The castle's training grounds had a designated area exclusively for swordsmanship practice. A wooden rack stood nearby, lined with gleaming longswords, their polished steel reflecting the light.
The castle guards trained with real swords, though their edges remained dull to prevent fatal injuries during practice.
Today, Hutson stood in that very place, facing none other than Sir Emil himself.
For the captain of the castle guard to personally train him in swordsmanship—it was no small honor.
Emil's voice was calm but firm.
"Swordsmanship exists for one purpose—to kill your enemy. My techniques are not like courtly swordplay. There is no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourishes."
With an air of absolute certainty, he continued:
"Slash. Chop. Thrust. Parry. Riposte."
"These five movements form the eternal foundation of all swordsmanship. Master them, and the rest is simply battle experience."
Taking a deep breath, Emil raised his sword and suddenly lashed out in a powerful downward strike.
A burst of wind followed the blade, kicking up dust as it cleaved through the air.
He was fast. Inhumanly fast.
If not for AI chip's enhanced perception, Hutson wouldn't have even seen the movement clearly.
"That was my normal speed," Emil said. "Now I'll slow it down. Watch carefully—swordsmanship is not about speed at first. It is about precision. Get the technique right, and the speed will follow."
This time, Emil demonstrated the motion again, deliberately slowing down.
Hutson nodded, stepping forward with his sword.
"Your turn."
"AI chip, activate swordsmanship training mode."
A blue holographic figure appeared in Hutson's vision, demonstrating the correct sword form.
He adjusted his stance, following the guidance precisely, then swung his blade in a fierce downward cut.
"Overuse of wrist strength detected. More arm power required."
AI chip instantly corrected his technique.
Emil noticed it too.
"Not bad," he said. "But rely on your arms more—your wrist alone won't generate enough power in a real fight. Try again."
Hutson took a deep breath, recalled the previous sensation, and adjusted his grip and force distribution.
This time, when he struck—it was right.
Emil's lips curled slightly. "Very good. Let's move on to the next form."
For hours, Hutson practiced, perfecting the five fundamental techniques.
By sunset, Emil—who was usually reserved and stern—actually looked impressed.
Hutson wasn't hiding his skills. He knew that someone like him—a former servant—could only earn value by proving his worth.
As the training came to an end, Emil crossed his arms and spoke:
"Keep practicing. Soon, I will give you a chance to test yourself. A knight who has never faced real bloodshed is not truly a knight."
In his mind, Emil had already begun grooming Hutson as a future knight candidate.
"Thank you, Sir Emil. I am grateful to the Baron for this opportunity!"
Hutson performed the knightly salute, striking his right fist to his chest.
Emil nodded approvingly. "Good. Never forget who you serve."
After the day's training, Hutson returned to his quarters—only to find Butler Ivan waiting for him, holding a coin pouch.
"Sir Hutson, your wages."
Hutson opened the pouch and blinked in surprise.
"Ivan, there's five extra silver coins here."
The elderly butler chuckled warmly. "No mistake, young man. Sir Emil reported your progress to the Baron, and he has raised your wages accordingly."
Hutson was stunned.
Emil never mentioned this.
Perhaps, to a man like him, it was simply too minor to discuss.
"I see…" Hutson muttered, gripping the pouch tightly.
That evening, Hutson took his extra wages and purchased a fine bottle of wine.
He made his way to the castle garden, where Old Henry often spent his time.
"Old Henry, I brought you something!" he called out, spotting the elderly gardener reclining on a wooden chair, eyes half-closed in rest.
Henry twitched his nose but smelled nothing. "What is it?"
Hutson placed the wine bottle beside him.
"I had someone buy it from town—I don't know much about wine, but I figured you'd appreciate it."
The moment Henry laid eyes on the bottle, his expression lit up.
"Ah! This is from Marco's distillery in town. His wines are some of the finest. You chose well, boy!"
As Henry savored the aroma, Hutson pulled out five silver coins and offered them to him.
"My wages increased—I'm getting ten silver coins a month now. Take half."
Henry snorted, pushing the coins back toward Hutson.
"What do I need money for? My teeth aren't strong enough for meat anymore, and if I go to town for women, they'll just be afraid I'll die in bed."
His laughter was rough but genuine.
"When you're old, spending money isn't as fun as it was in youth. You should enjoy it while you can. Me? As long as I have wine, I'm happy."
Hutson paused, the old man's words stirring something deep within him.
A fragment of poetry from his past life surfaced in his mind:
"To buy osmanthus wine and drink beneath the stars, yet it is never the same as the reckless joy of youth."
Suddenly, a thought struck him.
"Old Henry, how long do knights like Emil usually live?"
The old man took a sip of wine and pondered.
"Knights? Most don't die of old age. If they do… maybe a hundred years, a little longer than regular folk."
Hutson frowned. "And Great Knights, like the Baron?"
Henry shrugged. "They're still human. Not much different."
"Only a hundred years…"
Hutson had assumed that those with extraordinary power might have lifespans stretching for centuries.
The reality was disappointing.
"Is there anyone stronger than knights?"
Henry squinted, rubbing his chin. "Stronger? Of course. But they're only legends."
After a pause, he added:
"They say wizards surpass knights. But wizards are rare and mysterious—no one knows if they truly exist."
Hutson's heart stirred at the word.
"Wizards..."
A new path, a new possibility, had just been laid before him.
That night, he and Old Henry drank until the moon was high.
And though the old man refused the silver, Hutson left the coins behind anyway.
Because some debts—can never be repaid with mere money.
Half a month later—Castle Training Grounds.
Hutson stood in formation alongside six other castle guards, clad in sturdy armor, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
Before them, Sir Emil, the castle's formidable knight captain, paced with an air of authority. His voice carried weight, sharp as the blade at his hip.
"A group of bandits has been spotted near the pumpkin farm. Protecting the barony's people is our duty. The Baron has ordered us to eliminate them."
For the past two weeks, Hutson had immersed himself in relentless training—perfecting the Earth Breathing Technique and honing his swordsmanship. Now, at last, came the chance to test his skills in real combat.
"They may be mere bandits," Emil continued, "but don't let your guard down. A knife to the gut will still kill you, no matter how skilled you think you are."
Hutson listened intently, absorbing every word.
Yet, a quick glance at his fellow guards told him that they did not share his caution.
For them, hunting down bandits was routine—a noble's duty and a display of power.
In these chaotic times, lordships constantly clashed, and lands changed hands as frequently as the seasons.
It was not uncommon to hear rumors of:
A neighboring domain being conquered.A village starving from famine.A stronghold falling overnight.
Allowing bandits to roam freely was a fatal sign of weakness.
If left unchecked, more would come, sensing easy prey.
Thus, every incursion had to be met with swift retribution—not just for security, but to send a message.
This campaign was no mere errand.
Sir Emil himself would lead the mission, backed by seven castle guards, forming an elite hunting party.
Each of them mounted their horses, preparing for departure.
For Hutson, riding still felt somewhat unfamiliar—but thanks to fragments of past memories and AI chip's assistance, he quickly grasped the reins, syncing with the beast beneath him.
The wind carried the scent of iron and leather, the rhythmic clatter of hooves filling the air.
Tonight, for the first time—Hutson would step onto the battlefield.