Chen Mo didn't hold back when it came to his first group of subordinates in this new world—he directly taught them the Holy Cross Swordsmanship.
Andrew, who had received formal knight training since childhood and was already a skilled swordsman, immediately sensed the immense power hidden within the technique. His heart surged with excitement and gratitude for Chen Mo's generosity, and he threw himself into practice with feverish intensity.
With his solid foundation and natural talent, Andrew quickly grasped the core of the Holy Cross Swordsmanship, and his strength rose dramatically.
Chen Mo was more than satisfied. He hadn't expected that among the men he'd saved by chance would be someone with such potential, buried by circumstance.
Under Chen Mo's command, Andrew took charge of training the others. When Chen Mo had time, he would personally step in to demonstrate and refine their combat techniques.
With Andrew—a warrior born of a true knightly line—and Chen Mo, a former martial arts master from another world, guiding them, the group's progress was nothing short of astounding.
At the same time, the hundred or so soldiers drafted from among the townsfolk were divided into nine squads, each led by one of Andrew's men. Training was strict and unified—focused on both physical endurance and swordsmanship.
With full rations each day and a carefully structured training regimen crafted by Chen Mo himself, the soldiers' strength and skill improved at a remarkable pace.
And with Chen Mo continually hunting and killing the werewolves that dared to cross into his lands, morale across the entire territory soared. Every man—whether knight candidate or soldier—trained with burning determination, dreaming of the day they could follow their powerful lord into battle and slay the monsters by his side.
While his men trained, Chen Mo turned his attention to development. He summoned every craftsman in the barony and had them construct a workshop in a corner of the manor grounds.
Back in his original world, Chen Mo had devoured nearly every book in the library, and with his photographic memory, he could recall every line of text clearly—even the technical ones. Among them were numerous manuals on basic industrial methods and early manufacturing processes.
Glass. Soap. Steel. Cement. None of these were beyond reach. Even in the backward Middle Ages, they could be made using simpler methods and tools—if one knew how.
One year passed. Under Chen Mo's guidance, Andrew and his men grew at lightning speed. Other than Andrew, the rest had also reached the strength worthy of true knights. Even the hundred soldiers of the territory's guard now surpassed the average squire in combat ability.
But strength was not their only edge. Trained under Chen Mo's modern military discipline, they were organized, disciplined, and razor-sharp. When they stood in formation, their ranks were straight, their gaze unwavering—their presence alone radiated power and killing intent. They looked nothing like the ragged, disorderly troops of other lords.
That day, Andrew was leading the men through drills in the training yard beside the manor. The air rang with the clash of steel—pairs of soldiers dueling, swords flashing, shouts echoing, the sharp ring of blades reverberating across the field.
Suddenly, the warning bell from the watchtower tolled, deep and urgent.
Andrew's brow furrowed. He barked an order, and the soldiers halted at once. In moments, he was up on the wall with his men.
From the rampart, he peered into the distance—and his expression darkened.
A black tide of cavalry thundered across the plains, drawing closer by the second. Dust rolled up like storm clouds. And on their banners, snapping in the wind, was a sigil he recognized instantly—Count Valen's crest.
The cavalry moved swiftly. Within minutes, they reached the outer wall. At their head rode over twenty knights clad in heavy armor, lances gleaming, their presence imposing. Behind them followed several dozen squires in leather armor, each mounted as well.
They were heavily armed, disciplined, and well-supplied—each man leading three horses. The sixty riders brought nearly two hundred warhorses, forming a dark, oppressive mass before the walls.
Under Andrew's grim gaze, the lead knight raised his hand, flipped open his visor, and shouted:
"Open the gate! We come under orders from Count Valen!"
Andrew's eyes narrowed, but he made no move.
True, Count Valen was the overlord of this region—technically, every local baron was his vassal.
But since Chen Mo had taken over this fief, he had never sworn fealty to the Count. Nor had Valen pressed the issue. After personally inspecting the mountain of werewolf corpses left in Chen Mo's domain, Valen had chosen not to act rashly.
The sudden rise of this mysterious new lord—one who had seemingly appeared from thin air, wielding terrifying power—had left everyone wary. Even Count Valen, for all his strength, knew well the cost of fighting a pack of werewolves. Wiping out dozens of them in a single night was something even he would hesitate to attempt.
And yet, here was Valen's cavalry, suddenly marching straight into Chen Mo's land.
Andrew's jaw tightened. He couldn't afford to take this lightly.
The old baron's manor wasn't built for real defense. Much of its wall was only packed earth, not stone. Time and neglect had left it cracked and sagging. It was proof enough of how poor the previous lord had been.
Andrew had once advised Chen Mo to rebuild the fortifications—but Chen Mo had refused.
Now, as Andrew hurriedly organized the soldiers and prepared for a potential attack, a calm, commanding voice rose behind him.
"Open the gate. Let them in."
Andrew turned sharply. It was Chen Mo.
"But, my lord—!" he began, alarmed.
Chen Mo lifted a hand, cutting him off.
"They're here because I summoned them."
Andrew froze, stunned.
But an order was an order. Even though confusion swirled in his mind, he obeyed.
The great gate creaked open.
Outside, the waiting knights stirred impatiently—but when they saw the way clear, they spurred their mounts forward, charging through the gateway in a blur of hooves and iron.
The thunder of horses filled the air as more than sixty knights and squires poured into the manor grounds, followed by nearly two hundred warhorses. The riders pulled up sharply, reins snapping, warhorses snorting clouds of steam.
All eyes turned toward Chen Mo, who walked slowly to meet them, his expression calm and unreadable. Andrew and the soldiers fell in step behind him.
The knights remained mounted, towering above him, peering down with a mixture of arrogance and curiosity.
So this was him—the dark-haired youth who, according to rumor, had single-handedly slain more than fifty werewolves in one night.
Impossible.
They had faced werewolves themselves. They knew the truth—those creatures were monsters, stronger and faster than any human. No ordinary man could stand against them, let alone wipe out an entire pack.
And yet, here he was.
Standing unarmed beneath their shadow.
Looking up at them with calm, steady eyes.