6: Chapter 6: Nolan, the Little Blacksmith, and the Training of Reserves!

The young blacksmith's crying echoed through the courtyard.

The serfs held their breath.

Rowan leaned slowly back into his chair.

His fingertips tapped lightly against the hilt of the sword.

Once. Twice.

"Crimson Vagabond Knights..." he repeated in a low voice, a cold smile curling the corners of his mouth. "The thing I feared most has happened after all."

He reached out and made a calming gesture.

"Nolan, get up."

The boy didn't dare move.

"Get up." Rowan's voice deepened.

Nolan scrambled up, trembling, still not daring to lift his head, his shoulders heaving with sobs.

"I know about your father," Rowan said. "Go home and wait. Don't go spreading this around. I will handle it."

Nolan dropped to his knees again with a thud, kowtowed three times, and then stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.

The atmosphere of the banquet had turned cold.

The serfs hurriedly finished the remaining food in their bowls and left the table in silence.

Rowan sat alone for a while, then stood up, took the new sword, and walked back to the castle.

Butler Henry followed silently behind him.

Entering the study, Rowan leaned the sword against the fireplace.

"My Lord," Butler Henry said, closing the door and lowering his voice.

"The Crimson Vagabond Knights abducting Old Connor was by no means a spur-of-the-moment decision."

"They have been active in this area for over half a year, first plundering merchant caravans, then extorting villages."

"Setting their sights on Old Connor now was likely a long-planned scheme."

"They lack blacksmiths, and even more so, they lack good blacksmiths capable of forging armaments. It just so happens that news of Lady Sylvia's departure has leaked out."

Rowan walked to the window and looked toward the rolling, grey-black mountain ridges to the north.

"Blood Thorn Knight, Ulysses Quinn." He recited the name.

"I heard he was also a blacksmith in the past?"

"Yes." Butler Henry opened the parchment booklet he carried with him, which was densely packed with records of affairs both inside and outside the territory.

"Ulysses Quinn was born a serf and, in his youth, apprenticed under the same Master Anvil in the county seat as Old Connor."

"Twenty years ago, he obtained a Breathing Technique from somewhere, and with his innate talent, he actually broke through to become an Official Knight."

"Later, for unknown reasons, he fell into depravity and became the leader of the Crimson Vagabond Knights in the Snowsource River region."

"This man is bloodthirsty but places great importance on the honor of craftsmen. It is said that he only abducts craftsmen and does not kill them."

Rowan turned around, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his profile.

"An Official Knight who started as a blacksmith..." he said softly. "Interesting."

Butler Henry closed the booklet, a flicker of worry in his eyes.

"My Lord, forgive my bluntness. The Crimson Knights are not like the scattered rabble we've dealt with before."

"They have organization, structure, and likely support from other factions behind them."

"Ulysses himself is an Official Knight, and under his command, there are at least five Apprentice Knights and no fewer than fifty common thugs."

"And we..."

He paused.

"We have twenty castle guards, eight archers, and forty militiamen, but they lack training."

"After Lady Sylvia left, we have a vacancy in our high-end combat power. Although you, My Lord, are also an Official Knight, you cannot hold the line alone."

Rowan walked back behind the desk and sat down.

"Your suggestion?"

Butler Henry took a deep breath. "My Lord should consider recruiting retainers. Or... select promising young people from the territory and train your own knights."

"White Cliff Territory needs more people capable of wielding a sword."

The study fell silent.

There was only the crackling of firewood in the fireplace and the faint sound of waves from the distance.

Rowan's fingers tapped lightly on the desk, the rhythm slow and steady.

After a long while, he spoke:

"Tomorrow morning, have the Captain of the Guard, Jason, come to see me."

"In addition," he looked up, his amber pupils bottomless under the candlelight. "Send men to deliver letters to the Gray Rock Territory, Gold Spike Territory, and Gloomthorn Territory."

"Tell them that White Cliff Territory is being threatened by the Crimson Knights, and invite the three Barons to come in three days to discuss a joint defense."

Butler Henry was taken aback. "My Lord, those three families will likely..."

"I know they won't come," Rowan interrupted with a smile. "But the courtesies must be observed. If it truly comes to a fight later, I can at least say I did my duty."

Butler Henry understood and bowed. "Yes."

"Also," Rowan looked at the sword by the fireplace, "tell Nolan that I like the sword he presented very much."

"Starting tomorrow, have him come to the castle every afternoon. I will teach him swordsmanship myself."

Butler Henry looked up sharply.

"My Lord, are you intending to..."

"Old Connor is a talent; he must be saved," Rowan said. "His son might also be promising material."

He stood up and walked to the arched window.

The night was as thick as spilled ink.

The direction of the North Sea was pitch black, with even the starlight swallowed by thick clouds.

Only the waves beneath the cliff ceaselessly pounded against the reefs.

"You may leave, Henry. Do as I said tomorrow."

"Yes, My Lord."

The old steward bowed and exited the study; the oak door closed softly behind him, shutting out the faint light from the corridor.

Rowan was left alone in the study.

He stood by the window for a long time.

Until his eyes had fully adapted to the darkness and he could barely make out the jagged silhouette of the mountain ridges in the distance.

"Heh."

A low chuckle rippled through the silence.

"After my father passed away," he murmured to the boundless night outside the window, his voice so soft only he could hear, "everyone wants to trample on my White Cliff Territory."

The faces in his memory were blurred, but the greedy gazes were as clear as yesterday.

If not for that desperate trip to the Imperial Capital...

If not for seeing that line of light blue numbers on Sylvia that only he could see.

"It really is a headache." Rowan raised his hand, his thumb pressing against his throbbing temple.

The dim candlelight slanted over from the desk, casting deep and shallow shadows across his face.

At that moment, deep within his amber pupils, something seemed to be slowly flowing.

It was not the dignity of a noble lord, nor the sharpness of a knight, but something more ancient, like molten amber, or starlight reflected in an abyss.

The mark of the Succubus quietly emerged in his eyes.

He walked back to the fireplace and grasped the newly acquired knight's sword.

The blade was cold, the texture delicate.

He laid it across his knees and ran his fingertips along the spine of the sword, feeling the barely perceptible, fine patterns left by the forging.

He closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking deep into his mind.

A light blue screen quietly unfolded:

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship lv1 (0/500)]

The numbers were cold and objective.

Rowan sighed silently in his heart.

"I only want to cultivate in obscurity, be a self-sufficient little lord, marry a few wives with scores above ninety, and live a peaceful life..."

This wish was so simple.

But this world never treats the weak kindly.

Without strength, even peace is a luxury.

The humiliation of his territory being encroached upon three years ago, the undisguised disdain when the Latour Family came knocking...

He opened his eyes, and the last trace of fluctuation in his gaze returned to silence.