Kevin Inquethin!”

The crowd was stunned. Everyone knew a squad captain commanded at least several hundred men. Why, then, was such a figure merely a sub-lieutenant? Their astonishment mingled with confusion.

The three bards grew nervous, unsure whom they had offended, and were ready to withdraw.

“My right to speak? Ha!” Kevin sneered. “Soldiers have the right to spread information, to make announcements. The venue is never specified—just the uniform. I am responsible for my words. When I say I don’t represent the military, I mean I don’t represent the overall statements, plans, or actions of the military. But as a soldier, representing myself, I also represent the military’s image. Do you understand?”

“You’re dodging the issue!” the bearded bard replied.

“Weren’t you the one dodging first?” Kevin retorted.

The sides fell silent. The three finally left, tossing back, “Just you wait!”

Kevin continued his speech, and by the rules of bards, the victor remained. Having out-talked three at once, he was greeted with applause. Afterwards, he chatted idly with the crowd—on international affairs, his own travels, culture and history. Though only a sub-lieutenant, he had ten years of experience; his knowledge was hardly less than a higher officer’s, and his words carried weight.

Thus another day passed. This time, Kevin earned a silver coin, better than yesterday—at least some consolation.

On the third day, Kevin kept asking around, but found nothing new. To find a craftsman skilled in catapult repair, he’d likely have to go to Landon City, the center of military industry. Yet as a sub-lieutenant, his freedom to travel was already considerable; going so far to another main city seemed daunting.

That night, Kevin returned to the tavern for his routine, hoping to earn a bit more. Scanning the room, he noticed several new faces in the front row. These people were calmer, different from the boisterous drinkers. As Kevin approached, they smiled at him.

Kevin’s heart skipped a beat; he recalled the sort of readers he attracted. He had already revealed his name yesterday, and their information would not be slow.

Bang! The door was flung open. This time, twenty-odd bards stormed in, led by the three from yesterday. “It’s him! The same man from yesterday and the day before!”

“Oh, yesterday’s trio?” Kevin remained calm.

“Yes,” the bearded bard was confident today. “What if I wear a fake beard? I like it—it's an accessory, so what?”

“Yes, I like pretending to be one-eyed—it’s a costume, so what?” the one-eyed bard echoed.

“Kevin Inquethin,” someone stepped forward, “you may not know me, but I know you. Aren’t you the one always telling dirty jokes?”

“Right! I heard you myself. Someone once asked you how to pursue a girl, and you replied, ‘Oh! Your beauty is like cherries atop a snow-capped mountain, so tempting. And there are two.’” Another chimed in.

Kevin’s lips went dry. “...”

Twenty-some voices rose in unison: “%￥&%#（）&*（&&%%￥%...”

Kevin held his ground, speaking up as well: “#%￥#%￥%￥%&（&（）（￥...”

None could be understood; he simply kept his mouth moving, making noise. Though he had traveled for ten years and out-argued countless people, this was the first time he faced such a situation. Usually, he would move on after a bout; this was his first time sparring with others in his own haunt.

Though taverns enjoyed bard quarrels, there were limits—if things devolved into a market squabble, drinking was disrupted. The barkeeper hurried to intervene. “Please, everyone, calm down!”

“That’s enough,” Kevin waved. “Since you all wish to debate, I’ll oblige—but there must be a rule. I have only one mouth; I must be allowed to speak!”

“Of course!” someone replied.

Again, more than twenty voices shouted proposals.

“Stop, stop!” the barkeeper called.

“How about this,” Kevin said, “Tomorrow, same place—we continue the debate. Don’t let me down.” With that, he left, disappearing into the night.

The bards remained, grumbling among themselves, their voices muddled. The barkeeper felt he could not control the scene, and summoned the owner. Upon learning what had happened, the owner saw opportunity: “Quick! Spread the word everywhere! Tomorrow night, set up a tent outside—kingdom officer versus more than twenty bards! This is big news!”