The nobles were not at all surprised by Morne’s proposal.

Though their fiefdoms were mostly far from the Royal Capital, everyone knew the King was a martial enthusiast by nature.

Unlike the idle, poetic chatter at other noble banquets, those hosted by Morne always had a set event.

A martial tournament.

So, when Morne announced the news, the nobles weren’t surprised in the slightest. In fact, they were all eager to participate.

For King Morne was known for his lavish generosity.

Fine Armor and weapons or prized horses capable of covering vast distances were merely common rewards.

If he was thoroughly entertained, he might even bestow a precious Combat Skill.

That was a secret art that could allow an ordinary person to step into the Extraordinary Domain!

A minor noble house like the Collins family, to which Dalko belonged, had only inherited a single Combat Skill over generations.

Even for the great families with deep roots, the number of Combat Skills they had mastered could be counted on one hand.

To every noble present, Combat Skills were priceless treasures that one could only hope to encounter by chance.

Moreover, winning the tournament might even earn the King’s favor.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

The nobles exchanged excited glances, already calculating which Attendant to send into the competition.

Dalko was no exception.

He animatedly described to Roland just how lavish Morne’s rewards were. Licking his lips as if savoring the thought, he lowered his voice and asked.

"So, what do you think, Roland? Interested in going up there for a match?"

"Hmm..."

Roland leisurely swallowed the food in his mouth and gave a noncommittal raise of his eyebrows.

"Let’s watch for a bit first."

The temptation of a Combat Skill was indeed hard to resist.

Back when his Power had yet to surpass mortal limits, he had relied on [Flowing Slash] to slay a Kobold far stronger than himself.

Now, however, his overall strength had firmly entered the Extraordinary Domain. In theory, as long as he didn’t run into an Extraordinary Professional, he could hold his own in a fight.

But the banquet hall was crowded with nobles who had brought numerous Attendants. There was no guarantee that a hidden master with exceptional talent wasn’t lurking among them.

So, Roland decided to observe for a while before making a decision.

While the two were talking, Colin had already directed the staff to clear the tables and chairs from the center of the hall, opening up a wide, clear space.

King Morne stood imposingly in the center of the cleared space, his gaze sweeping casually around him.

"What? No one dares to be the first to step up?"

"His Majesty the King."

The words had barely faded when a deep, resonant voice called out from the crowd.

Roland followed the sound of the voice and saw a burly man striding forward. Standing behind him was none other than Baron Marshall, the man who had humiliated Dalko at the inn.

The man stopped two paces from Morne and bowed deeply.

"I am willing to present the first match for Your Majesty."

"Good!"

Morne laughed and clapped him firmly on his broad shoulder.

"What’s your name?"

Seeing Morne ask for his name, the man’s face flushed red, and he replied in a loud voice.

"Answering Your Majesty, my name is Brant."

"Brant? A fine name!"

Morne gave Brant’s solid chest a light thump with his fist, nodded in satisfaction, and then surveyed his surroundings.

"Who else will step up?"

With the ice now broken, the other nobles no longer held back.

Soon, another powerfully built Attendant stepped into the ring.

"Good! Excellent!"

Watching the eager Attendants, Morne nodded in satisfaction and turned to give an order.

"Colin! Bring over some weapons!"

Naturally, one could not carry weapons into the King’s banquet.

Before long, a group of servers from the Sea Pearl Hall carried out a weapon rack, on which a variety of training weapons were neatly arranged.

There was a complete selection: unsharpened Longswords, blunt-headed War Axes, and clubs wrapped in soft cloth.

"Well then..."

Seeing that the two men had chosen their weapons, Morne stepped back to the edge of the clearing and gave a grand wave of his hand.

"Begin!"

At the King’s command, Brant and his opponent clashed instantly.

The ringing clash of metal was jarring in the otherwise boisterous hall.

To everyone’s surprise, though the two were similar in build and age, Brant’s Combat Skills were clearly superior.

After a deft parry, he flowed into an advance, his blade arcing toward his opponent’s wrist like a coiling dragon.

The sturdy Attendant saw this and swung his sword in a panic, but in the next instant, Brant suddenly changed his attack.

"CLANG!"

As their weapons crashed together, the sturdy Attendant staggered back.

"I was fortunate."

The Attendant only seemed to snap out of his daze when Brant sheathed his sword and bowed.

Staring at the solitary Iron Sword on the floor, his face flushed crimson, and he retreated from the clearing in disgrace.

"Good! Brilliant!"

Morne clapped enthusiastically, his booming laughter echoing through the hall.

"Quickly, quickly! Send up another!"

The next several matches became Brant’s one-man show.

Three Attendants took the stage one after another, only to be defeated in under ten exchanges.

Brant’s Sword Momentum was like a raging storm, yet as fluid as flowing water. Every exchange drew gasps of amazement from the nobles.

"BANG!"

The War Axe of the sixteenth opponent was sent flying, crashing heavily against the weapon rack.

Brant sheathed his sword and stood tall, his breathing not even the slightest bit ragged.

The expressions of the Attendants on the sidelines had shifted from eagerness to awe. For a moment, no one else dared to step forward.

"Good lad! Your skills are impressive!"

Brant clearly hadn’t expected the other nobles’ Attendants to be so weak. Coupled with King Morne’s constant praise, he stood proudly in the center of the ring, a hint of contempt creeping into his eyes.

This arrogant posture did not go unnoticed by the onlookers.

Though Morne said nothing more, the faces of the other Attendants flushed with anger.

Seeing this, Dalko clicked his tongue in annoyance. He turned to his friend, who was still busy stuffing his face, and asked in a low, exasperated voice.

"So, Roland? Are you confident you can beat him?"

Hearing the question, Roland calmly took a swig of wine to wash down the food in his mouth, then turned his attention back to the ring.

He had been carefully observing all of Brant’s matches against the other Attendants.

While Brant’s fighting technique was masterful and his physical conditioning was excellent, he was still a notch below Roland.

As long as his opponent didn’t have some trump card to turn the tables, Roland wouldn’t even need to use any of his active Traits. He could win easily on pure physical Power alone.

Just as he was about to answer Dalko, Morne’s booming voice once again echoed through the hall.

The old King slammed his hand on the dining table. Seeing that no one else was stepping up to fight, he called out in displeasure.

"What? Does no one else dare to accept the challenge?"

When still no one responded, he began calling out names.

"Baron Cook, Baron Talro, Baron Tain..."

The named nobles reacted differently.

Some bowed apologetically, while others waved their hands in alarm.

They had already sent out their most elite attendants, but all had fallen to Brant.

Now, faced with the King’s urging, they could only bite the bullet and decline, their gazes simultaneously turning toward Baron Marshall.

The Baron was leisurely stroking his handlebar mustache, a look of smug satisfaction written all over his face.

"How dull..."

Morne shook his head, his interest waning. Just as he was about to declare the tournament over, Baron Marshall suddenly stepped forward, bowed, and spoke.

"Your Majesty, it seems some people at today’s banquet... are being rather antisocial."

As he spoke, he shot a meaningful glance toward Dalko in the corner, his eyes a mixture of contempt and an indescribable resentment.

"Oh?"

Morne let out a lazy yawn and glanced around.

"Whose Attendant hasn’t entered the ring yet?"

Roland keenly caught Marshall’s complex gaze, his mind filled with doubt.

’This Baron’s hostility toward Dalko seems to stem from more than just prejudice about his background. Could he have some old grudge against Baron Fosling?’

Dalko, of course, understood the insinuation in Marshall’s words. He whispered through gritted teeth.

"That old bastard! Roland, that Brant is genuinely skilled. You don’t have to..."

Though Roland hadn’t given a direct answer earlier, Dalko could tell that Brant’s strength was not to be underestimated.

He was far stronger than any of the Guards at the manor, at least.

Just as he was about to dissuade his friend, Baron Marshall spoke up again.

"His Majesty the King, from what I’ve observed, it seems the Collins..."

Before he could finish, a clear voice rang out from the crowd.

"His Majesty the King, permit me to enter the competition!"

Roland gently patted Dalko’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring look, then calmly parted the crowd and walked toward the center of the ring.

This sudden turn of events drew everyone’s eyes to the young man.

The nobles were first struck by Roland’s handsome features and graceful bearing, but upon seeing his youthful face, many began to shake their heads.

By common logic, Brant, who was in the prime of his life, should be far superior in both combat experience and physical conditioning to a young man who looked to be barely twenty.

King Morne, however, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and gestured toward the weapon rack with his chin.

"Go choose your weapon."

"As you command."

Roland bowed and walked toward the weapon rack.

Aided by his [Steel Heart Resonance] Trait, a light touch of his fingertips was all it took to select a suitable weapon. He then walked slowly to face Brant and took his stance, sword in hand.

"Begin!"

At Morne’s command, Brant lunged like a fierce tiger, his Longsword whistling through the air as it aimed straight for Roland’s throat.

Seeing Roland stand perfectly still before him, the corner of Brant’s mouth curved into a sneer.

’He’s just a brat,’ he sneered inwardly. ’I bet he can’t even hold his sword properly.’

Yet, the instant that thought crossed his mind, his expression froze.

"CLANG!"

A piercing metallic crash rang out.

Brant felt a jolt numb the web of his hand, and his Longsword was torn from his grasp.

The Iron Sword traced a blinding silver arc through the air before CLATTERING onto the marble floor, the impact making his ears ring.

The entire banquet hall fell into a dead silence.

Witnessing this, a towering figure clad head-to-toe in fine Plate Armor, who had been standing beside King Morne the whole time, slowly raised a hand to rest on the hilt of his sword.