Translator: CinderTL
The battle had ended so swiftly that the nobles present hadn't even had time to react.
They stood frozen in place, as if under a paralysis spell.
Some still held their wine glasses, the amber liquid trembling slightly within. Others' pupils had dilated, their bodies instinctively leaning forward, the rustling of their luxurious silk gowns filling the eerie silence of the banquet hall. Even the sound of breathing was clearly audible.
"Heavenly Father..."
"What... just happened?"
"That young man's swordsmanship is simply unbelievable! I didn't even see his movements!"
Whispered conversations spread like ripples, breaking the frozen air.
Noble ladies hid their faces behind ceremonial fans, but couldn't conceal the gleam in their eyes. Several blushed crimson, their breathing quickening behind their fans.
Thump!
Baron Marshall slammed his silver-inlaid cane heavily against the marble floor, his face grim.
The dull thud jolted Brant from his daze.
The middle-aged attendant slowly lowered his head, staring blankly at his bloodied, mangled right hand.
Crimson droplets dripped from his fingertips, blooming into garish blood flowers on the marble floor.
Tick. Tick.
Each soft sound felt like a hammer blow against Brant's pride.
He mechanically raised his head, finally meeting his opponent's gaze.
The sharp, angular features still bore the faint traces of youth, clearly belonging to a man barely past twenty.
"Impossible... One move... Just one move..."
Brant's dry Adam's apple bobbed, the light in his eyes slowly fading.
It was as if a belief that had sustained him for years was now crumbling like quicksand.
"I concede," Roland said, his brow furrowing slightly as Brant remained motionless. He couldn't help but wonder.
The match had been won so easily not only because his own strength far surpassed Brant's, but also because of the latter's initial underestimation.
If Brant had gone all out from the start, perhaps...
Roland paused briefly, then quickly reached a conclusion.
"It would have taken at least four or five sword strikes to defeat him..."
Fortunately, Brant couldn't read minds. If he had overheard Roland's inner monologue, his already fragile mental state might have shattered completely.
"I... I concede..."
Brant, his expression dazed, managed a shallow bow, then stumbled off the field.
Only then did King Monen clap loudly.
Clap clap clap!
As crisp applause echoed through the arena, the Old King drained his mug of ale and turned to Roland with a look of admiration.
"Well done, lad! Your swordsmanship is impressive! How old are you this year?"
"Seventeen, Your Majesty."
"Seventeen?"
Before Monen could ask further, the surrounding nobles gasped in astonishment.
They had all witnessed Brant's skill firsthand.
His physical prowess was formidable, his swordplay exquisite, and every movement hinted at the Border Legion's military sword techniques. Combined with his extensive combat experience, it was clear he was a veteran who had served for years on the frontier.
Yet even this seasoned warrior had been defeated in a single move by this young man.
What was even more shocking was that he was only seventeen.
As they gazed at Roland's upright posture and handsome features, a strange light flickered in the eyes of many nobles.
Noticing that Roland hadn't mentioned his family name, King Monen frowned slightly.
"Are you of commoner origin?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Roland replied respectfully.
"Tsk."
Monen visibly stiffened at this answer, a hint of disappointment flashing in his eyes.
Having seen Roland's handsome appearance and elegant bearing, he had assumed he was a noble youth from the Collins Family come to spar. He hadn't expected him to truly be a mere attendant.
"What a pity," Monen murmured, recalling Roland's stunning sword strike. He then raised his voice. "So... who else wishes to challenge Roland?"
The nobles in the audience exchanged glances, but no one responded. Their most elite retainers had struggled to withstand even Brant, let alone this unfathomably powerful Roland.
Their minds were no longer focused on the martial demonstration. Instead, they were secretly plotting how to recruit this young man named Roland into their service. Even if he was merely a commoner unable to cultivate the Knight's Breathing Technique, his skill at such a young age guaranteed he would become a formidable warrior, even if he never became a transcendent professional.
Feeling the burning gazes directed at him, Roland shrugged uncomfortably.
Seeing no response from the nobles, King Monen smacked his lips regretfully. "Very well. In that case, I declare..."
Just as the old king was about to announce the results of the martial demonstration, the burly man standing behind him stepped forward and whispered, "Your Majesty, please allow me to spar with him."
"Oh?" Monen raised an eyebrow, the wrinkles around his eyes softening into a mischievous smile. "What's this, Gondar? Spotted a promising young talent and your fingers are itching for action?"
"Yes," Gondar replied with a slight nod, unfazed by the king's teasing.
The heavy helmet clinked sharply with each movement.
"Even if he can't cultivate the Knight's Breathing Technique, a few years of training in the Border Legion will still give him limitless potential."
"Alright," Monen said casually, waving his hand. "But you should ask the young man first. Just surviving a fight with someone like you without wetting his pants would be a feat in itself."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Gondar said with a slight bow before striding toward Roland.
His black plate armor gleamed with a cold, spectral light in the candlelight, each step radiating an invisible pressure.
"Roland, is it?"
"Yes."
As Gondar approached, Roland's hairs stood on end, a primal shiver crawling from his spine to every limb. He took a deep breath, forcing down his inner turmoil, and bowed slightly, looking up.
"May I ask who you are?"
Gondar didn't answer directly. Instead, he walked to the weapon rack, casually picked up an unsharpened iron sword, and slowly turned. His deep voice resonated from beneath his helmet.
"You may call me Gondar."
"Gondar?"
The moment the name was spoken, the nobles, who had been maintaining an air of composure, erupted into a flurry of whispers. In the Golden Valley Kingdom, the name Gondar carried immense weight.
The commander of the Black Iron Wings, the premier legion of the Golden Valley Kingdom.
Ten years ago, when orcs invaded from the northern border, it was he who led the Black Iron Wings in a desperate defense of the Steel Fortress. With arrows exhausted and the city walls crumbling, he stood alone at the gate for three days and three nights, wielding his greatsword.
Most shocking of all was his final counterattack. Before the eyes of all, he cleaved the war priest of the orc tribe—a transcendent professional who had also entered the Transcendent Realm—and his totem in two.
Ever since that battle, the border tribes of orcs have whispered the terrifying legend of the "Black Iron Reaper."
And now, this legendary figure stood before Roland, his unsharpened iron sword casually propped against the ground.
At this sight, the nobles' murmurs grew louder.
"The Iron Wall himself has entered the fray!"
"When was the last time we saw Lord Gondar in action? During the Blood Moon Rebellion, wasn't it?"
"That boy is incredibly lucky to receive guidance from such a powerful figure."
But those who truly understood the situation shook their heads inwardly.
The gap between a transcendent professional and an ordinary person was wider than the gap between an adult and a child.
Even if Gondar didn't use his full strength, this contest was destined to be a one-sided massacre.
Roland's brow furrowed as the nobles' whispers grew louder.
"Transcendent professional... knight..."
He repeated the title in his mind, his fingers tightening unconsciously around his sword hilt.
Though Roland had heard tales of the knight's renown in various rumors, this was his first time facing such a transcendent professional in person. He could clearly feel that even standing there, the knight was like an insurmountable mountain.
Gondar ignored the murmurs around them, his deep voice muffled by his helmet. "I'll only use ten percent of my strength. If you can defeat me..." He paused, the heavy armor clinking as metal rubbed against metal. "...besides the reward from His Majesty the King, I'll also teach you a combat technique."
Roland nodded almost without hesitation. He wasn't being reckless. On the contrary, he was acutely aware of the vast gulf in power between himself and a transcendent professional. But this was merely a martial demonstration, not a life-or-death struggle or a grudge match. Given Gondar's reputation, he wouldn't use excessive force against an unknown nobody like Roland.
So why not give it a try? If he lost, he had nothing to lose and would gain a valuable training experience. But if he won, he'd gain a combat technique. It was a deal that couldn't possibly go wrong.
With this thought, Roland exhaled deeply, his slightly bowed posture straightening like a drawn sword. "Please, sir, show me your skill."
"Very well." Gondar's eyes flashed with approval as he saw that the young man before him wasn't intimidated by his reputation.
Before the words had even faded, the pitch-black heavy armor had already moved like a phantom, closing in on Roland.
The speed defied the cumbersome nature one would expect from such heavy armor.
"So fast!"
Roland's pupils constricted. Instinctively, he raised his sword to block.
Clang!
A piercing clash of metal echoed through the hall. Roland felt a mountain-like force surge through his blade.
He was sent flying backward like a kite with a broken string, his boots scraping two long white streaks across the marble floor.
"Damn it! Is this really only one-tenth of a transcendent professional's strength?"
Roland's arms went numb, and a searing pain shot through his tiger's mouth.
He clenched his jaw, forcing down the metallic sweetness that threatened to spill from his throat.
Watching this, Gondar lowered his gaze to his palm.
"Did I overdo it again?"
With a somewhat helpless shake of his head, his gaze returned to Roland. A subtle smile curled beneath his visor.
To withstand that blow and remain unharmed was truly surprising for such a young man.
"Now..."
The Black Iron Knight lowered his longsword, angling it toward the ground. His armor emitted a rhythmic creaking with each breath.
"It's your turn to attack."
"Understood."
Roland took a deep breath, and a sharp light flashed in his eyes.
In an instant, his entire demeanor shifted.
Focus activated!
Battle Frenzy activated!
(End of the Chapter)
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