Butt-kicking Squire - 11 :

"Thrice, sir. Once for the stolen sheep, once for the burnt haystack, and a third time because he had a very punchable—well, kickable—expression." Barnaby leaned against a pillar, looking remarkably un-singed. "He’s currently relocating to the Southern Isles. He said the 'vibe' here was becoming too hostile toward giant lizards."

Roderick sighed, finally dropping the mutton. "I suppose I should update the scrolls. 'The Squire of the Swift Foot' has a certain ring to it." 11 : Butt-Kicking Squire

Barnaby wasn’t your average squire. While his peers spent their afternoons polishing shields and learning the delicate art of "not dying in a ditch," Barnaby was busy redefining the chivalric code. His philosophy was simple: why poke someone with a pointed stick when a well-placed boot to the backside achieves the same moral victory with significantly more flair? "Thrice, sir

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall didn't just open; they groaned under the weight of destiny—or perhaps just the sheer force of Barnaby’s oversized boots. He said the 'vibe' here was becoming too

Sir Roderick looked up from his mutton, blinking in surprise. "Dealt with? You didn't even have a sword, boy. I forgot to give you the key to the armory."

The Hall fell silent. The knights exchanged looks of bewilderment.