The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 77 Peer Gathering

The onlookers and knights fell silent instantly. Even seasoned veterans could see the solid swordsmanship of Prince Raymond and the impetuousness of young Bohemond.

The outcome changed in an instant, and anyone with eyes could guess the trickery, but they wisely kept their mouths shut and silently watched Bohemond, who was raising his wooden sword and cheering. Then, a sparse round of applause broke out.

The Knight of Antioch, with a gloomy face, walked straight past little Bohemond and gently helped Raymond up.

Ignoring the strange looks from his brother and the knight behind him, young Bohemond pointed his sword at Lyon outside the arena and said arrogantly, "Your Highness Lyon, it's our turn now!"

Leon sighed softly. He had always felt that it was pointless to provoke the ancients with knowledge from later generations, especially since the other party was a delusional teenager who hadn't yet developed his intelligence. However, judging from his current behavior, this was no longer just simple delusional behavior; he had to strike hard.

Lyon stepped into the arena, patted Raymond on the shoulder as he was being helped off the field by the Knight of Antioch, picked up the wooden sword that Raymond had dropped, and held it with the blade facing forward and the tip pointing to the ground.

Balian, watching from the sidelines, frowned. What kind of move was this? He had never seen Leon use it before.

To young Bohemond, this posture was utterly exposed. He roared and charged towards Lyon, his wooden sword whistling through the air as it aimed straight for Lyon's face.

However, just as the sword was about to strike him, Leon shifted his foot slightly and turned his body slightly to the side, and the wooden sword grazed past his chest by a hair's breadth.

Bohemond Jr.'s all-out attack missed, and Lyon's sword hilt slammed into his left waist. Bohemond Jr. cried out in pain, staggered, and nearly lost his balance.

"How insidious!" Bohemond steadied himself, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. He launched another fierce attack, this time with three consecutive slashes aimed at Leon's head, shoulder, and leg.

Lyon used the "strong blade parry" technique from German swordsmanship to precisely deflect the incoming sword with the part of his wooden sword near the guard.

Bohemond's wooden sword nearly grazed Leon's forehead, but Leon deflected it with a twisting sword strike, the two wooden swords forming a cross in mid-air.

Bohemond Jr. lost patience after failing to break through, and a cunning glint suddenly flashed in his eyes.

He feigned a stumble with his right foot, leaning forward as if he had lost his balance. This was a tried-and-true trap for him; he would wait for his opponent to launch an attack before suddenly launching a counterattack.

Sure enough, Lyon swiftly cut in. But just as Bohemond Jr. was about to deliver the fatal blow, he discovered that his wooden sword was being drawn by a strange force.

Lyon used the "listening to force" technique, sensing the direction of his opponent's force through the contact of the sword blade, and then guiding it accordingly.

Bohemond's scheme not only failed, but also left him completely exposed to Leon's attack range. Leon's wooden sword flashed out like a venomous snake, aimed directly at his chest.

"How...how did you see through it?" Bohemond asked breathlessly, his face filled with disbelief.

Lyon smiled slightly: "Guess?"

Both sides retreated and faced off again. Bohemond Jr. was already drenched in sweat, while Lyon remained calm and composed.

Bohemond Jr. had no choice but to resort to his last trump card. He launched a treacherous thrust at Lyon, the tip of his sword suddenly changing direction mid-journey, from a straight thrust to an upward flick, aiming straight for Lyon's throat.

However, Lyon's reaction was beyond everyone's comprehension.

Instead of retreating or dodging, he charged forward to meet the sword, unleashing a "suspended stance" combined with a "disengaged thrust."

His wooden sword coiled around Bohemond's weapon like a dragon, then pierced straight at the opponent's face with lightning speed.

The tip of the wooden sword stopped abruptly just an inch from Bohemond's nose. Bohemond stood frozen, his face ashen.

The onlookers were stunned and couldn't help but gasp in amazement. Isabella was the first to stand up and applaud, and the crowd finally reacted, with enthusiastic applause erupting in the back courtyard.

Little Baldwin seemed to be infected by the atmosphere, and he clapped his hands like the adults, giggling.

Sibylla lovingly stroked her son's hair, but her eyes remained fixed on Bohemond and Lyon.

At first, Sibylla, like the other spectators, simply enjoyed watching his nephews and nieces play around.

However, she soon realized that what she was seeing was not children playing, but rather a microcosm of the struggle between him, Guy, Gerald and others against Lyon.

Bohemond Jr.'s undisguised smugness after his victory, his shame and anger after his defeat, the hateful look he gave Lyon, and Lyon's composure throughout all sent a chill down Sibylla's spine.

She glanced instinctively at her son, Baldwin, who was riding his little rocking horse carefree.

At that moment, a thought uncontrollably entered her mind: would the future royal court of Jerusalem also witness such a drama of fratricide? And what roles would she and Guy play in this endless game of power?

She felt a strange sense of irritation and turned her gaze back to the field.

Young Bohemond, both ashamed and angry, slammed his wooden sword to the ground. The sword, already subjected to several violent collisions, suddenly struck the ground, and a corner of the tip broke off, coinciding with the fall and striking young Baldwin, who was playing on the wooden horse.

Sharp splinters of wood pierced little Baldwin's hand. Sibylla, with her keen eyes, saw this and hurriedly picked up her son, cradling his small hand. The wound wasn't deep, but it was clearly visible.

However, the expected crying did not occur. Little Baldwin simply looked quietly and slightly confused at the back of his hand, as if he were not injured. This unusual calm was highly unusual for a child his age.

A chill instantly gripped Sibylla. She suddenly remembered her brother, Baldwin IV, the current King of Jerusalem. As a child, he had also suffered an injury while playing and felt no pain; he was later diagnosed with leprosy.

The terrifying suspicion that had been buried deep in her heart and that she dared not touch was now surging forth with overwhelming force.

She seemed to see the terrible fate her son might face in the future: not only the torment of illness, but also the despair of being ostracized by society and regarded as "impure," just like countless leprosy patients exiled throughout history. This immense fear pierced her psychological defenses as a mother more directly than any political conspiracy.

The political struggles that she once took for granted and even actively participated in suddenly lost all meaning in the face of the cruel possibility that her son might have leprosy.

She realized that even if she secured the throne for young Baldwin, her leprosy-ridden body could not bear the weight of power. Her ambition might become the grave that would bury her son's future.

She held her son tightly, finally understanding that she was first and foremost a mother, and only then a princess of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.