Category: The Seventh Knight

Alfonso, wandering aimlessly wherever his steps took him, eventually crossed the border and arrived at Frederick’s territory.

When Alfonso appeared in the village, the local militia grew tense.

Though he had been starving for days, having run out of money, and his appearance was utterly shabby (the fact that he had lasted this long was thanks to his attendant, Marcio, who had secretly rifled through the belongings of a knight defeated in a duel), his dazzling looks could not be obscured.

Moreover, by his side stood Marcio, who devotedly served this arrogant knight.

Clearly, he appeared to be the heir of a noble family. The militia, wary of provoking someone with such an air, left Alfonso alone as he rambled nonsense outside the wooden fence.

But even the militia were human.

Though Alfonso may not have intended it, his words had a knack for thoroughly getting on people’s nerves. Unable to endure any longer, a few young men armed themselves with spears and swords and charged at Alfonso.

Three young men fell. Fortunately, none of them died. Alfonso hated taking lives without reason, so they only suffered non-life-threatening injuries.

Without even drawing his rapier, he used only a small main-gauche (a type of dagger) and subdued the three with lightning-fast, dazzling swordsmanship. The sight was nothing short of “fantastic.”

With three militia members down, it was only natural for the guards to intervene.

The guard captain, Einse, accompanied by Helford, who was infuriated at the audacity of a arrogant knight displaying such unseen dagger skills, stepped outside the fence.

When Alfonso faced the two knights, he greeted them with his characteristic verbose courtesy, though it adhered to noble etiquette.

Einse, who judged all matters through the lens of chivalry, found Alfonso’s slightly odd demeanor surprisingly polite and courteous, and he didn’t think poorly of him.

Whether due to being dense or excessively principled, Einse was the sort of person who ignored all insults or eccentricities so long as they didn’t breach the code of chivalry. He suggested to Lawrence, who had arrived shortly, that they take Alfonso—clearly a noble—into the castle.

However, Helford, who was simple, blunt, and aggressive, and who possessed a burning desire for combat, utterly despised Alfonso.

He couldn’t stand Alfonso’s arrogance and posturing despite his beggar-like appearance, and most of all, he detested his feminine looks.

So Helford provoked Alfonso with cutting words, and Alfonso, who wasn’t one to tolerate such insults, retaliated by calling Helford “boar,” a nickname that would later become Helford’s infamous moniker.

Thus, a duel began.

Helford declared that if Alfonso could break his sword, he would personally carry him into the castle.

Before Helford’s words had even settled, Alfonso charged at him with a low whistle.

There was no time for Lawrence or Einse to intervene.

A slender rapier and a main-gauche clashed against a massive two-handed sword, creating a tempest of steel.

With astounding speed and acrobatics beyond reason, the two knights collided over and over again. For nearly ten minutes, the sound of steel meeting steel echoed loudly.

Lawrence and Einse, despite being knights themselves, could only stand dumbfounded at the overwhelming combat prowess of the two duelists.

Even Lawrence, typically cool-headed, was mesmerized. Though he knew he should intervene, as a knight himself, his blood boiled at the sight of such a remarkable duel.

However, if the fight continued, one of them would surely die or suffer severe injury.

It had to be stopped.

Just as Lawrence raised his hand high, ready to shout for them to halt—

Whiz!

An arrow flew toward Alfonso.

One of the soldiers holding a shortbow, tense from the confrontation, had accidentally loosed his string.

Lawrence’s eyes widened in horror.

Alfonso was clad in thin leather armor, while Helford wore chainmail. At this distance, the arrow would pierce either of them without fail.

Snap!

Then, something unbelievable happened.

Only Lawrence and Einse saw it clearly.

The other soldiers had no idea what had occurred, nor why the arrow lay shattered on the ground.

The arrow, which had sliced through the air with a sharp sound, had been split in two by Alfonso’s main-gauche before it fell to the ground.

All movement ceased. No one spoke.

In that silence, Lawrence slowly opened his mouth.

“Could it be… a Fantasy Knight?”

Among knights, there is a legend…

In this world, there are knights with reflexes that defy common sense, able to foresee a scene mere moments before it unfolds, relying solely on instinct.

It is said that when the Archangel Feriam first descended to Inse, he lightly touched the shoulders of a few unborn souls with his sword. Those who were born and walked the path of the sword would gain the title “Fantasy Knight.”

Lawrence had once seen such a knight from afar while serving under Grand Duke Rossandria.

Wilhelm Borossas, the Fantasy Knight of Rossandria, had deflected three arrows shot in succession from a distance of 30 yards.

Lawrence gulped unconsciously.

Though not four arrows like Wilhelm, Alfonso had deflected a shortbow arrow fired from 20 yards away.

There was no doubt about it. The dazzlingly handsome knight, wielding his rapier and main-gauche with breathtaking skill, was undoubtedly a Fantasy Knight.

Even if, by some chance, he wasn’t, it didn’t matter.

A knight as extraordinary as him was a rare sight, and Lawrence’s conclusion was simple:

“We must recruit him!”

When Lawrence first offered Alfonso a position as a Estates knight, Alfonso flatly refused.

He declared that he wanted to be a poet, not a knight. His dream was to recite poetry and wander with the wind, not to be bound to anyone, wielding a sword.

Even when Helford, having acknowledged Alfonso as a worthy rival, half-threatened him to stay in the estate for a rematch, Alfonso stood firm.

He even insulted Helford, saying knights of his brutish “boar-like” caliber were a dime a dozen, further enraging Helford and nearly sparking another brawl—this time in the presence of Baron Frederick himself.

It was only thanks to Lawrence and Einse restraining the rampaging Helford that a life-or-death confrontation was avoided.

When Baron Frederick urged Alfonso to at least rest for a few days at the castle, Alfonso reluctantly agreed to stay as a guest.

During that time, Lawrence persistently tried to persuade him, but Alfonso remained unmoved.

Just when even the famously tenacious Lawrence was about to give up, Roselia returned, accompanied by a man who bore the expressionless demeanor of a knight.

To everyone’s surprise, the stoic knight immediately challenged Alfonso to a duel upon seeing him.

His reason was simple: he sensed that Alfonso was a type of knight he had never encountered before.

Naturally, Alfonso, who avoided meaningless fights, declined.

But the stoic knight was relentless, charging at him regardless.

After dozens of exchanges, the stoic knight was defeated, left with a long sword wound on his thigh.

He vowed that if Alfonso left, he would pursue him to the ends of the earth until he was bested.

Alfonso merely grinned and told him to do as he pleased.

The knight’s injury was more severe than it appeared, requiring at least two weeks of rest for recovery—ample time for Alfonso to leave the castle.

Yet Alfonso didn’t leave.

The reason? Baron Frederick’s daughter, Lady Roselia Frederick, had judged his poetry.

Not with the venomous criticism he had endured at Quern’s Academy, but with detailed analysis and even occasional praise.

She pointed out that his poems were overly self-indulgent, making it hard for others to appreciate them, but acknowledged their precise rhythm and merit.

Alfonso was deeply moved.

Until then, no one had truly understood his poetry. Everyone envied his genius and mocked his work.

Though he never showed it outwardly, he had started doubting whether he truly had talent for poetry.

To have someone appreciate his poems—especially someone as young and lovely as Roselia—was enough to make him cling to her in joy.

Every two or three days, he would write a new poem and ask for Roselia’s opinion, and she never refused.

As time passed, Alfonso grew increasingly grateful and touched. He became anxious at the thought that without this beautiful young lady, no one would recognize his genius.

He later discovered that even Baron Frederick, though not as passionate as Roselia, had a surprisingly deep interest in literature for a rural lord.

One day, Baron Frederick delivered the decisive blow:

“You may write poetry all you wish, but stay in my domain as my knight.”

There was no hesitation.

That very day, Alfonso swore to become Baron Frederick’s loyal blade—a formally appointed knight, despite having vowed never to be bound to anyone.

Now, with endless inspiration for poetry, he was ecstatic, to the point of madness.

Though he occasionally found it tiresome to fend off the stoic knight’s challenges or deal with Helford’s glares and premature sword-drawing, Alfonso found himself increasingly fond of life as a domain knight.

Thus, he became the fourth knight of Baron Frederick’s household.

(To be continued…)

 

“Ooh! Finally home! My beloved Frelly Castle! How I missed you! No words in this mortal world can express my fervent longing!” A man loudly proclaimed, dramatically blowing kisses toward the castle.

With his bright blonde hair, eyes as clear and deep as a lake, a sharply defined nose, and a slender, fair face, he was the epitome of a handsome man. But he was excessively talkative.

“How clear the sky is today! It feels as if even the heavens are celebrating the return of this noble knight. Look, even the sun parts the clouds to gaze upon me! Oh, Lord, forgive this sinful man!”

He continued his rambling and overly fancy monologue, then turned to another man who was quietly guiding his horse beside him.

“Sir Rodrick, don’t you feel anything? We’ve been away for so long. Does it not stir any new feelings or evoke a surge of emotion deep within you?”

“……”

The man called Rodrick continued to ride in silence. The talkative man clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“Tsk, tsk! No wonder the ladies don’t follow you. A knight should be able to express his genuine feelings with refined and dignified language. Honestly, Sir Roddick, you are becoming more like that boorish boar of a knight.”

“… my… Helfford… cannot.”

“Pardon?”

The voice was too low to catch, but a squire riding a pony next to Rodrick quickly translated.

“My master said, ‘My sword is not mightier than Sir Helford’s,’ Sir Alfonso.”

“Hah! What nonsense is this? Comparing the crude, brute strength of Helford’s sword to the elegant, soaring blades of knights like us is an insult, an insult! Ugh, just thinking about that boar dampens my mood.”

Alfonso, the excessively talkative knight, turned his head away in a huff, clicking his tongue incessantly.

“Pfft!”

His squire couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

Thwack!

“Ow!”

“Oh, Marcio, foolish Marcio. While I understand that it’s the season for frogs to croak, laughing so rudely beside me is beneath you. Tsk, tsk! How can you hope to be the squire of such an elegant and refined knight like me? Ah, it’s truly disheartening.”

The squire, who had been struck on the head with the tip of Alfonso’s rapier, protested with a pout.

“Frogs? Master, that’s too much. I’ve never let you down, have I?”

The boy, with a cute, pretty face and a wrinkled nose, looked adorabely pitiful.

“Indeed. As the squire to the distinguished Sir Alfonso Chestein, you have never once disappointed me in the past six years. Plus, with your excellent cooking skills, it would be hard to find another squire as capable as you.”

At Alfonso’s feigned nod of agreement, Marcio brightened up and chimed in.

“See! Even you admit it. But hearing you call me a noisy frog every day and getting hit like this… it’s honestly a bit hurtful.”

“Well, that’s that, and this is this. If you truly feel wronged, I can change your nickname to something more fitting. How about ‘Marcio the Noisy Frog who is still somewhat useful’?”

“Ugh! Fine, call me whatever you like.”

Marcio, now visibly upset, focused on guiding his pony in silence.

Alfonso grinned, reached into his pocket, and tossed something to his squire.

“Here, catch this, my faithful frog Marcio. I bought it for a high price in Flanic.”

“Oh! This is…!”

“Ha-ha! Do you like it? I’ve smoked a little, but there’s plenty left to last you six days.”

“Hehe! Thank you, Master! You really are the best.”

Marcio eagerly took out rolling papers and started filling them with the tobacco, looking quite adept despite being on horseback.

“Phew! Wow, Master, this tastes amazing.”

Blowing out a long puff of smoke, Marcio looked from the cigarette to his master with admiration. Alfonso, pleased by his squire’s joy, smiled with pride.

“This master’s refined taste even shows in the tobacco I choose. That’s a special blend called Gorlois. It’s made with the family’s secret recipe, free from any additives.”

“So, this is the famous Gorlois! No wonder it tastes different.”

Marcio, half-closed eyes and a contented expression, puffed away happily. His demeanor resembled that of a cat basking in the spring sun.

With the rhythmic clatter of hooves and wisps of white smoke drifting lazily into the air, the knights appeared to be enjoying a carefree life.

Thud!

“Ow!”

“Smoking is fine, but we’re approaching the castle now. Pay attention. Also, you…”

“Yes, yes.”

“……”

The handsome knight kept chatting, while his squire grumbled, responding to every word. Meanwhile, the brown-haired, stoic knight silently guided his horse, heading toward the slowly descending drawbridge, accompanied by his observant squire.

“Well met, everyone! Ha-ha-ha! Seeing your brave faces again fills me with boundless joy! Oh, Roman, how’s your little daughter? Raise her well, so she can be a fine lady for a splendid knight like me. Hey, Seram, you look thinner! How will you win the hearts of the village maidens now? A true man should…”

Alfonso greeted the soldiers lined up on either side, engaging each one in conversation. However, no one responded to Sir Alfonso. In fact, they seemed to avoid meeting his gaze.

Just then, someone appeared and, with a disgruntled expression, interrupted Alfonso’s endless chatter disguised as greetings.

“Still as chatty as ever, huh? Chirping like a cursed sparrow.”

“Well, if it isn’t the most brutish and chubby knight of them all, Sir Helford! Still obsessed with showcasing your strength, I see?”

“If you’d just shut that cursed mouth of yours, I’d have no need to show off my strength, you chirping sparrow!”

“Tsk, tsk! How could a boar rolling around in the dirt understand the grace of a bird soaring freely in the sky? Besides, I’m more akin to a swan or a hawk, am I not? Whereas anyone can see you resemble a pig.”

“What?! You sparrow bastard!”

Though they hadn’t seen each other in three months, the two knights treated each other like bitter enemies who had parted just days before.

“Let me go! I swear I’ll shove a mace down that chirping mouth of yours!”

Unable to match Alfonso in verbal sparring, Helford fumed, trying to pull him off his horse, causing a commotion at the gate as the surrounding soldiers tried to restrain him.

Amid the chaos, Rodrick rode on without a glance, steering his horse through the drawbridge.

“They’re… more talkative than I expected.”

“Yes, a bit. But Sir Alfonso’s skills rival those of Sir Helfford.”

“Still… didn’t Sir Alfonso just return from his father’s funeral?”

“Well, you’ll see once you get to know him.”

Standing at the castle’s entrance, Jiwoon watched the spectacle between Alfonso and Helford with disbelief. He had heard of Alfonso but hadn’t expected this level of flashiness. It was hard to believe he had just attended his father’s funeral.

And then there was the stoic knight who seemed entirely unaffected by the ruckus, calmly guiding his horse. Based on his appearance and demeanor, Jiwoon assumed this was the knight Rodrick, who was supposed to train him in swordsmanship.

At least Lawrence appears composed. This one, though, seems utterly devoid of expression.

Rodrick was known as the quietest knight in the territory, wholly dedicated to his sword. A third son of a local noble, he had been recognized for his exceptional talent and taken in by a renowned wandering knight who personally trained him.

In just five years, Rodrick went from squire to regional lord’s esquire and eventually became a swordsmanship instructor at the royal academy despite his low status, thanks to his master’s recommendation. However, due to his reserved nature and the envy of noble knights, he soon left the academy.

He came to serve the Frederick Barony after being approached by Roselia, who had studied under him at the academy. Though his thoughts were a mystery, Roselia saw him as a skilled and serious sword instructor, persuading him to meet her father, Baron Frederick, and the other knights. Reluctantly, Rodrick agreed, only to experience his first defeat at the hands of a knight of the Frederick Barony: none other than Alfonso.

Rodrick, who declared that he couldn’t leave the territory until he defeated Alfonso, challenged him more than a dozen times afterward and finally emerged victorious. However, upon realizing that Alfonso had not fought him with full strength, Rodrick stayed in the territory.

Eventually, he accepted the baron Frederick and Lawrence’s proposal and was knighted, and officially became a knight of the estate. Despite his extremely reserved nature, Rodrick was highly loyal to Baron Frederick and upheld his duties as a knight admirably. Lawrence held him in high regard, despite his enigmatic personality.

Perhaps the most suitable swordsmanship teacher for Jiwoon had already been decided. Indeed, compared to the quick-tempered Halford or the chatterbox Alfonso, the somewhat dark Rodrick seemed a better fit.

Feeling relieved, Jiwoon walked with Lawrence towards the inner castle to meet the two knights.

“Sir Chestein Alfonso! Under the sole permission of my lord, whose presence alone my sword shall never be raised against, I have returned safely from my mission.”

“Sir Rodrick. I have completed my mission and returned.”

Although their expressions were notably different, both reported their safe return. Baron Frederick, with a broad smile, welcomed his loyal knights back.

“Well done, Sir Alfonso and Sir Rodrick. I eagerly awaited your return. Truly, the Lord’s grace has answered my humble prayers, allowing me to see you both hale and hearty once more. Now, enough of formalities, please have a seat.”

“Yes.”

With the baron’s permission, the two knights sat in the prepared chairs. As Alfonso glanced around at the familiar faces, his eyes suddenly sparkled upon noticing someone new.

“There’s someone I’ve never met before. Might I be introduced to the person with eyes as mysterious as the night sky?”

At Alfonso’s words, Rodrick also subtly turned his impassive face towards the new figure. Baron Frederick, still smiling, introduced the person Alfonso referred to as having ‘mysterious eyes.’

“Indeed, I was about to introduce you. This is Sir Han Jiwoon from a renowned count’s family across the distant seas of Korea. He came here to convey the will of our Lord Reyes but has decided to stay in our estate for a while due to an unfortunate accident.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Alfonso squinted as he observed Jiwoon. Though his behaviour was quite discourteous, the baron, understanding Alfonso’s character, continued speaking without taking offense.

“Sir Alfonso, Sir Jiwoon is not a knight, so such an inspection is unnecessary. He is a civil noble who aspired to politics in his homeland, possessing extensive knowledge and being well-versed in various new cultures.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Moreover, Sir Jiwoon has a deep appreciation for poetry and literature, which you, Sir Alfonso, are so fond of. I assure you, he will be recognized as the greatest poet of our kingdom someday.”

Roselia chimed in, echoing the baron’s words.

“Oh…!”

Upon hearing this, Alfonso’s expression gradually transformed from a mere nod of acknowledgment to a bright smile over the next five seconds.

“Oh! Is that so? It’s truly a pleasure! I am Chestein Alfonso, who discusses both poetry and swords!”

“I am Han Jiwoon. I have heard much about you. It is an honor to meet Sir Alfonso, who is renowned as both an outstanding knight and an equally magnificent poet.”

At Jiwoon’s compliment, Alfonso waved his hands as if embarrassed, standing up abruptly.

“Oh, no! Whoever told you that must have left out a part. Let me reintroduce myself properly. I am Chestein Alfonso, the kingdom’s finest poet-knight, who blends loyalty as a knight and noble elegance into artistic expressions. I humbly greet Sir Jiwoon of Korea, who possesses eyes that seem to hold all the wisdom of the world.”

The handsome knight’s elegant gesture of bowing with his right hand extended was quite impressive, though only if one hadn’t listened to his self-praising words.

“Ah, yes…”

Caught off guard by Alfonso’s grandiose introduction, Jiwoon found himself standing up to return the bow but froze mid-action.

“Hahaha! You’re so modest. I understand, though. Most nobles react the same way when they see my face and graceful demeanor…”

Alfonso’s words trailed off as Jiwoon awkwardly sat back down, overwhelmed by the display.

This is exhausting. This guy is a full-blown case of narcissism. How did he even become a knight?

Jiwoon cautiously asked Lawrence, seated next to him.

“How did Sir Alfonso come to serve under Baron Frederic?”

“Hmm! I thought you might ask that. Well, the truth is…”

Lawrence sighed, shaking his head, before beginning the tale.

---

Alfonso was born as the second son of a relatively wealthy but not particularly prestigious newly-risen viscount family. He inherited his talent as a knight from his father, a distinguished knight, and his striking appearance from his mother, a renowned beauty. A wealthy young man who excelled in swordsmanship, Alfonso lacked nothing. However, as the second son, he was not in line to inherit the title.

At sixteen, despite his father promising to knight him by the age of twenty if he stayed in the estate, Alfonso convinced his parents and left home. What mattered most to him was different. With a considerable amount of wealth and accompanied only by his loyal servant Marcio, who had served him since childhood, Alfonso ventured out, heading to the famous academy of the Kingdom of Quern to pursue his dream.

A master swordsman with no match, Alfonso chose to study literature. Believing that he lacked only this one thing, he devoted himself to poetry and literature. His dream was not to succeed with the sword but to become a celebrated poet recognized by all.

At the academy, Alfonso studied diligently and proudly presented his poetry. His works, presented by a handsome and wealthy noble youth, became a topic of conversation. However, the reviews were harsh. Most people would have been devastated, unable to continue in the literary world.

But Alfonso was not ‘most people.’ A terminal case of narcissism, he could not accept the jealousy and criticism from those who failed to understand his art.

Thus, he lamented the ignorance of others as he left the academy.

“I understand the great poet Romero’s plight! Alas, I am a genius born in an age that fails to recognize me! Farewell, ordinary folks! I, Chestein Alfonso, will sing my songs with the wind and dew as my companions!”

Romero, the famous poet who wrote “The Song of the Wind,” was exiled and spent his later years in misery due to the envy of others who could not appreciate his genius. Unlike Alfonso, however, Romero was a true poet.

After leaving the academy, Alfonso wandered for three years with his faithful servant Marcio. Over time, the wealth he left home with dwindled, and he faced countless duels. These were mostly a result of his attempts to court various beautiful ladies with poorly composed poetry, leading to arguments and subsequent duels with their knights.

The more he traveled, the more often he encountered attractive ladies, leading to frequent duels. And he kept winning.

28 victories, 1 draw.

Alfonso only remembered meeting twenty-seven ladies. The record was meticulously kept by his loyal servant Marcio, who noted every duel. Alfonso, aspiring to be a noble crane, never bothered to remember the number of men he defeated. Only the draw remained etched in his memory, for it was not over a lady but against Halford.

(To be continued )

“The young soldiers of the estate lived in great poverty, didn’t they? That’s why they wouldn’t give up their positions as soldiers so easily. Sir Lawrence, isn’t that why you’ve been providing them with such good treatment?”

“Yes, you’re right. The lives of the estate’s people are modest, and the soldiers are quite satisfied with the treatment they receive here.”

“Yet, even with such treatment, there have been reports of deserters from the assault unit, haven’t there?”

“Indeed. Though Sir Einse has been putting in effort, even the defense unit has shown signs of laxity recently. I initially thought it was simply due to a lack of real combat experience.”

Agreeing with Lawrence’s valid point, Jiwoon continued, “Exactly. Without actual combat, it’s natural for soldiers to relax. Prolonged periods without battle inevitably lead to a loss of discipline. However, relying solely on training to maintain this discipline is narrow-minded and risky. I’ve heard that deserters are nearly crippled when caught.”

“Hmm.” Lawrence nodded slowly. Deserters were beaten mercilessly upon capture, their legs broken in front of all the soldiers. While this served as a warning, it didn’t completely prevent desertion and only fostered fear, leading to growing discontent among the soldiers—a fact Lawrence was aware of.

“Maintaining a unit through fear alone has its limits. If discipline and fear are the backbone of a unit, then there’s another crucial aspect that makes up the remaining ten percent. I’ve seen many estates fail to maintain their units due to neglecting this ten percent.”

“Indeed…” Lawrence reflected on his experiences before joining Baron Frederick’s estate. The soldiers in the noble units he briefly served as a freelance knight didn’t show much loyalty to their lord or knight commanders. Their training often failed to translate into effective combat due to the oppressive atmosphere maintained by fear and strict discipline.

“You’re absolutely right. I agree,” Lawrence admitted.

“In that case, consider granting leaves. Soldiers have families too. Keeping them confined to the castle and constantly training might maintain combat readiness, but it won’t foster a sense of profession. It’s crucial that they experience first hand how their soldiering job is better than farming back home. Besides, many soldiers have been saving their pay without any chance to spend it. Imagine if they could send that money to their families. The beginning of a sense of job is realizing they can support their loved ones with their earnings.”

“Leave, huh…” Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. With a few adjustments, this idea seemed more promising than current practices. Most importantly, it wouldn’t cost anything extra. With this realization, Lawrence made up his mind. “It sounds reasonable. I’ll propose it to the lord.”

“Yes, and for mercenary soldiers from distant places, consider allowing them to rest in nearby villages for a few days. Unlike the defense unit, assault unit soldiers have little opportunity to leave the castle except on Sundays.”

“I understand. I’ll discuss it with the lord and, upon approval and implement it with the necessary modifications.”

A few days later, with Baron Frederick’s approval, Lawrence and Jiwoon adapted the leave system to fit the estates’s realities. To prevent desertion, new soldiers were given three months’ pay in advance and sent to their villages alongside seasoned mercenary soldiers. This measure not only mitigated the risk of desertion but also fostered comradeship between new and veteran soldiers during their time away.

The first soldiers granted leave were Ralph, the youngest in the assault unit, and Pire, its longest-serving member. Pire accompanied Ralph to his hometown 30 miles from the castle and, upon returning, enthusiastically praised the benefits of the leave. Consequently, all soldiers began looking forward to their leaves. Those who returned from leave were visibly more enthusiastic and proactive in their duties, including training.

Their loyalty to Baron Frederick, who permitted the leave, increased, as did their gratitude towards commanders Helford and Einse, who had allowed them to send money to their families. With the safe return of the soldiers, even Helford and Einse, who had harboured doubts, grew more confident in Jiwoon’s initiative.

As a result, the soldiers no longer viewed Jiwoon as merely a “pitiful foreign noble with nowhere to go” but as a noble who genuinely cared for them. Even Helford and Einse, who hadn’t fully understood Jiwoon’s abilities, came to acknowledge his worth.

“Hahaha! Thanks to you, Sir Jiwoon, the soldiers’ attitudes have significantly improved! At first, I feared some of them might not return. Hahaha! I even considered cutting off your head if they didn’t come back. Well, there’s no need for that now! Hahaha!”

‘He definitely would have done it… this man…’ Jiwoon wiped a bead of sweat from his neck, forcing a smile. “Haha… I almost got on your bad side, Sir Helford.”

“Now, in that spirit, I’ve prepared a special physical training session today. The best I can do is help you build the body needed to quickly master swordsmanship, isn’t it?”

“Pardon? You mean…”

Helford grinned widely.

The feeling was unsettling.

“Since the soldiers have suggested it, how about we start using proper armor and greaves(foot gears) in training from today? It’s been about two weeks, so it’s time to increase the intensity. Let’s push ourselves harder! Consider it my way of showing you care.”

‘I am not grateful for that kind of care at all, you demon!’

That day, Jiwoon couldn’t return to his room on his own strength.

---

Buuuu!

“Sir Rodrick and Sir Alfonso have arrived! They are approaching the castle!”

With the long horn sound, a soldier on the castle gate’s watchtower shouted.

“Hoho, looks like Sir Rodrick and Alfonso are back. Alright, that’s it for today’s training! Everyone, check your equipment!”

“Yes, sir!”

At Helford’s command, the soldiers moved busily with a loud response. Jiwoon also removed his hauberk and other gear.

Though drenched in sweat, he hurried over to Helford without hesitation.

“Are they coming together?”

“Seems they met on the way.”

“I see. Then…”

Jiwoon hesitated a bit. Seeing this, Helford laughed heartily and patted Jiwoon on the shoulder.

“Hahaha! Don’t take it too hard, Sir Jiwoon. I may be a bit disappointed, but with Sir Roddick here, today will be the last of the physical training!”

‘Freedom! I’m free!’

Jiwoon wanted to throw his cape high into the sky but held back and feigned a regretful expression.

“Ah, I see. That’s unfortunate.”

“Haha! Well, if you really miss it, you could always do more on your own?”

“Gasp! No, that’s alright. I think I should go wash up.”

Afraid of what might come next, Jiwoon hurriedly ran off.

“Haha! Wash up well! Scrub thoroughly! Hahaha!”

Helford’s laughter echoed behind him. Since the success of the vacation policy, Helford had taken an even greater liking to Jiwoon and treated him accordingly.

Though Helford was simple and quick-tempered, he wasn’t entirely stubborn. During his time as a mercenary captain, he had led with overwhelming strength. But after pledging allegiance to Baron Frederick, he had changed a lot, thanks in large part to Lawrence.

When Helford first arrived at the estate, Lawrence was the knight he clashed with the most. From Jiwoon’s perspective, the two were polar opposites. Helford’s fiery temper contrasted sharply with Lawrence’s cold rationality.

However, Lawrence, with his rich experience and exceptional people skills, knew how to melt the icy walls around himself when threatened by Helford’s fiery nature. Eventually, Helford grew tired and stopped underestimating Lawrence.

Additionally, since taking Lawrence’s advice had never led to a bad outcome, Helford didn’t harbour any ill feelings towards him. In fact, after realizing that Lawrence’s skills as a knight weren’t to be trifled with, Helford held him in high regard.

Having wandered for nearly a decade and survived numerous battles, Lawrence’s survival was attributed to his skill in safeguarding himself. Recognizing both Lawrence’s intellect and skill, Helford willingly accepted his counsel. As a result, Helford’s approach to Jiwoon became much more flexible and considerate.

Previously, he might have dismissed Jiwoon as a cunning noble, but the successful implementation of Jiwoon’s vacation policy won the trust of the soldiers.

Crucially, Jiwoon’s unwavering participation in the physical training won over Helford, who, being a man’s man, couldn’t help but develop a fondness for Jiwoon.

“Let’s have a drink at tonight’s welcome party, Sir Jiwoon! I’ll introduce you to the woman with the biggest bosom in town! Hahaha!”

‘Noooo!’

Of course, unrequited affection can sometimes be a burden for the recipient.

---

(To be continued)

The assault unit led by Helford is the only heavy infantry in the territory. Though it consists of a small force of about 50 men, their superior combat power and defense as heavy infantry are what matters.

The defense unit led by Einse, combined with the vigilantes from the village directly under the territory, totals about 100 men. However, in terms of combat power, they couldn’t compare to the assault unit of heavy infantry.

At first, Jiwoon couldn’t understand why heavy infantry was called an assault unit. In medieval times, heavy infantry were almost the only troops capable of withstanding the powerful charges of knightly orders, but their heavy armor and equipment made them extremely slow. Moreover, if not densely packed, they weren’t very effective in stopping a knight’s charge. Therefore, it was natural that Jiwoon found it perplexing that such heavy infantry were the ones conducting assaults.

However, after a few days of physical training with the assault unit, Jiwoon realized why they could perform assaults despite being heavy infantry. They would run for about 30 minutes, wearing hauberks and capes, until an hourglass flipped twice.

Then, after a 10-minute break, they would equip shields and weapons and run again. They would continue running for another 20 minutes, this time holding shields and spears at the ready without resting—a grueling part of the training.

Seeing this, Jiwoon was stunned. They ran, fully equipped in armor weighing over 20 kilograms, under the scorching sun of June. Although some recruits who had recently joined the assault unit couldn’t keep up and collapsed, their comrades paid no attention.

When one soldier fell, Jiwoon, who was lightly armed compared to the assault unit, tried to help him but was strongly blocked by Helford.

“That bastard’s already a corpse! Have you ever seen corpses being retrieved in battle? Leave him, Jiwoon! You stupid mule! Get up!

Our assault unit rises even in death. Get up, you bastard!”

At Helford’s absurd words, the ‘corpse’ twitched and, after a struggle, managed to stand and staggered around the training ground.

Over time, more ‘corpses’ appeared, but no one paid them any mind. Only Helford’s curses filled the air. While the others relaxed under the shade of trees after their physical training, these ‘corpses’ continued to run or stagger under Helford’s watchful eye. Still, they never let go of their shields and spears.

After the hourglass flipped once more, the training for the ‘corpses’ finally ended. Only then did Jiwoon understand why they could be considered assault-capable heavy infantry. They were not marching but ‘jogging’ for over an hour daily while fully equipped.

“By the way, has there ever been a case of a soldier dying during training?” Jiwoon asked.

“Not yet,” replied a senior soldier, explaining that the veteran soldiers had been recruited by Helford from his mercenary company, while the new recruits were selected from the defense unit and the village vigilantes based on their physique. Jiwoon still had doubts. It wasn’t just about physique. Even well-built U.S. soldiers would marvel at the rigorous training of South Korean reconnaissance units.

While the veteran soldiers might be accustomed to such training, how could the others endure it? Jiwoon’s question was soon answered. Helford explained that new recruits underwent light training and were fed extremely well for the first month. After that, their food was gradually reduced, and the intensity of training was increased bit by bit.

The soldiers hardly noticed the reduced portions because it was done so gradually. Though there were minor complaints about the increasing difficulty, they were still well-fed and received wages.

With food, shelter, and even a small salary, they had little reason to complain and had to participate earnestly in training. After a couple of months, they could handle the same level of training as the other soldiers while maintaining the same diet.

In short, they were being ‘conditioned.’

But why did some soldiers still fall behind? Helford attributed it to them simply being weak.

After thinking it over, Jiwoon realized the real reason: the scorching June sun and the mental fatigue that typically hit soldiers a few months after joining any organization. It was a kind of homesickness, similar to what new recruits feel after the initial training phase and before fully settling into military life.

Jiwoon recalled his own military days and the most challenging period just before becoming a full-fledged private. The initial adjustment to military life, combined with lingering homesickness, made that period the hardest.

“About the soldiers who collapsed earlier,” Jiwoon inquired, “will they be left alone after a few days when they recover?”

Helford nodded as if it were obvious. “Most of them adapt. Of course, a few tried to desert, but after a good beating, they had no choice but to adapt! What else can they do? Ha-ha!”

Jiwoon shook his head. The training was effective in gradually conditioning the soldiers, but the necessary policies to follow up were missing.

‘Should I say something?’ Jiwoon pondered.

Though he had gained the trust of Baron Frederick and Bishop Swendik and was recognized as a foreign noble, it wasn’t his place to interfere with the affairs of another’s territory. For now, he was still a ‘guest.’

Moreover, Jiwoon held back from speaking because he doubted he could elicit a positive reaction from the impatient Helford. Helford only regarded Jiwoon as a “noble” recognized by his lord, Baron Frederick, but not as an equal “knight.” Any suggestion would likely fall on deaf ears.

After the training ended, Jiwoon gave a respectful nod to Helford.

“Thank you again for today, Sir Helford. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Haha! No need for thanks! See you tomorrow!” Helford laughed heartily, giving Jiwoon a hefty pat on the back.

Although it might have been a gesture of friendliness, Jiwoon felt as if a heavy rock had struck his back.

If I took a direct hit from those hands… Phew! It’s a good thing I didn’t say anything.

Helford probably would have reacted that way. The only people he showed deference to were Baron Frederick, Roselia, and Bishop Swendik.

As he walked back to his room, Jiwoon pondered deeply. The training and discipline methods of the assault unit were excellent.

However, a unit maintained solely by rigorous training and discipline would eventually hit its limit. While strict discipline might be the best way to maintain top combat readiness during wartime, it wasn’t necessarily the case in peacetime.

You have to offer rewards along with punishment. Given the medieval setting, ample food and wages might serve as those rewards, but that alone wasn’t enough. People tend to take things for granted when they receive them regularly. Something beyond that was needed.

Perhaps higher wages? It would be difficult to implement immediately and would have its limits.

Then…

“I should talk to Lawrence,” Jiwoon decided.

Though the era and circumstances were different, they were still soldiers, and this approach would likely be effective.

---

“Hmm. I don’t quite understand,” Lawrence said.

“This is a method I implemented in my domain to maintain morale among soldiers during peacetime. Initially, most of my vassals reacted like you, Sir Lawrence. But wouldn’t you like to know the results after it was implemented?”

“Hmm…” A glimmer of curiosity appeared on Lawrence’s face. Seeing this as an opportunity, Jiwoon quickly continued.

“There hasn’t been a single desertion among the soldiers, which used to happen occasionally. I guarantee the effectiveness of this method. Of course, given the unique characteristics of this country, some additional measures will need to be taken, but the fundamental effectiveness is undeniable.”

“Ho? Not a single deserter? And were there any soldiers who didn’t return after being granted leave?”

“No, all thirty soldiers who were given leave returned. Since then, the soldiers have been more dedicated to their training, and there hasn’t been a single deserter.”

What Jiwoon was suggesting to Lawrence was the implementation of “leave.” In the 21st-century military, there were still soldiers who didn’t return after their leave. Even in Jiwoon ’s unit, there were cases of soldiers not returning. It could be a risky approach. However, Jiwoon was confident there would be no absences here.

His confidence stemmed from a simple reason: In the Korean military, most cases of soldiers not returning from leave or deserting were due to homesickness and disillusionment with the harsh military life. These issues arose from enlistment and the drastic change from a free life in a materially advanced society to the rigid structure of the military. But the situation here was different.

The soldiers here were mostly from the militia or defense forces.

They were more akin to volunteers than conscripts. Additionally, medieval society was significantly different from the modern materialistic world.

While they might have been able to make a living, the soldiers were treated far better than they would have been in their home villages. Being a soldier was far more desirable than farming back home.

Considering this, it might be hard to understand why some soldiers would desert such a good position, but after witnessing their training, Jiwoon could understand the mindset of those who considered deserting.

Their commander was Helford, the most rough and impatient knight in the domain. He was a knight with the basic qualities expected but excelled more in combat than in instruction. He was more of a warrior than a leader.

Upon learning that the process of gradually acclimating the soldiers was also Lawrence’s idea, Jiwoon was not surprised. It was an effective policy that only someone like Lawrence could have conceived.

Thus, Jiwoon resolved to suggest to Lawrence the idea of granting the soldiers leave as a way to improve morale.

(To be continued)

His arms felt weak, and his legs wobbled as if his knees were about to give out.

“Phew…! Phew…! Ugh!”

Jiwoon gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take one step at a time.

The goal was right in front of him.

If he collapsed now, he would lose.

He had to walk proudly, even if only to meet the expectations of those who believed in and encouraged him.

“Do you think he’ll make it?”

“Hmm, judging by how he’s walking, it looks like he’s struggling.”

Stumble!

“Oh my! He looks like he’s about to fall.”

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you help him, Windy?”

“You’re unbelievable! You’re the one who looks ready to run to him.”

“Hoho!”

‘Damn it….’

Jiwoon couldn’t hear what they were saying clearly, but judging by their laughter, he was sure they were mocking him.

Determined, he tried to muster strength in his trembling legs.

However, his legs, already weakened, betrayed him, tangling like those of a drunken man.

‘Damn it….’

Though he appreciated the peace and quiet due to his residence being deep within the castle, at this moment, the distance seemed unbearably long.

Collapsing here would be an utter disgrace.

Mustering all his strength, Jiwoon forced a smile towards the maids who were watching him from a distance and whispering among themselves.

He had already earned considerable favor from the castle’s top figures, Baron Frederick and Bishop Swendik.

Now, he needed to leave a good impression on the subordinates.

In any organization, it wasn’t enough to just win over the superiors; failing to endear oneself to the subordinates could lead to ostracism.

Moreover, Jiwoon was in a position that could be considered a ‘parachute appointment.’

Everyone knew that to integrate smoothly without conflict, one had to take good care of the subordinates.

“Oh my! He smiled at us!”

“Mom, what do I do! He definitely smiled at me.”

“Hoho! No, dear. You’re going to the bathhouse after half a year? It won’t work. He smiled at me.”

“Look at you dreaming of wine while looking at grapes! It was me he smiled at.”

The maids giggled, continuing their whispers.

When the foreigner with black hair had been captured and brought to the castle two months ago, rumors about his identity had spread among the maids.

Some speculated he was an evil sorcerer or a runaway slave from the East who had killed his master.

However, those stories soon faded as no one believed he would survive.

But when it was revealed that this black-haired foreigner was a noble from a prestigious family in a distant country called ‘Korea,’ the maids’ attitudes changed dramatically.

Although his features weren’t exceptionally handsome, his black hair and eyes exuded a mysterious charm.

Moreover, the fact that he was a young foreign noble with no chance of returning home—especially one who couldn’t return—was significant.

The maids weren’t foolish enough to lift their skirts for just any noble.

Having an illegitimate child without a father could easily get them expelled from their relatively secure positions in the castle.

But this young foreign noble had no place to go, meaning he would have to stay here for the foreseeable future.

If they managed to seduce him and have his child, he couldn’t deny responsibility.

It was a golden opportunity to change their fortunes.

Even if the chances of becoming his legitimate wife were slim, being a noble’s mistress or concubine was a better prospect than their current status.

Furthermore, the respect shown to him by Bishop Swendik and the fact that Baron Frederick had given him the room where the previous lord had spent his final days confirmed to the maids that he was their golden ticket.

However, despite their expectations, Jiwoon had stayed secluded in his room for nearly two months.

Just when their interest was declining, he reappeared, announcing that he was training in swordsmanship to be formally recognized for his title.

The maids started bathing more frequently, applying heavier makeup, and loitering near the path to his quarters.

Some even raised their skirts to reveal their shapely thighs.

They wouldn’t hesitate to do more if it meant changing their destiny.

Unaware of the maids’ intentions, Jiwoon smiled and bowed slightly toward them.

His gesture, meant to foster goodwill and show that he wasn’t a bad person, was interpreted by the maids as him throwing himself into the flames of their ambitions.

Fortunately for Jiwoon, a figure as imposing as a storm with heavy rain appeared before the flames could ignite.

“Training must have been tough, Sir Jiwoon.”

Lady Roselia Frederick, the de facto mistress of the castle since the death of Lady Elisa Frederick, emerged from one side of the corridor without a sound.

“It seems you have little to do, don’t you?”

“N-No, Lady Roselia,” the maids stammered, scattering like sheep before a lion as Roselia shot them a piercing glare.

Though she never tormented or hit them like some other noble ladies, Roselia’s reserved demeanor and few words made her difficult to approach.

Even Lawrence, whose cold gaze surpassed hers, treated her with more respect than her status as the lord’s daughter warranted, making the maids even more wary around her.

Still, Roselia wasn’t one to punish without cause, and she secretly helped the maids when they were ill or faced family issues.

Despite finding her intimidating, they respected her greatly as the castle’s mistress.

“Sorry if the maids made you uncomfortable, Sir Jiwoon,” she said.

“Oh, not at all. It’s rather flattering that the young ladies are interested in me. Haha!”

“You seem to enjoy it, Sir Jiwoon.”

Roselia’s eyes darkened as she gazed at Jiwoon, who chuckled awkwardly.

“Haha! Pardon?”

But, misinterpreting her words, Jiwoon asked with a laugh, making Roselia avert her eyes as her face grew slightly warm.

“It’s nothing. I’ll see you later then.”

“Oh, sure. But what were you saying earlier…?”

“Well then.”

Without waiting for his reply, Roselia bowed and quickly walked away.

Puzzled by her slightly unusual behavior, Jiwoon shrugged it off, assuming it wasn’t a big deal, and resumed his journey to his quarters, still forcing strength into his trembling legs.

Why did I do that?

Roselia bit her lower lip, scolding herself.

It was clearly a joke, and even if it hadn’t been, there was no reason for her to care.

Yet, inexplicably, she found herself seething with anger over the words she had muttered unconsciously.

From the moment she overheard the maids whispering about Jiwoon, an inexplicable irritation had been brewing within her.

When Jiwoon smiled and greeted the maids, causing some of the girls to squeal, she instinctively moved toward him, feeling a need to intervene before something unpleasant unfolded.

This isn’t something I should be concerned about.

Indeed, whether Jiwoon flirted with the maids or took liberties with them, it was none of her business.

Besides, Roselia had an inkling that Jiwoon wasn’t the type to engage in such behavior.

After all, within his heart, the lady named ‘Annabel Lee’ still lived and breathed.

Yet, for some reason, that very thought bothered her as well.

---

“Your back is too stiff. Relax a little.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Here, lightly sweep your hand around and gently turn your partner’s body.”

“Like this?”

“Hmm! Be careful not to pull too hard, as it could be considered quite impolite.”

“Ah! I apologize.”

Distracted by his sweaty palms, Jiwoon inadvertently tugged too hard, causing Roselia, who was in his arms, to startle him into backing away.

Learning the art of social dancing was proving to be a formidable challenge.

Without a systematic approach and years of practice, mastering such dances in just two months was nearly impossible.

Moreover, the social dances of this world demanded elegance and beauty in every movement, making it exceedingly difficult for Jiwoon, whose stiff joints and poor coordination rendered him a physical incompetence.

In this world, a noble who couldn’t dance was akin to a knight who couldn’t ride a horse.

A true noble and a cultured individual were expected to read, write, and dance proficiently.

Regardless of being a foreign or domestic noble, the ability to dance was non-negotiable.

Fortunately, in the Kingdom of Prim, martial prowess was valued more than culture, so a lack of dancing skills wasn’t seen as a severe shortcoming.

In fact, the notion of social dancing as an essential virtue for nobles had only emerged about a decade ago, and many old knights still openly shunned it, dismissing it as silly.

Jiwoon’s goal was merely to present a passable facade.

Roselia was surprised that Jiwoon, well-versed in poetry and literature, struggled with social dancing.

Hearing that men and women in Korea were so strictly separated that they couldn’t even hold hands after the age of seven, she accepted this as an explanation, narrowly avoiding a potential misunderstanding.

When Roselia asked if Korean nobles didn’t dance at all, Jiwoon hesitated before attempting an awkward traditional Korean dance from his college days, almost embarrassing himself.

Roselia, however, viewing Jiwoon favorably, tilted her head and remarked, “It’s quite rustic, with a soft yet intense energy.”

Had it been anyone else, they might have simply labeled it as strange or amusing.

Even the violinist beside them, observing Jiwoon’s dance, struggled to suppress laughter, his face reddening from the effort.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been good at dancing, and it was quite the ordeal back home as well.”

This was the only honest statement Jiwoon had made to Roselia.

Though he could sing reasonably well, he was utterly hopeless at dancing, often becoming a visual nuisance when forced to perform.

“No, with your tall and slender figure, if you get the posture right, you’ll look splendid,” Roselia assured him confidently.

This feels like committing a sin. It’s so embarrassing.

Blushing from Roselia’s praise, Jiwoon remained silent.

Since reciting ‘Annabel Lee’ for her, Roselia had held him in almost embarrassingly high regard.

It felt as though she viewed him as an admired teacher, ready to defend him no matter what he did.

Though his deception was necessary to gain favor with the castle’s influential figure, moments like these made his conscience pang.

A fraud taking advantage of an innocent girl!

But what could he do?

The die was cast.

Pulling the curtain on this act now would likely result in banishment at best and execution at worst.

That can’t happen.

Imagining the sneering face of Helford holding his severed head sent a chill down Jiwoon’s spine.

One misstep, and he could fall from grace to ruin.

Having committed himself to this path, Jiwoon resolved to see it through to the end, bolstering himself with a mental mantra.

“When an public speaker becomes a revolutionary in the eyes of the masses without realizing it, that’s when they succeed.”

Though slightly out of context for his situation, the sentiment resonated with Jiwoon’s determination.

He was resolved to make a serious effort.

“Daydreaming will ruin your steps. Focus.”

“Ah! Yes….”

Despite his burning resolve, his legs continued to tangle awkwardly.

Some things in life simply couldn’t be accomplished through sheer willpower.

To be continued.

To the soldiers, or rather, to the people of this era, the Dragon Mountains were a place considered to be “on the same land but under a different sky,” signifying a different world altogether.

Only a rare few could traverse the Dragon Mountains.

Being uneducated commoners, they might not know who the great individuals that could walk those lands were, but there was one fact that everyone knew.

• Only those noble souls recognized by the holy Reyes have the right to walk the soil of the Dragon Mountains!

There were rumors that they were the descendants of the three lords blessed directly by the first archangel, Feriam, over a thousand years ago.

Others said that the Pope and the devout archbishops residing in the grand church atop Mount Praxerius were those noble ones.

And, although it was the most difficult to believe, some said that the legendary ‘elves,’ whose presence could scarcely be found in this land anymore, were the truly permitted ones.

Regardless of which, commoners and even minor nobles would find it equally difficult to see these high lords even once in their lifetimes.

So, what about Cromwell’s Forest?

From the perspective of the soldiers of the Frederick territory, Cromwell’s Forest, which lay right beside their homeland, felt more tangible and real than the legendary Dragon Mountains.

Four hundred years ago, over fifty knights led by the great founding king ventured into the forest and returned with their numbers halved.

And that too, after only fourteen days.

These were not the fancy knights created by nobles for entertainment but fifty ‘real knights’ seasoned by long wars who became dead after only fifteen days.

Of course, it was a reckless adventure planned by the young founding king in his prime without proper preparation, but no one had expected the annihilation of half the knight order.

The nickname that arose for the forest then was ‘the forest where demons devour knights’ swords.’

That name was too long, so it was shortened to ‘Cromwell’s Forest.’

Cromwell was the name of a legendary wizard who had driven hundreds of brave knights into the flames with dark magic a thousand years ago.

Cromwell seemed like a perfect name for the ruler of the demon minions said to reside in that forest.

Of course, up to this point, it could be considered just another ‘ominous forest’ story found in any region.

There were even theories that the annihilation of the founding king’s knights was a fabricated rumor created by opposing factions of the king.

But as they say, while the glow of old legends may fade quickly, the bloodstains of yesterday do not dry easily.

Fifty years ago, a large-scale subjugation force, led by Marquis Wakefield and his vassal houses’ knights, set out to Cromwell’s Forest.

Thirty knights, over three hundred soldiers, and another hundred seasoned mercenaries.

Including the knights’ squires and non-combat personnel assisting the subjugation force, over five hundred people were deployed, a large-scale operation that had rarely been organized in history.

The report to the king noted the reclamation of the forest that consumed a significant part of the marquis’s territory and the elimination of the orc hordes that occasionally emerged to disrupt the people.

However, the true reason was the need to vent the near-overflowing combat power of the marquis’s house and its vassals.

The young knights, brimming with energy, were on the verge of exploding, and the constant incidents among the soldiers were becoming too burdensome.

Rebellion was not an option, so in their scheming, the idea of a subjugation campaign in Cromwell’s Forest emerged and was executed.

The vassals, who were loyal knights of the house and related by blood to the lords, had no reason to oppose.

• To drive out the vile demon spawn from this land, our brave knights and soldiers will take up the sword of judgment!

What a splendid cause!

Moreover, the reclaimed forest would be granted to each house for cultivation, making it practical as well.

After two months of preparation and another month of thorough combat training, the subjugation force set out proudly.

No one thought the subjugation force would fail.

The knights were confident, exuded the ease of already having won, and their raised swords seemed capable of cutting through anything.

However, the subjugation force could not last three months and retreated in defeat.

Less than half returned from the disastrous retreat.

Over ten knights were killed.

Among the survivors, not a single knight returned unscathed.

The soldiers’ side was even worse.

Of the over three hundred soldiers, only sixty returned, and of those, only thirty returned with all limbs intact.

The non-combat personnel and mercenaries were wiped out.

The reports of the survivors were enough to make Marquis Wakefield clutch his neck in distress.

• During the three-month subjugation period, they advanced only 50 miles (about 80 km) and annihilated two trolls and fifty-seven orcs.

Given the investment of over five hundred personnel, the results were terrible.

Since then, Cromwell’s Forest has been deeply etched into the minds of the people of this region and the entire Kingdom of Prim as ‘the land where blood never stops flowing.’

---

“D-Did he really pass through Cromwell’s Forest?”

Pire swallowed hard. Among the soldiers who survived Cromwell’s Forest fifty years ago, his grandfather was one. Having grown up watching his grandfather, who wouldn’t even relieve himself in the direction of the forest, it was no wonder Pire was so astonished.

“Yes, they say so.”

Amidst the soldiers, who had gone silent, sounds of people swallowing could be heard, as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Just moments ago, they were laughing and talking loudly, but now a silence had fallen. Jiwoon’s gaze shifted toward the soldiers, puzzled by the sudden quiet.

What’s going on? Why did it get so quiet all of a sudden?

As Jiwoon looked at the soldiers, his eyes met with one of them who had been the loudest earlier. The soldier, startled and embarrassed, quickly averted his gaze.

What’s with him?

Jiwoon tilted his head in confusion at the soldier’s strange reaction.

“Surely, that nobleman isn’t a great cleric like the bishop, right?”

“No way. Why would a cleric roll around and sweat with us ignorant folk?”

“Exactly. If he were a bishop-level cleric, he’d head straight to the capital, foreigner or not.”

“Then what is he? He can’t be a knight if he’s that exhausted after a few rounds.”

“True…”

The soldiers continued to murmur amongst themselves. Eventually, the conversation escalated to speculations about Jiwoon being a dragon from the Dragon Mountains or having elf eyes, which led to bickering among them.

“Shut up, you fools! You shit-eating sons of mares! What are you yammering on about with those stinking mouths?”

There was only one person there who could spout such foul words without any filter.

“Oh my goodness!”

“My heart almost jumped out, Captain.”

At Helford’s outburst, the soldiers flinched.

To them, the scariest person in the land wasn’t the lord, Baron Frederick, but Knight Helford. Yet, many of the soldiers, having lived with Helford during their time as mercenaries, still followed him, calling him “Captain” despite their fear.

“I told you not to call me Captain, didn’t I? It’s Sir or Knight!”

“Well, it’s just… not easy to get used to,” the soldier named Passton offered as an excuse, making Helford glare.

“Passton , you idiot! Would you like it if I kept calling your wife a mare?

Should I keep calling you the guy who’s in love with a mare?”

“Gasp! N-No, sir, that’s not right.”

Passton’s wife, Dorothy, had always been teased for her broad hips, earning the nickname “Dorothy with the mare’s hips” before they married.

Passton, having impregnated Dorothy before marriage, was inevitably labeled “the guy who fell for a mare.” Naturally, no one dared to call him that to his face—except for Helford.

“Worthless, noisy bastards! Listen up with those clogged ears. Sir Jiwoon fought against the demons in that cursed forest. His comrades all… ahem! Died. However, he carried a sacred relic recognized by the bishop himself, which kept the demons of Cromwell’s Forest at bay. Got it?”

“Oh!”

“That’s why! No wonder… Still, he’s incredibly lucky.”

“Right? Carrying such a great holy relic and being so lucky, it makes sense he came back from Cromwell’s Forest alive.”

The soldiers finally seemed to understand, nodding and whispering in agreement.

Their swift change in attitude might seem surprising, but it was understandable. The knights and soldiers who returned from Cromwell’s Forest fifty years ago all bore crosses.

Once this miraculous fact was announced, many knights and mercenaries began to carry crosses blessed with holy water from the church.

Now, the soldiers, staring at Jiwoon with awe, also carried crosses or had them tattooed on their bodies. However, they harbored a deep, unspoken fear:

Will this cross really protect me in Cromwell’s Forest?

Despite the church’s reassurances, no one had the absolute faith to enter Cromwell’s Forest with just a cross. Thus, to these soldiers, Jiwoon, who bore a divine relic and was unbelievably lucky, became a nobleman beyond compare.

What are they talking about?

Under the shade of a tree, Jiwoon listened to Helford’s outburst, baffled about why he was saying such things.

“Rest is over! Assemble!”

At Helford’s call, the soldiers quickly stood up.

Sigh…

Jiwoon sighed deeply and walked towards the soldiers, who were already lined up in orderly ranks.

The spirited commands resumed, and the conversation that had momentarily disturbed the soldiers’ thoughts faded away, taking with it the shadow of truth that none could yet detect.

(To be continued)

“Phew… I guess there’s no helping it.”

Jiwoon let out a deep sigh as he collapsed onto the bed.

Training would begin tomorrow.

He didn’t know what kind of exercises awaited him, but he figured he should at least get a good night’s sleep.

“Well, somehow it’ll work out. Whatever, let’s just sleep!”

However, after that night, Jiwoon never again slept as peacefully as he did now.

---

Thud!

“What is this?”

“You can’t tell by looking? It’s a chainmail. Don’t the knights of your country wear armor?”

“Uh, well, that’s… Why are you giving this to me?”

“Huh? Don’t you need to train? And to train, you should wear chainmail. But wearing both the upper and lower pieces might be too heavy, so I decided to just have you wear the byrnie.”

“…”

Helford handed Jiwoon a byrnie, a type of chainmail shirt. In medieval times, such armor was typically worn by regular soldiers.

Equipping chainmail or plate mail to every soldier was a luxury only the wealthiest could afford, so most soldiers wore either a byrnie or a longer hauberk.

The problem was that while not as heavy as plate armor, a byrnie was still considerably heavy.

‘This is going to be rough.’

Jiwoon’s thoughts darkened. He had expected training to involve running laps around the training ground or using equipment to build strength, maybe even some intense exercises like the ones he had experienced during military training.

‘But a byrnie? Seriously?’

Jiwoon seriously contemplated whether he should wear it.

“Feeling like something’s missing? Want a headgear too?”

“No, no! Just the byrnie is fine! Haha!”

“Alright, let me know if you change your mind.”

Jiwoon, recalling an unpleasant experience with a headgear he once tried on in a Spanish museum, had no desire to wear one for training.

“Well then, shall we begin?”

Helford grinned, revealing his yellow teeth, and Jiwoon felt a sense of doom.

‘I’m doomed…’

He wouldn’t actually die—Helford was just the trainer, after all.

---

Jiwoon could walk and run well. He prided himself on his stamina, always excelling in long-distance running during his time in the military. He thought he could easily outlast the medieval soldiers.

But that confidence shattered within thirty minutes under the scorching June sun.

“Hah! Huff!”

With each step, the byrnie clinked constantly. It was heavy, poorly ventilated, and the hot metal chain rubbed against his exposed arms, causing pain.

It was hell.

“Move faster! The hourglass hasn’t run out yet!”

‘He’s a demon!’

Helford lounged under the shade of the castle wall, his feet propped on a table, fanning himself. To Jiwoon, who was running under the blazing sun, Helford looked every bit a demon.

His yawns were infuriating, making Jiwoon want to smack him.

But what could he do? Helford was the instructor, and Jiwoon was the trainee. Orders were orders.

“Hang in there, Jiwoon! Just a bit more!”

Though it wasn’t comforting, Jiwoon forced a smile. The voice belonged to one of the ten men running the training grounds with him. His name was… Ralph?

“Haah! Huff, you too, Ralph!”

Ralph nodded and moved ahead.

Medieval people were smaller and weaker than modern humans, with shorter lifespans. Yet, exceptions existed. The elite soldiers Helford had brought with him when he pledged loyalty to Baron Frederick were built differently. Muscular, with large frames, they kept pace even under the sun, fully armored.

Unlike Jiwoon, who only wore a byrnie, they wore hauberks and steel gauntlets, likely carrying over 20 kilograms of gear for thirty minutes straight.

Jiwoon, initially underestimating them due to their shorter stature, felt deeply embarrassed.

While these soldiers were the elite assault unit, not just regular guards, the pride Jiwoon held as the most enduring in his reconnaissance company was shattered.

‘Help me!’

Jiwoon screamed internally as he kept running.

“Rest time!”

Thud!

“Haah! Haah!”

At the word “rest,” Jiwoon collapsed to the ground.

Sweat poured down like rain, but he had no strength to lift his arm to wipe it away.

“Assault squad, assemble!”

As a command rang out, the remaining soldiers rushed to one side.

They gathered in front of Helford, who had gotten up from his chair.

“Assault squad, rest preparation complete!”

“Alright, rest up!”

“Assault squad, commence rest!”

With a plop, the soldiers sat down on the ground. Until the command was given, they moved with precision, but once rest time began, they lounged around like seasoned veterans, chatting casually and relaxing.

“Man, it’s quite hot today.”

“Yeah, this summer is no joke.”

“Haha! If it’s this hot, maybe the women in the village below will start shedding their clothes. Just thinking about it gets me excited!”

“Passton, aren’t you satisfied with your wife’s bottom? How about mine?”

“I’ll pass, Pire. I have no interest in a bottom covered in ringworm!”

Laughter erupted.

Watching the soldiers laugh and chatter, Jiwoon wondered if they were the same men who had been running laps in full armor just moments ago.

Despite their elite status, Jiwoon wondered at how they could laugh and chat so lively after such strenuous training.

Dragging his weary body to a nearby tree’s shade, Jiwoon lay down, exhausted, while the soldiers’ cheerful rest continued.

At that moment, Pire, who had been teased about his bottom, glanced towards Jiwoon.

“By the way, that noble Jiwoon… I thought he was weak, but he’s holding up well.”

“Yeah, he’s tall and pale. I didn’t think he’d know how to wear armor properly. He’s struggling, but he runs well. Is he really a noble?”

The soldiers glanced at Jiwoon, murmuring.

Despite only wearing a byrnie, they found it impressive that a noble, presumably raised in luxury, was enduring the same training as them.

The nobles they knew were usually pretentious and frail, unlike their own baron Fredrick and the knights of the territory.

“Don’t say that. He’s the heir of a count’s family from a faraway land, isn’t he? What was it called? Korea?”

Ralph, the young soldier who had earlier encouraged Jiwoon, spoke up.

The soldiers’ attention turned to Ralph.

As a muscular, handsome soldier, Ralph was popular among the castle maids and often heard various rumors through them.

“A count’s family? Wow, that’s impressive. So, he’s the future count?”

“Future count, my foot. He’s stuck here for good since his homeland is too far away. He can’t return and will have to live here for the rest of his life.”

“Really? That’s bad luck. He could’ve lived well over there. What brought him here?”

Ralph’s cautious gaze shifted.

“Well, from what I’ve heard, he’s from a country that serves the one above the skies. He came here to spread the word from his homeland. But…”

“But?”

With the soldiers’ eyes fixed on him, Ralph’s tone grew more careful.

“He came across the Dragon Mountain Range.”

“What?”

The soldiers’ eyes widened, then quickly furrowed in disbelief.

“You’re kidding. That’s nonsense.”

“Haha! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Crossed the Dragon Mountain Range? Yeah, right. Did he pass through Cromwell’s Forest too?”

Laughter erupted again.

Pointing fingers, the soldiers laughed at Ralph’s claim. Some even playfully tapped his head. Pire, the cheerful soldier, was among them.

“…Really.”

“Haha! What?”

“I’m serious.”

Pire’s hand paused mid-tap, and the laughter subsided.

“What did you say?”

Ralph, near tears, repeated himself.

“I’m serious! Robson from the village watch said so. He found the noble at the entrance to Cromwell’s Forest. He came out of Cromwell’s Forest. Robson saw it right behind Sir Einse.”

Silence fell over the soldiers.

Especially the older ones familiar with the dangers of Cromwell’s Forest, stared in disbelief at Ralph and Jiwoon.

(To be continued in the next part)

Two months later, Jiwoon was set to meet the Marquess of Wakefield, the ruler of a vast region encompassing the Frederick Barony and three other vassal families, under the guise of a high-ranking noble from the distant foreign land of Korea.

Naturally, the Marquess hadn’t summoned Jiwoon directly.

Instead, Jiwoon would accompany Frederick Barony’s delegation as an honored guest during the “Derrickfon Festival,” a semi-annual review where nobles and key figures from the Marquess’s domain paid their respects.

When Jiwoon first heard about this, he was stunned.

He had introduced himself as the heir of a prestigious foreign count family, but to be formally recognized with a title in the Marquess’s domain?

The process wasn’t as difficult as it seemed.

Jiwoon already met the two crucial conditions for a foreigner to be acknowledged with a title: a testimony from a noble of baron rank or higher to the king or feudal lord, and an oath from a bishop-level priest affirming the same to Reyes.

In Jiwoon’s case, both Baron Frederick and Bishop Swendik, prominent local figures, favoured him greatly.

Since learning about Jiwoon from Roselia and Einse, Baron Frederick was eager to attract a seemingly learned and capable foreign politician to his domain.

Meanwhile, Bishop Swendik admired Jiwoon for his devoutness and humility.

For these reasons, both were keen to secure Jiwoon’s recognition before any complications arose, especially given the rigid hierarchy and suspicions about foreigners.

Without clear identification, any misstep could lead to severe consequences, including execution under fabricated charges.

Thus, the two men planned to have Jiwoon’s title recognized during the upcoming “Derrickfon Festival.”

For Jiwoon, the most attainable title was that of a baron, the lowest of the hereditary nobility but one with significant privileges, including immunity from certain punishments and the ability to purchase land to establish a domain, though the latter was not an option for a foreigner like Jiwoon.

Being recognized as a baron would allow Jiwoon to reside in the Frederick Barony without fear of retaliation, offering counsel and support without issue.

While he would remain slightly inferior in status to Baron Frederick, his noble title would afford him protection and respect from the local knights and retainers, solidifying his position in this new world and securing his survival—a dream come true for a reclusive writer from Korea.

However, Jiwoon’s elation quickly soured.

“Damn it! Why does the verification process have to be so tough?”

Recognition required more than testimonies; Jiwoon needed to learn proper noble etiquette and even dance to earn points.

Most daunting was mastering the language and performing a swordsmanship demonstration, a mandatory tradition for receiving a title in the Kingdom of Prim.

Despite being academically underdeveloped compared to its neighbors, Prim was renowned as a “nation of knights” that valued martial prowess highly.

Even hereditary nobles had to showcase their swordsmanship to be recognized.

This tradition traced back to the founding king, Henry Fairland de Prim, a legendary knight whose vassals were mostly fellow knights, embedding martial arts deeply into the kingdom’s culture.

Jiwoon’s lack of swordsmanship experience was now a significant hurdle.

His prior attempts to evade this by explaining the lack of such customs in his homeland fell on deaf ears with Baron Frederick.

The local customs were non-negotiable; Jiwoon had to comply.

“Ugh…” Jiwoon sighed, dreading the challenge ahead.

Jiwoon lowered his head in dismay as he recalled the events of the previous day when he heard about the swordsmanship demonstration.

“Let’s begin training immediately. We don’t have much time, but two months should be sufficient,” said Lawrence.

“Oh, that sounds great. What do you think, Sir Jiwoon?” the Baron asked, not as a question of whether he wanted to learn but as a directive that he should.

Jiwoon knew he had no choice. Without a demonstration, his title and everything else would vanish like smoke.

“I’ll learn,” Jiwoon replied, forcing a smile.

Baron Frederick smiled contentedly. “Good. But who will teach him? Will you do it yourself, Sir Lawrence?”

Both Jiwoon and the Baron turned their gazes to Lawrence. After a moment of contemplation, Lawrence shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t. Although two months seem like a lot, to prepare Jiwoon for a demonstration, we’d need to train him for at least half a day daily, and as you know, I have many duties.”

The Baron nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Then, who?”

The Baron’s gaze shifted to the opposite side, where Sir Halford, the strongest and most boisterous knight in the domain, stood grinning broadly.

“Perhaps Sir Halford would be the best choice, given his strength.”

Halford’s grin widened with the Baron’s praise. “Hahaha! Indeed! Though it’s not modest to say, I am the knight among knights, the strongest warrior on land! Hahaha! Entrust Sir Jiwoon to me, and I’ll make him the finest knight within two months!”

Watching Halford pound his chest, Jiwoon’s face turned pale. He looked at Lawrence with pleading eyes, silently begging, ‘Are you trying to kill me, Sir Lawrence?’

Lawrence, understanding Jiwoon’s silent plea, nodded slightly and addressed the Baron. “While Sir Halford is an excellent knight, I fear that Jiwoon’s tall and slender frame might not suit the heavy weapons Sir Halford uses, like broadswords and morning stars. Furthermore, Sir Halford excels more in direct combat than in teaching.”

“Nonsense! I, the knight among knights, Halford, can turn even the weakest into a strong and splendid knight!” Halford protested loudly.

“Enough! That’s a fair point,” the Baron interjected, silencing Halford. “Then, what would be best? What about Sir Einse? Although he might be busy as the captain of the guard.”

The Baron’s interruption was enough to calm Halford, who, despite his loudly nature, wouldn’t openly defy his lord.

“Other than Sir Einse, only Sir Roddick remains in the castle. But like Sir Einse, Sir Rodrick is heavily occupied with his duties. So, I have an idea…”

Jiwoon focused on Lawrence’s words, his mind racing with thoughts of harsh training, akin to the grueling military drills he had once experienced. He swallowed nervously.

“Jiwoon may be in good shape, but foundational strength is essential for learning swordsmanship. I suggest starting with basic strength training under Sir Halford, alongside the morning exercises of the shock troops.”

“An excellent idea,” the Baron agreed.

“Hahaha! Wonderful! With our shock troop training, Sir Jiwoon will soon gain muscle. Just like this!” Halford exclaimed, flexing his brawny arm.

Staring at Halford’s bulging muscles, Jiwoon’s jaw dropped. Strength training…? His mind flashed back to the hellish endurance exercises from his military days.

Oblivious to Jiwoon’s inner turmoil, Lawrence continued, “Sir Rodrick is expected to return soon. And Sir Alfonso, who left three months ago upon hearing of Viscount Triche Raul de Alfonso’s passing, should also be back shortly, barring any complications.”

“Hmm… Sir Rodrick…” The Baron’s expression darkened slightly at the mention of Roddick, who had left for an honor duel on behalf of his family.

“He will return. Few can match Sir Roddick’s sword,” Lawrence assured him.

“My apologies. I meant no disrespect to our loyal and brave knight,” the Baron said regretfully.

“No offense taken, my lord. Sir Rodrick will be pleased by your concern,” Lawrence replied, softening his stern demeanor with a smile.

“That settles it then,” the Baron said. “Sir Jiwoon will begin strength training with the shock troops, and once Sir Rodrick returns, he will continue his swordsmanship training under him.

Sir Jiwoon, is something wrong?”

Caught off guard, Jiwoon quickly adjusted his expression. “No, nothing at all. I’m just grateful for your consideration.”

“Haha! Think nothing of it. It’s your fortune. We’ll start the training the day after tomorrow, then.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the others responded, bowing slightly, except Jiun, who remained silent, dreading the days ahead.

(To be continued)

“Are you saying that one must study at a theological college to become a priest?” “Yes. You must graduate from the college to obtain the qualification to spread the word. It is mandated by royal law, and there are no exceptions.” “Oh… That’s quite something.”

For two months, Jiwoon studied English as if possessed.

He had an interest in languages and had previously studied English and Japanese, showing some aptitude. However, this was the first time he had worked so relentlessly to learn a language.

When Bishop Swendck wasn’t around, he would write, memorize, and mutter endlessly. In the bishop’s presence, like now, he would continually speak and listen, receiving corrections on his pronunciation and expressions.

Swearing by it, he had never been so immersed in anything since he could remember.

He was so focused that he discovered, through the whispering servants, that his sleep-talking had shifted from the incomprehensible language he used when he first arrived—likely Korean—to their language.

Hearing this, Jiwoon chuckled to himself.

Effort never betrays. Especially when it’s a desperate effort born from a situation that leaves no room for complacency.

Having studied as if his life depended on it for two months, Jiwoon was now reaping the rewards.

He wasn’t yet capable of holding conversations at an expert level in any field, but he could understand and speak well enough.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect. His pronunciation was awkward, and there were many words he didn’t know.

Jiwoon pondered over when he would be able to speak flawlessly and worked tirelessly to achieve that.

Bishop Swendik’s casual remark brought him immense confidence and relief.

• Those subtle mispronunciations and awkward expressions give you an exotic charm. The nobles will love it.

It made sense when he thought about it.

While a foreigner speaking their language flawlessly was impressive, showing slight imperfections had its unique appeal.

People are naturally drawn to someone who is slightly flawed rather than someone who is perfect.

A completely filled person might exude charisma, but it’s hard to feel a loving desire to fill the gaps for them.

In other words, a foreigner who speaks their language with slight imperfections could appeal far more to the nobles here than one who speaks it perfectly.

However, too many imperfections could easily lead to ridicule.

Jiwoon decided to proceed with confidence, slowly improving over time.

After all, communication was no longer a major issue.

“So, no matter how devout one is, without graduating from college, they cannot become a priest? Even if they are recognized by the Archbishop?” “That’s not the case. While graduating from a theological college is the primary requirement for a priest, if a saint, who embodies His miracles, emerges, they can be recognized regardless of their educational background.” “Oh! Do saints who perform miracles appear in Korea as well? Alle! Alle, Holy Reyes!” “Alle, Reyes.”

At Bishop Swendik’s exclamation, Jiwoon hastily crossed himself and prayed.

Though it was slightly different from Earth, the method of crossing oneself existed here too. Bringing the index and middle fingers of the right hand together, one would touch the forehead, then the left shoulder, followed by the right shoulder, and finally clasp both hands in prayer.

The head represented their god, Reyes, and the shoulders honored the two archangels, Feriam and Atram, who were sent to humans by Reyes.

Feriam, the first archangel to descend in human form, preached God’s word and commanded the construction of a grand cathedral atop Mount Pracserius.

However, the three most powerful monarchs of the continent at that time, who did not recognize him as God’s messenger, defied the command, scoffing in disdain.

A month later, Feriam, carrying a massive golden cross, led thousands of people to the mountain’s summit and planted the cross there, declaring:

“My words are His words, and my power is His grace! Let all beings witness His grace with their eyes and hear His words with their ears!”

Then, a radiant light burst from the cross, shooting in three directions, and the proclamation, carried by the wind encircling Mount Pracserius, reached the castles of the three monarchs along with the light.

Shocked, the monarchs finally bowed their heads in prayer toward the heavens.

The following fifty years saw a grand construction project, and during this period, Feriam’s “Word” spread throughout the continent.

On the day the cathedral was completed, Feriam blessed the kneeling monarchs seeking forgiveness at his feet and ascended to the heavens.

Five hundred years after Feriam returned to God’s embrace, the Archbishop of Pracserius Cathedral saw a man sleeping on the massive golden cross Feriam had planted atop the mountain.

“Who are you? How dare you sleep on the holy cross bestowed by our God?”

Upon being questioned, the man on the cross awoke and, laughing toward the sky, replied:

“I am Atram. My rest is His rest, so why do you disturb His peace?”

Stunned by his words, Rodion, who became the first Pope, knelt and sought forgiveness. Atram, the second archangel, blessed him and offered a prayer of thanks to God in a previously unseen manner.

This was the origin of the cross Jiwoon had made.

“That theological college sounds like a great blessing. Learning and meditating on God’s words and helping many people… It’s also an excellent way to distinguish between genuine believers and those heretical mendicant monks who blasphemously use His name to deceive the populace. If given the chance, I’d love to visit.”

Jiwoon’s heart sank at Bishop Swendik’s mention of wanting to visit, but he responded with a feigned sorrowful expression.

“I would love to have someone as distinguished as you teach at our theological college. However, one must cross the Dragon’s Mountain Range and sail for months to reach our country… Moreover, no one knows the route there… Sigh!”

Hearing Jiwoon’s dejected reply, Bishop Swendik’s face filled with regret.

“Oh dear! I’m sorry. My excessive desire has caused you sadness, Sir Jiwoon. I’m truly sorry.”

Jiwoon, still wearing a sorrowful expression, replied, “It’s not your fault, Bishop. I see it as a trial given by the Lord, who looks upon me with favor.”

“Oh! With such deep faith, He will surely answer you. You will certainly return to your homeland. Alle, Reyes.” “Alle, Reyes.”

Bishop Swendik and Jiwoon crossed themselves again and offered a prayer. After a moment of silent prayer, Bishop Swendik raised his head, smiling gently.

“Well, let’s wrap up here for today. Talking with you, Sir Jiwoon, makes the time fly by. And now that we can communicate so well, I find myself wanting to share even more.”

“Haha! I feel the same. Thank you again for today, Bishop.”

“Not at all. Teaching someone as devout as you, who embraces the Lord’s will, is naturally my duty as the bishop here. I shall take my leave now.”

“Yes, Bishop. Safe travels.”

---

As soon as Bishop Swendik left the room, Jiwoon let out a long sigh, sticking out his tongue. “Whew! That was exhausting. I can’t keep doing this forever.”

The bishop’s questions, posed with bright, eager eyes, were a tremendous challenge, even for Jiwoon, a novelist who made a living through words. Answering these questions with a religious slant, while trying to maintain the bishop’s favor, was far from easy.

He couldn’t afford any mistakes that might label him a heretic. For instance, when he mentioned a saint named Jesus Christ appearing in his homeland, the bishop had grilled him about whether this man was a charlatan leading people astray. Convincing the bishop otherwise left Jiwoon drenched in sweat after just thirty minutes.

During this ordeal, Jiwoon greatly downplayed Jesus Christ’s identity and miracles. Consequently, Jesus, revered as the son of the God, Yahweh, and one of the three great sages alongside Buddha and Confucius, was reduced to a notable “saint” from Jiwoon’s land. The division of time into Old and New Testaments also “never happened.”

Jiwoon was cautious, avoiding any mention of the Bible, as it would inevitably lead to discussions of the Holy Scripture attributed to the archangel Atram. Given the obvious differences between this world’s scripture and Earth’s Bible, any inconsistency would expose Jiwoon’s lies.

Afterward, Jiwoon was extremely careful.

Click.

“Ahh…” Jiwoon exhaled deeply, finally relaxing as he lit a cigarette. Despite trying to ration them, he’d already gone through a pack. But for someone who used to smoke two packs a day while writing, stretching one pack over two months was commendable.

He only had seven packs left after gifting three to a baron, an avid smoker. “Just one cigarette a day. No more than that,” he muttered, extinguishing the cigarette after smoking it down to the filter.

Cigarettes did exist in this world. Surprisingly, despite being in a medieval setting, rolled cigarettes were already available. They were a product of the few remaining dwarves’ craftsmanship, making them extremely expensive. Only high-ranking nobles could afford them.

Though Baron Frederick held a hereditary title, his impoverished estate meant he could not afford to smoke freely. Jiwoon had seized the chance to gift him a pack of military-issue cigarettes, known as “Dis” in the 21st century, favored by cash-strapped smokers for their mild and smooth flavor, unmatched by the dwarves’ craftsmanship.

Baron Frederick, enchanted by the taste, finished the pack within a week and sheepishly asked Jiwoon for more. Jiwoon generously gave him three more packs. Despite the baron’s attempts to stretch each pack longer, Jiwoon estimated that he would still go through two cartons within a year.

“I’ll have to offer a few packs to the marquis when I formally receive my title… I must ration these carefully.” For a chain smoker like Jiwoon, these cigarettes were vital. But if a few packs could curry favor with high-ranking nobles, he’d sacrifice a whole carton.

“Two months from now, isn’t it?”

Thinking about the “high-ranking nobles” reminded Jiwoon of the most crucial event that would determine his status.

(Continued in the next chapter)

“Let’s do that. What is your question?”

At Jiwoon’s words, Lawrence did not immediately ask. Instead, he stared at Jiwoon for a while. His gaze, fixed on Jiwoon, resembled that of a hunter watching its prey or a scholar skimming through the table of contents of a new book. Jiwoon could tell that Lawrence’s eyes reflected the gaze of one who “constantly doubts and observes.”

Finally, after observing Jiwoon for some time, Lawrence spoke.

“What is politics, and what is war? And what is divine power?”

A brief silence followed.

However, the silence did not last long.

“Politics is the path that serves both the king and the people. War, on the other hand, is an essential element in maintaining politics.”

“…!”

A subtle twitch appeared in Lawrence’s eyes.

Jiwoon, now more resolute, continued.

“And divine power is… one of the most important keys that creates all justifications.”

Lawrence’s eyes twitched again, several times, giving him the appearance of someone who was angry.

Jiwoon was uncertain whether his answer was right or wrong. However, the concepts he had spoken about were fundamental truths about medieval kingship and the political power of the Church.

Before the rise of political realism, no scholar had academically defined these truths. Only a few clever rulers, guided by instinct and experience, understood these facts and skillfully used divine power and war to maintain their rule.

Even in the 21st century on Earth, religion wields significant influence. Just observing even the most obscure cults reveals how vulnerable humans are to religious influence.

If people in the highly educated 21st century are like this, how much more would the medieval masses, who were largely illiterate and uneducated, have been swayed by the authority of religion over kingship?

In the Middle Ages, the power of priests, particularly the pope, was far more enormous than modern people could imagine. Of course, the pope’s power varied over time, and it may not have been influential for every individual. But no one could deny the title “The Pope.”

Even kings were required to kneel before him and kiss his hand.

Divine power was that immense.

“Thank you for your insightful words, Sir Jiwoon.”

“No, I’m not wise. What I just said is cheap,” Jiwoon responded awkwardly, still using an unrefined expression.

However, Lawrence did not smile anymore.

“Then, I apologize for disturbing you so late.”

As Lawrence bid his farewell, the twitching in his eyes had not ceased.

‘This is bad! Could it be that here, the power of kingship is far superior to that of divine power? From what happened a few days ago, I didn’t think so… damn it!’

After Lawrence left, Jiwoon bit his nails and walked nervously around the room. His anxiety was consuming him.

It had been fine up until now—he had intentionally dropped the book to divert Lawrence’s attention toward it and subtly shifted the conversation to books before Lawrence could bring up any serious matters.

He had even managed to guide the discussion toward the political concepts he intended to discuss, using his supposed inability to speak well as a reason to keep the questions on track.

However, it seemed like something crucial had gone wrong, and Jiwoon was now uncertain whether his approach had been successful.

Lawrence, who had the reputation of being the most educated and cultured among Lord Frederick’s knights, had seemed furious as he left, his eyes twitching. Jiwoon couldn’t shake the feeling that his plan had failed, and he grew increasingly anxious.

‘Shit! Maybe I should have been more certain before starting this? His glare was terrifying…’

Jiwoon’s worries kept him on edge.

But later, he would learn that the twitching in Lawrence’s eyes was a habitual response when he was surprised or excited. However, Jiwoon, unaware of this, misinterpreted it as Lawrence being furious or holding back laughter, only increasing his anxiety.

---

The Perspective of Christian Lawrence

“Unbelievable… truly an amazing insight.”

Christian Lawrence, the knight, rubbed his twitching eye, but the spasms did not stop easily.

The reason he had sought out Jiwoon was to find some incriminating evidence to send Engelman, the author, to prison, by whatever means necessary. He had thought that by subtly playing on the pride of a foreign count’s eldest son, he would easily achieve his goal.

From the beginning, Lawrence had never believed that Jiwoon was a true politician. But… this was an unimaginable turn of events.

On his way to Jiwoon’s residence, Lawrence had met with Roselia, who seemed exceptionally excited, and had been astonished by what she said. This foreigner had written books—two of them—and one of those books was about politics. The count’s eldest son, who had likely lived a life of luxury, wrote a book on politics?

At first, Lawrence didn’t believe it. But the flushed face of Roselia was not something he saw often, so he decided to investigate for himself.

When he spoke with Jiwoon, he carefully asked just three questions, the answers to which could not easily be deduced from mere quick thinking. If someone were uneducated or lacked deep insight, they would not even understand the true meaning behind the questions.

But Jiwoon, the foreign noble, answered without hesitation.

And his answers were remarkable.

To Lawrence, the fact that someone, let alone a noble, could think this way was an enormous shock.

The concept that divine power holds all justifications—and that one should utilize divine power—was simply shocking. A deeply religious man like him, of all people, was advocating these views?

Is God God and the people the people? Or is it that without the people, neither the king nor God exists?

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

It will be difficult to find someone with such insight again. I can confidently say that such a noble will never be found in this country.

At least, that has been my experience.

During his days as a wandering knight without a lord, Lawrence had met many knights and nobles.

Most were corrupt hereditary aristocrats, content with their reality, and some were ambitious individuals in the service of bought titles, scheming only for their personal gain.

He had even met con artists who looked the part of nobles.

Occasionally, there were nobles completely different from such people.

Lawrence had once served under the Duke Francesco Alexandre Malévan Lottandria, who ruled Rossy, a man whom everyone praised as the “Great Duke” and who was considered highly wise. Lawrence had also participated in battles alongside King Schwinslanger of the Quern Kingdom Alliance.

They were individuals who rose to positions of power by skillfully utilizing their noble bloodlines, strength, and abilities. Lawrence had once thought they were remarkable rulers.

At one time, he had even considered placing his trust in them.

But these men had already formed powerful blood pacts based on their lineage.

As a humble country squire who had just earned the title of Esquire, Lawrence found it far more difficult to break through such solid pacts than to take scales from a dragon.

Furthermore, they were “noble aristocrats.”

Their view of politics and idealism was confined to the paths their noble bloodlines guided them on.

For noble bloodlines, the most important things were great causes, honor, and justification.

Under these great and pure rulers, Lawrence couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing in himself, something hard to explain.

So, he became a free knight again.

Sometimes he would participate in local lords’ disputes, or join a mercenary group, staining his sword with blood.

However, Lawrence never forgot the mysterious heat stirring in his chest.

After living in such a manner, Lawrence temporarily joined as a guest knight at the estate of Marquis Wakefield three years ago.

A year later… he met Baron Wayne Frederick, who had come to visit the Marquis’s family to inherit the title.

He was the lord of a small and poor estate.

But Baron Wayne Frederick was different from other nobles Lawrence had met.

Although he was looked down upon by other nearby nobles due to his impoverished estate, he wasn’t ashamed of it.

What Frederick was ashamed of was not his barren and poor estate, but his own powerlessness, not knowing how to find a way to improve his situation despite knowing the truth.

Lawrence had never met a noble who was ashamed of himself.

To be ashamed was to reflect, and reflection leads to growth.

Lawrence knew well how nobles without shame and self-reflection would fall.

He spent the night drinking wine and talking with Wayne Frederick.

The next morning, Lawrence made a decision.

He would follow this noble.

Although he had no power at that moment, he would entrust his loyalty to this young lord who could feel shame.

The Marquis of Wakefield, who still remembered the loyalty of Baron Wayne Frederick’s father, Roman Frederick, immediately accepted Lawrence’s request.

He sent Lawrence with some money and attendants to serve under Baron Wayne Frederick.

Thus, Christian Lawrence followed Frederick and officially became a knight.

And today, he met another person who could help him fulfill his dreams.

I must hold onto him. For the development of our estate and the Frederick family…
And to prove to the rotten central nobility what true politics is, I must hold onto that foreigner.

With deep resolve, Lawrence made his decision.

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“If Jiwoon masters both speech and writing perfectly, we must make sure he stays in our estate.

He is an excellent poet and sage, a true scholar unlike the pompous professors at the Royal Academy.”

“He is an outstanding politician with a unique sense of practicality and a brilliant thinker. Though further verification is needed, even with just the knowledge and insights he possesses, he is clearly a man of great talent.

Since he can’t return to his homeland, we must convince him—or rather, force him—to stay in our estate.”

“Heh…”

Baron Frederick was stunned by the strong request from Roselia, the only daughter of a noble family, and Lawrence, the most knowledgeable and level-headed knight in the estate.

Their attitude was completely different from the one they showed yesterday.

“It would be best to let him go once he can speak properly. Bishop Swendick seems to be interested in him, so it might be best to send him to the central church.

A devout foreign believer would definitely attract the attention of the Cardinals, and the fact that God’s grace has reached across the sea will make for excellent propaganda for the central church.

Besides, he has rare sacred texts, which is a bonus. It might be best to consult with the bishop next Sunday.

If my father permits, I’ll speak to the bishop myself.”

This was the advice Roselia had given to her father the night before, after studying religion, history, and literature for six years at the Royal Academy.

“He wouldn’t be of much help staying in our estate. After all, he’s a noble, and once he adjusts, he may start demanding the same treatment he received in his homeland.

Besides, being the eldest son of a count, he’s probably proud and indulgent. He might even demand money or, possibly, Roselia.

It might be better to dress him up as a foreign noble and send him to a wealthy noble house nearby.

Perhaps Engelmann, the baron who loves bards and foreign curiosities. It would be a perfect fit for showing off.”

This was Lawrence’s advice, made in reference to the estate’s economic situation and improving relations with surrounding lords.

Now, just a day later, both of them had come to him, asking to take the foreign noble from the castle into their fold.

He could guess what had happened.

And given the way his daughter and loyal knight spoke, there must have been a good reason.

With his mind made up, Baron Frederick agreed with a pleasant smile.

“Since Roselia and Sir Lawrence say so, I will consider it.

But I decided to leave him be until he masters speech, so we’ll have to wait until then.

After that, I’ll personally ask him what he wants.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The knight and the girl answered simultaneously and withdrew.

Roselia and Lawrence had become the first powerful allies Jiwoon had made in this world.

However, Jiwoon had no idea they would hold him in such high regard. He was gleefully celebrating the points he’d scored with Roselia, but still fretting over Lawrence’s furrowed brow.

(Continued in the next episode)