BannerLord VR

The morning was cool and refreshing as I stepped out of the inn, feeling the cobblestone streets of Zeonica beneath my feet. Manes was nowhere to be seen in his bed, which didn’t surprise me. He was always up before dawn, handling his affairs. I had something else on my mind—the tournament. Today, I was going to test myself, and I had a lot riding on it.

I headed straight for the tournament registration area, a large tent set up near the training grounds just outside the city. The closer I got, the more my stomach tightened. I had fought before, but this was different. This wasn’t just a skirmish against some looters or a few virtual enemies—this was a fight for honour, glory, and survival. I approached the registration officer, a gruff man who looked like he’d seen his share of battles.

“I’m here to register for the tournament,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

He looked me up and down. “Fifty denars,” he grunted.

I handed over the coins without hesitation. This was an investment, not just in the tournament, but in my future here. The officer counted the coins and slid them into a leather pouch hanging from his belt.

“Blunt weapons only,” he said, “provided at the start of each round. You’ll have to wear your own armour, but a word of advice: don’t dress up like a knight. You do that, and others will gang up on you, no question.”

I nodded, absorbing the information. The officer continued, “The battle royale starts in two hours. Make sure you’re back before then.”

With two hours to kill, I figured I might as well spend some time preparing. I had money to spare, so I decided to buy some armour—something that would protect me but wouldn’t make me look too conspicuous. As I wandered the city, I marvelled at the architecture of Zeonica. The towering stone buildings and the wide streets were a testament to the city’s imperial history. It was named after Lady Zeona, the Regent of her son, one of the few women to have ever ruled the empire. Her legacy was everywhere, from the grand statues that stood in the city squares to the stories that the locals shared with pride.

After some time, I found an Aserai armour merchant named Alsaric. His stall was filled with various pieces of armor—some ornate, others practical. I eyed a chainmail vest that caught my attention. It looked sturdy but could be hidden under a tunic, which would help me avoid standing out as a knight.

Alsaric noticed the bloodstains on my tunic from the previous day’s skirmish. “That chainmail you’re looking at will cost you around 800 denars,” he said, “but there’s a way to get it for 400.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How?”

He gestured toward the opposite side of the road, where a woman was sitting on a bench. “Talk to the lady over there. Her name is Rita… Rita the Butcher.”

The name didn’t sit well with me, but it was broad daylight, and the streets were busy. I figured no harm could come from asking a few questions. I approached her cautiously, trying to assess her as I got closer. She was dressed plainly but had a sharpness in her eyes that suggested she was no ordinary merchant.

“Rita?” I asked.

She looked up at me with a small smirk. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “I came to take part in the tournament.”

She leaned back, eyeing me up and down. “And you’re here because Alsaric sent you for a discount on some chainmail, I assume?”

“That’s right,” I replied. “He said you could help.”

She laughed softly. “Well, lad, I don’t just hand out discounts to anyone. You pay me 400 denars, and I’ll give you the armour. Don’t worry, I’m not about to loot you. If I start robbing potential customers, I’d run out of business.”

Her words didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but I played along. It was 400 denars, after all, half of what the chainmail would normally cost. I handed over the coins, watching closely as she called for someone. A man appeared, carrying a small bundle, which he dropped on the ground about ten feet away from me. Rita nodded toward it.

“Go ahead, check it.”

I approached the bundle cautiously, unwrapped it, and found the chainmail, just as promised. It was in excellent condition, practically new. I tried not to think too hard about where it had come from. For all I knew, it had been stripped from a dead man, but I couldn’t afford to care right now. I had a tournament to win.

Satisfied with my purchase, I slipped on the chainmail under my tunic, keeping it hidden from view. It was surprisingly comfortable and allowed for a decent range of movement. With my new armour secured, I made my way back to the tournament grounds.

By the time I arrived, about 24 or 25 participants had gathered for the battle royale. As I scanned the crowd, two people stood out to me. The first was Manes. I wasn’t expecting to see him there, but I wasn’t surprised either. He had the look of someone who had been through worse battles than this. The second was a man who towered over the rest of us, at least seven feet tall, built like a mountain. He was clad in heavy plate armour, which made him look even more imposing. Beating him would be no small feat.

The tournament officer handed out weapons, and I chose a blunt sword. I had trained with these kinds of weapons before and felt comfortable wielding it. As the horn blew to signal the start of the battle, chaos erupted around me. Combatants clashed, shouting and grunting as weapons collided.

I fought defensively, dodging blows and waiting for openings. The chainmail did its job, deflecting strikes that would’ve otherwise ended my run early. I managed to defeat two opponents, both of them weaker fighters who didn’t pose much of a threat. Still, I was cautious—one wrong move and I could be out of the tournament.

As I caught my breath, I noticed the mountain of a man fighting off what seemed like a dozen opponents. They had clearly teamed up to take him down, but he was holding his own. With each swing of his polearm, he sent two or three combatants flying. It was almost unreal, watching him mow down opponents like they were nothing. But exhaustion was starting to show. Two fighters managed to disarm him, leaving him weaponless.

Even without his weapon, he fought on, using his massive hands to grab and choke his enemies. He knocked the last two men unconscious, but it was clear he was running on fumes. This was my chance. I couldn’t let someone that powerful recover.

I charged at him, swinging my blunt sword with all the strength I could muster. The blow landed squarely on his head. He staggered but didn’t fall. I swung again, this time aiming for his legs, trying to bring him down. He struggled, his movements slow and labored, but he fought back. After what felt like an eternity, he finally collapsed, too tired to continue.

Breathing heavily, I looked around. The only other combatant left was Manes. He was limping, clearly injured from the earlier fights. His arms were covered in cuts, and he was having trouble even standing upright. But despite his injuries, he wasn’t about to back down.

He raised his sword, signalling that he wanted to continue. I admired his spirit, but this fight was already over. He lunged at me, but his movements were slow and predictable. I easily deflected his attack, countered with a strike of my own, and knocked his weapon from his weakened grip.

And just like that, it was over. I had won the tournament. I wasn’t the strongest, nor the bravest, but sometimes, all you need is a little patience, a lot of luck, and the ability to seize an opportunity when it presents itself.

As I stood there, bloodied and bruised, I realized something important: I was going to survive in this world.