Born with the hair. Chosen by the sword. Phil crossed the hills of Saxony to become the most glorious knight on-chain.
As written by the court scribe, who was paid in one gold coin and was told to make it sound epic.
Phil came into this world with a golden bowl cut already in place. The midwife fainted. The village barber retired on the spot. Some say the mustache arrived a week later, perfectly curled, and has not moved since.
Many tried to lift the blade from the stone. Kings, giants, a very determined goose. Phil was just walking past. The sword jumped into his hand on its own, and the stone apologised.
He walked through rain, mud and three suspicious taverns. Every hill was steeper than the last. Phil did not care. The cape kept flowing, the hair stayed perfect, and every step pointed in one direction.
Now he sits on the throne with a golden goblet, waiting for the next brave soul to join the order. Kneel before $SWORDPHIL, and you might leave as a knight yourself.
Tell Sir Phil your name. He'll tap your shoulders with the blade and seal a royal decree in your honour.
Each banner marks a deed of Sir Phil. The scribe swears all of them happened. Most of them did.