There’s a saying: “Amateurs watch the show, while experts see the deeper meaning.”

  Although Fergus was merely a trainee knight, a trainee knight was still a knight, and his insight naturally surpassed that of the mere militiamen.

  Thus, while Fergus could discern the subtleties hidden within Rein's opening stance, it didn’t mean that Ernst, the militiaman standing opposite Rein, could do the same.

  In fact, Ernst didn’t find Rein’s stance threatening in the slightest. To him, it appeared as nothing more than posturing—purely for show and devoid of substance.

  After all, in Ernst’s simple understanding as a militiaman, knights were nothing more than a group of men on horseback, equipped better than them, and slightly stronger.

  If only he had Fergus’s warhorse and equipment, combined with sufficient training, Ernst firmly believed he wouldn’t fall short of this trainee knight in any way.

  And Rein?

  Rein was weak, short, and had to grip a single-handed wooden sword with both hands just to lift it properly.

  How could such a frail slave possibly compare to him, a baron’s militiaman who was far more noble than any lowly slave?

  Lose?

  From the moment Fergus selected him, the word “lose” never even crossed Ernst’s mind.

  But Fergus’s decision had left Ernst baffled.

  Why would the esteemed Fergus have him compete against this little slave?

  Could it be that, in Fergus’s eyes, Ernst was the weakest among the militiamen?

  As this thought crossed his mind, Ernst’s focus wavered, and his gaze instinctively shifted toward Fergus, who stood in the distance.

  But it was this brief moment of distraction that Rein immediately seized upon.

  Thud!

  Accompanied by the sharp sound of air being sliced, Rein's wooden sword, like an arrow loosed from a bowstring, struck Ernst's hand with lightning speed.

  “What—what?!”

  Ernst looked at Rein, who had suddenly appeared in front of him, utterly stunned. A moment later, he belatedly lowered his gaze to his right hand.

  There, on the back of his hand, was a conspicuous red welt. The wooden sword he had been holding had somehow slipped from his grasp and fallen to the stone courtyard of the castle grounds.

  Seeing all this, a terrifying thought suddenly flashed through Ernst’s mind.

  If the weapon in Rein’s hand hadn’t been a wooden sword, but a real one...

  Then his right hand might already have been...

  Clap! Clap! Clap!

  Fergus began applauding, his face filled with admiration as he looked at Rein, who had already withdrawn his sword. He didn’t hold back his praise in the slightest.

  “Marvelous, absolutely marvelous! Little slave, your proficiency with the Dove Sword Technique is no less than that of knights who’ve practiced it for years.”

  “Moreover, it seems you’ve even made some modifications to it. After all, the Dove Sword Technique is famously a one-handed sword style within the duchy, yet you were clearly executing it in a two-handed fashion just now. Can you tell me how you managed that?”

  In response to Fergus's inquiry, Rein answered honestly:

  "Respected Sir Fergus, I honestly didn’t think much about it. I just instinctively felt that doing it this way suited me better, so I did. That’s all."

  "Instinct alone, is it…"

  Fergus was somewhat surprised by this answer but quickly grasped the reasoning behind it.

  "Indeed. If you hadn’t previously been exposed to or studied the Dove Sword Technique, your only opportunity to learn it would’ve been the single demonstration I gave in front of everyone three days ago."

  "And to learn a sword technique in such a short period and even refine it—there aren’t many people in this world capable of that."

  "Perhaps it’s only instinct that can explain the surprise you just delivered to me."

  "Very well, very well, little slave. I hereby declare—"

  "Wait, wait! Hold on a moment!"

  Before Fergus could finish speaking, the now-recovered militiaman Ernst shouted in a flustered tone.

  Fergus, clearly displeased at being interrupted, frowned as he turned his gaze to Ernst. His expression darkened.

  "What is it you want me to wait for, Ernst? What exactly are you asking me to wait for?"

  "Do you expect me to wait for a repeat of what just happened, before you can come to terms with your disgraceful defeat?"

  "Ernst, I shouldn’t even need to say it—but surely you can imagine what your fate would’ve been if what just happened occurred on an actual battlefield, can’t you? You would’ve been a dead man."

  "You should be grateful this is merely a sparring match and not a real battle to the death."

  "Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing here shouting like a clown in a circus. Instead, you’d be lying in some desolate wilderness, your corpse rotting and stinking for the scavengers to pick apart."

  "Get out of my sight. I won’t repeat myself."

  Fergus's words were merciless, like rubbing salt directly into Ernst's wounds.

  The other militiamen, far from stepping in to defend Ernst, wore expressions of amusement, watching the scene unfold with mocking gazes. To them, Ernst wasn’t an ally but a rival.

  The fewer Ernsts among them, the greater their chances of becoming knights. In such a situation, none of them would offer help; on the contrary, they might take the opportunity to throw dirt on Ernst and crush a competitor’s spirit.

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  For this very reason, Ernst absolutely could not afford to admit defeat. To do so would mean the complete collapse of his future.

  No one would consider a man who couldn’t even defeat a lowly slave worthy of becoming a knight.

  No baron would ever confer a knighthood on someone who had been bested by a mere servant.

  Ernst clenched his teeth. He couldn’t admit it. He would not admit it.

  "Sir Fergus, this doesn’t count! It’s different! It was a sneak attack—yes, that’s it! That wretched little slave caught me off guard! Sneak attacks don’t count as sparring! This wasn’t a real match! I haven’t lost, I haven’t lost!"

  Watching Ernst’s pathetic display, Fergus’s patience had finally reached its limit.

  But just as Fergus was about to order Ernst, the pathetic clown, to be thrown out of the castle, an unexpected voice interrupted him.

  "Honorable Sir Fergus, I am willing to spar with Mr. Ernst again."

  "Hm?"

  Fergus turned toward the voice, surprised, and asked, "Why?"

  He wasn’t the only one puzzled. The other militiamen also stared at Rhine, the lowly slave, with expressions of confusion.

  He had already secured a clear victory. Why would he take the risk of giving his defeated opponent another chance to turn the tables? Was he out of his mind?

  Facing their bewildered looks, Rhine didn’t respond directly. Instead, he posed a question of his own:

  "If it were you, Sir Fergus, sparring against Mr. Ernst, would you grant him this chance?"

  Rhine’s question made Fergus freeze for a moment.

  But soon, as if something clicked in his mind, Fergus burst into hearty laughter.

  "Ha! Haha! Well said, boy! Well said indeed."

  "You’re absolutely right. A knight should strive for victory, but not for victory alone. A true knight should face any challenge with courage and respond to every doubt with honor and fairness!"

  "For only victories achieved in such a manner are worthy of flowers and praise!"

  "Pick up your weapon, Ernst. Your opponent, a boy who is not yet a knight but already possesses the spirit of one, has shown you mercy and magnanimity."

  "And what you need to do is simple: give it your all and show everything you’ve got. Only then can you truly repay this rare kindness. Do you understand?"

  "Y-Yes, I understand."

  Ernst, who had received little education, didn’t fully grasp the meaning behind Fergus’s words, nor could he comprehend why Rhine would agree to a rematch.

  The only thing he understood was this: this was his one and only chance to turn his humiliating defeat around.

  He couldn’t afford to lose—he mustn’t lose.

  With this thought, Ernst found himself overwhelmed with tension. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his body trembled uncontrollably.

  It didn’t make sense. His opponent was just a twelve-year-old boy—a frail child who needed both hands to wield a single-handed wooden sword.

  And yet, this seemingly fragile child exerted an unprecedented pressure upon him.

  "Relax, Mr. Ernst. You’re... far too tense."

  Rhine’s voice was like a clear spring, pouring into Ernst’s ears and soothing the turmoil in his heart.

  Ernst couldn’t deny it.

  Rhine was his opponent, his adversary. But after hearing Rhine’s words and looking into those clear, pure eyes, Ernst felt his nervousness fade.

  In that fleeting moment, Ernst seemed to understand something profound.

  Perhaps, just as Sir Fergus had said, this little slave, though not a knight, already possessed the spirit befitting one.

  Thus, Ernst realized that he shouldn’t view Rhine as a lowly slave but as a noble and virtuous kingdom knight.

  With this new perspective, Ernst no longer dwelled on the consequences of his defeat, nor did he concern himself with the judgmental stares of his comrades.

  His breathing steadied, his gaze grew resolute, and even the hand gripping his sword became firm and steady.

  Moments later, Ernst turned his eyes back to Rhine and raised his wooden sword.

  In the next instant, he charged forward with courage.

  Though Ernst was the taller and physically advantaged combatant, no one found his aggressive advance unreasonable.

  After all, a weaker combatant launching an attack on a stronger one wasn’t considered an act of desperation or recklessness—it was an act of courage.

  There was no doubt now. Among the two, Rhine, despite his frail and slender appearance, was the stronger opponent.

  And this time, as Ernst launched his offensive, Rhine didn’t counter. Instead, he continued to evade, retreating in a calm and calculated manner.

  Though Ernst had years of training as a militiaman, his attacks lacked structure or precision, most of them wild, reckless swings.

  Nevertheless, due to his adult strength, each swing posed a real threat to Rhine.

  But an attack that fails to connect is no attack at all.

  And so, an almost comical scene unfolded.

  On the castle courtyard, faced with Ernst’s ferocious and relentless assault, Rhine moved as if he had foreseen every one of Ernst's actions in advance, effortlessly evading each strike.

  This seemingly uncanny performance, however, wasn’t due to Rhine being significantly faster than Ernst, nor because he was intimately familiar with Ernst’s fighting style.

  The truth lay in a new blessing Rhine had just awakened—his third knightly blessing.

  [You have demonstrated your knightly compassion before others. A new knightly blessing has been bestowed upon you… Compassion (Attunement to All Things).]

  [Compassion (Attunement to All Things): Your compassionate heart grants you the ability to attune yourself to the essence of all things.]

  A blessing, in essence, is a kind of innate talent—a gift akin to an instinct, something that feels as natural as breathing.

  Although Rhine had only recently acquired this blessing, he had already begun to wield and master its power with remarkable proficiency.

  One of the manifestations of Compassion (Attunement to All Things) allowed Rhine to perceive the inner “voices” of his opponent—thoughts and instincts so subtle that even the opponent might not consciously notice them.

  These “voices” were not literal words but rather raw, unfiltered instincts.

  Rhine found it difficult to describe this sensation in detail. All he knew was that each time Ernst prepared to strike, he would hear a subtle whisper—a vague premonition within Ernst’s mind.

  These whispers would then take shape, forming faint yet vivid images in Rhine’s mind—visions of Ernst’s every move, every action, and even every shift in his mental state.

  Rhine’s decision to grant Ernst a second chance, and to demonstrate compassion toward him, was not an impulsive act of kindness.

  Rather, it was a calculated move, one driven by his desire to activate a new knightly blessing—a blessing he knew would give him an edge not only in this duel but also in his path to becoming a true knight.

  Before Rhine had acquired his third knightly blessing, he had already been able to easily defeat Ernst. Now, with the power of the third blessing, he was an even greater force, one far beyond Ernst's ability to withstand.

  After allowing Ernst to attack for a time, Rhine seized the opportunity and, with precision, once again struck Ernst with his sword.

  Clang!

  As Ernst’s wooden sword fell to the ground, the entire castle courtyard fell silent once more.

  But this time, unlike the first, the gazes directed at Rhine had changed. If Rhine’s initial victory could still be explained by Ernst's carelessness or Rhine's cunning, this second victory was undeniably achieved through overwhelming skill—a clear, fair defeat of Ernst.

  "I... I lost."

  This time, Ernst did not scream, argue, or make excuses. He calmly accepted his defeat, picked up his fallen wooden sword, and respectfully bowed toward Rhine.

  And this time, the surrounding militia no longer looked at Ernst with mocking eyes. Everyone understood that if they had been in Ernst's shoes, the outcome might not have been any better.

  In response to Ernst's respect, Rhine offered equal courtesy, bowing in return. "Well done, Ernst."

  Clap, clap, clap...

  This time, it wasn’t just Fergus who was clapping. Every single militia member in the courtyard joined in, applauding with genuine admiration. They understood the weight of what had just transpired, and their applause was not mere formality—it was an acknowledgment of Rhine’s strength and character.

  Although the two standing before the crowd—one a castle slave and the other a castle militia—seemed to come from very different backgrounds, their actions now conveyed something that could only be seen between two true knights.

  Rhine, through his conduct, had earned the respect of everyone present, including the enemy he had just defeated.

  While Rhine was not yet a knight, to those watching, he embodied the very essence of a knight, more so than anyone else present.

  "May I know your name, child?"

  Fergus approached Rhine, no longer using the term slave. In his eyes, Rhine had demonstrated qualities that even many true knights did not possess. To address him as a mere slave would not only insult Rhine—it would tarnish the very meaning of the word knight in Fergus’s heart.

  "Rhine, Rhine Simmons, respected Sir Fergus," Rhine replied, his voice steady and respectful.