The fight was over so quickly that the nobles present had no time to react.

They stood frozen in place, as if under a paralyzing spell.

Some still held their goblets, the amber liquid trembling within. Others’ pupils had contracted as they leaned forward unconsciously, their luxurious silk gowns rustling from the friction.

A strange stillness fell over the entire banquet hall, so quiet that every breath was audible.

"Celestial Father above..."

"What... what just happened?"

"That young man’s Swordsmanship is simply unbelievable! I couldn’t even follow his movements..."

Soft whispers spread like ripples, and the frozen atmosphere began to stir once more.

The noble ladies all covered their faces with their fans, but they couldn’t hide the sparkle in their eyes. A few of them even had flushed cheeks, their breathing quickening involuntarily behind the fans.

THUMP!

Baron Marshall’s face was dark as he struck the marble floor hard with his silver-inlaid walking stick.

The dull impact made the dazed Brant shudder.

The attendant, who was in the prime of his life, slowly lowered his head to stare blankly at his mangled right hand.

Deep red droplets of blood dripped from his fingertips, blooming into jarring crimson flowers on the marble floor.

DRIP... DRIP...

Each soft sound was like a heavy hammer blow to Brant’s pride.

He mechanically raised his head, truly seeing his opponent’s face for the first time.

The chiseled features still held a trace of youth; he was clearly just a young man around the age of twenty.

"Impossible... One move... He only used one move..."

Brant’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his dry throat, and the light in his eyes gradually faded.

It was as if some long-held belief that had supported him for years was now crumbling like quicksand.

"You let me win."

Seeing that Brant still hadn’t moved, Roland frowned, a bit puzzled.

’I was able to win that match so easily not only because my skill far surpasses his, but also in large part because Brant underestimated me.’

’If he had gone all out from the very beginning, perhaps...’

Roland pondered for a moment before quickly reaching a conclusion.

’In that case, it would have taken at least four or five strikes to beat him...’

Fortunately, Brant couldn’t read minds. Otherwise, if he had heard Roland’s inner monologue, his already fragile mental state would have likely shattered on the spot.

"I... I concede..."

With a dazed expression, Brant gave a slight bow, barely managing the gesture, before stumbling off the field.

Only then did King Morne burst into applause.

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

As the crisp applause echoed, the old King drained his mug of ale and looked at Roland, his eyes full of admiration.

"Excellent, boy! Fine Swordsmanship! How old are you?"

"Seventeen, Your Majesty."

"Seventeen?"

Before Morne could ask another question, the surrounding nobles had already gasped in astonishment.

They were all perfectly clear on Brant’s level of skill.

He was physically powerful with superb Sword Skills, and one could even glimpse traces of the Border Legion’s military Swordsmanship in his every move. Combined with his extensive combat experience, he was clearly a veteran who had served on the border for many years.

Yet an expert this seasoned had been defeated by this young man, unable to withstand even a single move.

What was even more shocking was that he was only seventeen years old.

Gazing at Roland’s upright posture and handsome face, a peculiar glint appeared in the eyes of many nobles.

Noticing that Roland hadn’t given a family name, King Morne frowned slightly.

"Are you... a commoner?"

"That is correct, His Majesty the King."

Roland answered respectfully.

"Tsk..."

Hearing this answer, Morne was visibly taken aback, and a hint of regret appeared in his eyes.

From Roland’s handsome features and elegant bearing, he had assumed he was a young noble from the Collins family here to compete. He never thought he was truly just an attendant.

"What a pity..."

Recalling Roland’s stunning sword strike, Morne couldn’t help but sigh softly before raising his voice to ask.

"Well then... does anyone else wish to challenge Roland?"

The nobles in the crowd exchanged glances, but no one replied.

Their most elite attendants would have trouble handling Brant, let alone this unfathomable Roland before them.

By now, no one was focused on the martial demonstrations. Instead, they were all secretly calculating how to recruit this young man named Roland into their service.

Even if he was a commoner unable to practice the Knight’s Breathing Technique, to have such skill at his age meant that even if he couldn’t become an Extraordinary Professional, he was bound to become a formidable warrior in his own right.

Feeling the intense gazes from all around, Roland shrugged uncomfortably.

Seeing that none of the nobles would answer, King Morne smacked his lips, clearly wanting more.

"Very well. In that case, I declare..."

Just as the old King was about to announce the results of the demonstration, the burly man behind him suddenly took a step forward and spoke in a low voice.

"Your Majesty, permit me to spar with him."

"Oh?"

Morne raised an eyebrow, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out as a mischievous smile played on his lips.

"What’s this, Gandar? Got an itch to test this promising prospect yourself?"

"Yes."

Gandar nodded slightly in response to the King’s teasing.

His heavy helmet clanked crisply with the movement.

"Even if he can’t cultivate the Knight’s Breathing Technique, with a few years of training in the Legion, his future achievements would still be limitless."

"Fine..."

Morne waved his hand dismissively. "But you should ask if the young man is willing first. Against a monster like you, he’ll be doing well not to piss his pants in fear."

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Gandar gave a slight nod, then strode toward Roland.

His black Plate Armor gleamed with a cold, spectral light in the flickering candlelight. Each step he took seemed to radiate an invisible, oppressive aura.

"Roland, is it?"

"Yes..."

As Gandar drew closer, the hairs on Roland’s arms stood on end. An almost instinctual shiver ran down his spine and through his entire body.

He took a deep breath to suppress his inner agitation, bowed slightly, and looked up to ask.

"And you are, sir...?"

Gandar didn’t answer directly. He walked over to the weapon rack, casually picked up a blunted Iron Sword, and only then did he slowly turn back. A deep voice rumbled from beneath his helmet.

"You may call me by my name... Gandar."

"Gandar?"

The moment he spoke the name, the nobles, who had thus far maintained their composure, erupted into a commotion.

After all, in the Golden Valley Kingdom, that name carried immense weight.

Commander of the Black Iron Wings, the foremost of the Kingdom’s three great legions.

Ten years ago, during the invasion of the Northern Beastmen, it was he who led the Black Iron Wings in a desperate defense of the Steel Fortress. When their arrows were spent and the walls had crumbled, he stood alone, Heavy Sword in hand, and defended the main gate for three days and three nights.

Most shockingly, during the final counterattack, he had cleaved the Beastman Tribe’s War Priest—another Professional who had stepped into the Extraordinary Domain—in two, totem and all, in full view of everyone.

After that battle, the terrifying legend of the "Black Iron Death God" has circulated among the border Beastman tribes to this very day.

And now, this living legend stood before Roland, his blunted Iron Sword resting casually on the ground.

Seeing this, the nobles’ whispers grew louder.

"To think ’Iron Wall’ himself is stepping onto the field..."

"The last time I saw Lord Gandar fight was during the Blood Moon Rebellion, wasn’t it?"

"This kid is so lucky, getting pointers from a powerhouse of this caliber..."

But those who truly understood what was happening were all secretly shaking their heads.

The gap between an Extraordinary Professional and an ordinary person was even greater than that between an adult and a child.

Even if Gandar didn’t use his full strength, the match was destined to be a one-sided rout.

Roland’s brow furrowed as he listened to the nobles’ whispers.

’Extraordinary Professional... a Knight...’

He repeated the titles in his mind, his fingers unconsciously tightening around his sword hilt.

Although he had long heard of the renown of Knights through various rumors, this was his first time facing an Extraordinary Powerhouse in person.

He could clearly feel that the man before him, just by standing there, felt like an insurmountable mountain.

Gandar paid no mind to the surrounding chatter. His deep voice rumbled from beneath his helmet.

"I will use only ten percent of my strength against you. If you can defeat me..."

He paused, the heavy plates of his Armor scraping together.

"...in addition to the reward from His Majesty the King, I will personally teach you one of my Combat Skills."

Roland nodded without a moment’s hesitation.

It wasn’t that he was arrogant or unaware of his own limits.

On the contrary, he was keenly aware of the gap in power between himself and someone of an Extraordinary Profession.

But this was, after all, just a spar. It wasn’t a life-or-death battle, nor a duel fueled by vengeance.

Given Gandar’s reputation, he would never strike to kill a nobody like him.

’So, why not give it a try?’

’If I lose, there’s no real loss. Instead, I’ll gain some rare experience.’

’But if I win, I’ll gain one of his Combat Skills.’

’It’s a win-win situation no matter how you look at it.’

At this thought, Roland exhaled deeply, and his slightly bowed form straightened like a drawn sword.

"I await your instruction, sir."

"Very good."

Seeing that the young man before him was not intimidated by his reputation, a flash of approval appeared in Gandar’s eyes.

Before his words had faded, the suit of black heavy armor shot toward Roland like a phantom.

His speed completely defied the weight and bulk of his armor.

’So fast!’

Roland’s pupils shrank as he instinctively raised his sword to block.

CLANG!

Amid the ear-piercing shriek of metal on metal, Roland felt a mountain-like force surge up the blade of his sword.

He was sent flying backward like a kite with its string cut, the soles of his boots carving two long, white scars into the marble floor.

’Damn it! This is just ten percent of an Extraordinary Professional’s Power?’

Roland’s arms were numb, and a searing pain shot through the webbing of his hands.

He clenched his jaw, forcing back the coppery taste of blood that rose in his throat.

Seeing this, Gandar glanced down at his own palm.

’Did I still use too much force?’

After shaking his head in resignation, his gaze fell upon Roland again, and the corners of his lips, hidden behind his visor, curled upward slightly.

’To take that blow and still be unharmed... this young man’s skill is a pleasant surprise.’

"Now..."

The Black Iron Knight pointed his Longsword toward the ground, his Armor hissing softly and rhythmically with each breath.

"It is your turn to attack."

"Understood..."

Roland took a deep breath, and a sharp light suddenly blazed in his eyes.

In an instant, his entire demeanor changed.

[Concentration] Trait activated!

[Fermented Battle Intent] Trait activated!