Joji stared at the interface. His hands went cold while he opened the envelope where the mission lay, half hoping it would vanish if he looked away.
{The Risqué Sir's First Mission.}
{A true gentleman draws out a lady's hidden truth with gentle patience, not by force.}
{Your betrothed, Daisy Everhart, has been unwell. Something within her has swollen and grown hot, and shame has bound her tongue.}
{Learn what she truly wants, what she truly needs. Make her feel safe enough to speak plainly, not wrapped in polite lies, nor concealed behind easy shrugs.}
{Time's bound: Three sunrises and three nights.}
{Penalty: A gentleman who cannot master so small a trifle has no need of what proclaims him a sir. Forfeit one of your family jewels down there.}
"C'mon, man," Joji hissed. "That's not fair. Like. Wasn't she just horny and trying to tell me what she's into?"
He swallowed and forced a breath. Joji sat on the side of the bed and took deep breaths until clarity returned. Then he asked the system again.
"Sir Engine. Let me see the other mission."
The tabs surfaced at once.
{The Honorable Sir} {The Risqué Sir}
He clicked the honorable path like a drowning man grabbing a plank.
"Just be normal, man. Please, just be a regular task."
{The Honorable Sir's First Mission.}
{The estate's knights are worn to the quick by your quarrel with Duchess Rosalind Everhart.}
{Go to the yard. Spar with a hundred of them, and by your spirit and example, lift their hearts, knit their fellowship anew, and draw them back into camaraderie with you.}
{Time's bound: Three sunrises and three nights.}
{Penalty: be plagued with a high fever for one full week.}
Joji almost laughed.
"See? That one's normal. So what's up with the other one?"
"Sir Engine, better revoke this risqué mission or something?"
The reply came smooth and merciless.
{Sir Joji of Sins, a man must answer for his own choices. You took the risk, the risqué, and now you must bear it.}
Joji's teeth ground. If today counted as the first sunrise, then his window was already smaller than it should be.
He did not waste another breath. He bolted from his room. Joji snatched up a heavy pitcher of water from a side table.
"Excuse me," he said, already stepping in. "Lemme get that."
No one stopped Joji. His feet carried him through corridors his body remembered. Each turn came with a thought.
The borrowed memories surfaced in hard bright flashes.
The original Joji had held a sword young. Had taught boys his own age, correcting wrists and footwork with impatient certainty.
Yet this kingdom, Vicario, had tilted toward magic after losing the great war.
The neighboring realms still prized steel and armored men. Vicario had learned to fear its weakness.
Joji pushed the thought away. His hands had to matter now, not some history he could do nothing about.
The training grounds opened before him, loud with the ring of metal and the barked cadence of drills.
When he stepped in, heads turned. Conversations died. The clanging slowed, then stopped.
Men straightened, readying salutes. Joji raised a hand.
"At ease."
He tossed the water pitcher down near the rack of practice blades and picked up a training sword.
The grip felt familiar in his palm. He set his feet, let his shoulders settle, and spoke loud enough for the whole yard to hear.
"I accept full responsibility for what I said, and I'm prepared to answer for it personally. I need one hundred men, one at a time."
Murmurs ran through the lines. Some looked eager. Some looked uneasy.
A few looked offended, as if the offer itself was an insult.
Tradition again. Rank again. Men choking on rules. Joji thumped his chest with his free hand.
"Any man who steps in and doesn't commit fully only drags my name through the mud.
I keep my word. If I lose, then you've beaten me."
That did it. The head knight stepped forward, a hard faced man with iron in his posture.
At over seven feet tall and with his long dark hair and deadpan black eyes. One would think twice before they started talking.
Gregorius of Everhart.
"Crispin. Gawain. First and second."
"You, you, and you, after them. Form up."
He began organizing knights with brisk gestures and colder eyes, like a man arranging a lesson.
Joji rolled his cracked neck and rotated his shoulders. Then he sifted through the memories left for him.
Magic sword techniques. Peerless martial stances. Knightly fighting styles.
Nothing came. No secret stance. No inherited technique. No named blade path waiting behind his eyelids.
What he got was sad memories. A funeral with empty caskets. Both his parents dead.
'Damn. I'm kinda like the Dark Knight now. Should I copy the voice? Nah, keep it cool, keep it real,' Joji's thoughts wandered, drifting back to a few puns he used to read.
Through the memories, what he saw were fundamentals honed to a high degree.
Cut. Slash. Thrust. Parry. All paired with half-finished footwork the body's true owner had been working on.
Gregorius had once offered to teach his own art. The original Joji had refused.
He lifted the practice sword and tried the one thing that felt natural in this world.
Then his muscles remembered the power within. A golden aura flared, wavering like flame around the iron.
Then his first opponent stepped in, and Joji remembered that other men had power too.
The knight's aura wrapped his own training sword in pale green, not flickering like flame but flowing like wind caught in a tight spiral, a small storm bound to steel.
"My name is Crispin of Everhart Duchy," the man said, voice flat. "I have no surname."
"My name is Joji of Sins Crossroad," Joji replied.
Crispin moved as the last word settled. He charged fast, face twisted with something like rage.
Joji parried on instinct. The clash threw sparks. The shock ran up his arms.
'Shit,' Joji thought. 'He is too fast.'
Joji hunted for the rhythm, feet reorienting his stance, and then Crispin's leg swept low.
The kick aimed for Joji's ankles. Joji reacted without thinking. He dipped his sword, caught the kick on the blade's flat.
The golden aura on his sword shuddered. The blade itself gave a sharp brittle sound.
It broke. Iron snapped and cracked in places. Then the whole thing shattered like glass candy hitting the floor.
For a heartbeat Joji only stared at what was left in his hand. Head Knight Gregorius raised both hands to speak.
"Victory. Crispin."
Joji looked down at the fragments scattered on the dirt. An inch thick. Pure steel. Shattered.
"Yo. Bro's here ain't playing," he murmured.
Crispin sneered at Joji's stupor, as if he had expected his downfall before it all began.
Joji let the broken piece drop from his hand. It hit the ground and fragmented again.
His mouth went dry. He reached for the water pitcher with a shaking hand.
"Head, Head Knight Gregorius," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "L-Let me get a drink. Just... gimme a second."