After a brief period of rest, Chen Mo was ready to resume his campaign of expansion.
His merchant caravans still hadn't located the person he was searching for. All he could do now was grow stronger—extend his power, expand his influence, build up his networks. One way or another, he would find them eventually.
Time, after all, was on his side. The Super Soldier Serum coursing through his veins had long since freed him from the constraints of ordinary human life. He had patience to spare.
Yet, as he prepared to move again, Chen Mo noticed something unusual.
Andrew—the commander of his knightly order and one of his most trusted men—was distracted.
Others might not have seen it, but Chen Mo's sharpened senses caught it at once: the faint ripple of worry, the hidden turmoil behind the man's stoic eyes.
And when word came that their next target was to be Marquis Leonard's domain, Andrew's emotions grew even more unstable. His focus slipped in training. His sword strikes lost their usual precision.
Chen Mo could already tell—Andrew's turmoil was tied to that name.
As his earliest follower, the bravest of his warriors, and the man who commanded his five-hundred-strong heavy cavalry, Andrew's loyalty had never once been in question.
He was steadfast, brave, and utterly devoted. His leadership had forged the knightly order into an unstoppable spear—men who would charge into fortified gates without hesitation if Chen Mo commanded it.
Now that same man stood troubled and uncertain.
It wasn't something Chen Mo could ignore.
Over the past year, his original hundred knights had grown fivefold. Every one of the first-generation soldiers had since earned true knighthood through valor and blood.
To bring order to the ranks, Chen Mo had divided his knights into four tiers—Iron, Bronze, Silver, and Gold.
No one yet bore the golden title.
Andrew, commander of all knights and the strongest among them, was the sole Silver Knight—the highest rank under Chen Mo's direct rule.
Beneath him, the eight men who had once been rescued alongside Andrew—and the recently recruited Victor—had each earned the title of Bronze Knight, leading squadrons of several dozen men.
The Black Iron Knights, numbering more than a hundred, were mostly veterans of Chen Mo's first guard. Each commanded four squire knights, forming compact combat units—the building blocks of the order.
The four hundred squires beneath them were former nobles' retainers—captured or defected warriors—retrained and folded into Chen Mo's system.
Here, old titles meant nothing. Only merit spoke.
Many of those men had already fought their way back to full knighthood, regaining both status and pride. The rest trained relentlessly to follow them.
Chen Mo rewarded excellence generously: gold, land, even noble titles. Any man with sufficient valor could rise all the way to baron.
As a result, the knight order burned with ambition—eager for war, hungry for glory.
Every man dreamed of earning his own land, founding his own house, building a name that would outlast him. And none hungered for that dream more fiercely than Andrew himself.
He was the model of a perfect knight—unyielding, tireless, and utterly without fear. Even after becoming the strongest among Chen Mo's ranks, he continued to train daily, pushing his limits further.
Under his example, discipline never slackened. The men, clad in their shining new armor, did not grow complacent. Instead, they trained harder than ever, practicing the Holy Cross Sword Style as though it were divine scripture.
So for this man—this paragon of loyalty—to suddenly lose his spirit, to move like a man divided… something serious had to be hiding beneath the surface.
Chen Mo decided to find out.
Blackstone Castle, Lord's Study.
A grand painting of charging knights hung upon the wall, its silver lances frozen mid-storm. The floor was carpeted with fine wool, and heavy oak furniture lined the room—solid, ornate, and solemn. The air was warm with the crackle of firewood from the hearth.
Chen Mo sat behind a dark wooden desk, scanning the latest intelligence from his merchants when a knock sounded at the door.
"Lord, Knight Andrew has arrived," came the butler's voice.
"Let him in," Chen Mo said calmly.
The door opened. Andrew entered—tall, broad, and still clad in armor, his helmet tucked under his arm. His boots struck the floor with the measured rhythm of a soldier, but his eyes betrayed tension.
He stopped before the desk and stood straight, gaze forward.
The lord's study—once the baron's manor—had long been relocated here, into the towering black fortress that once belonged to Count Warren. Its Gothic spires loomed over the land like fangs of obsidian, cold and imposing.
Chen Mo lowered his papers, studying Andrew with quiet intensity. Even beneath the man's rigid composure, he could feel the undercurrent of unease.
Under that sharp, penetrating gaze—eyes that seemed to pierce straight through the soul—Andrew felt his defenses crumble.
"Andrew," Chen Mo said evenly, "about the next campaign… the assault on Marquis Leonard's lands. Do you have something to say?"
The words hung heavy in the warm air.
Sweat began to bead on Andrew's forehead. He hesitated, jaw clenched, then finally spoke, voice low and hoarse.
"My lord… I must confess something. I am from Marquis Leonard's lands. My father once served as one of his knights."
He drew a deep breath, then continued—his words tumbling out as if a dam had broken.
Years ago, his family could not afford to train both sons as knights. As the younger, Andrew had chosen to join the Marquis's guard instead, hoping one day to earn his title through merit.
He fought bravely, killed werewolves with his own hands, and achieved deeds that should have earned him recognition. But promotion never came. He remained a common soldier, his dreams fading—until one day fate intervened.
During an escort mission, a detachment of soldiers and two knights were assigned to protect the Marquis's daughter on a journey through the forests.
Then came the werewolves.
Dozens of soldiers died screaming. The knights fell one after another, slaying one beast and wounding another before both perished.
When the second werewolf lunged for the terrified young lady, only Andrew remained standing.
Grabbing a fallen knight's sword, he charged—and somehow, through blood and fire, slew the creature.
He survived, barely. She lived.
And something changed between them.
The young noblewoman—raised in luxury, never touched by danger—was captivated by the brave commoner who had saved her life. Her admiration turned to affection; her heart, to love.
Andrew, though he knew the gulf between them, couldn't help returning her feelings. They began to meet in secret—training with swords, talking beneath moonlight, sharing dreams of a freer world.
After that day, she trained with him constantly, determined to become a female knight and fight beside him against the monsters that haunted their world.
But when she came of age, the illusion shattered.
Her father arranged a noble marriage for her, as tradition demanded.
She refused.
Even under pressure, humiliation, threats—she refused. At last, in desperate defiance, she donned armor and joined the knights in battle, proving she would rather die than marry another.
Her rebellion forced the Marquis to call off the engagement. But he had already discovered the truth—the man behind her disobedience.
Andrew.
The Marquis confronted him privately. Though he had long known of their closeness, he'd once dismissed it as harmless—mere gratitude from his daughter, admiration for the man who had saved her life.
But now it was clear: affection had turned to love.
The Marquis's fury was cold and absolute.
He didn't execute Andrew—perhaps out of fear of his daughter's wrath—but he banished him from the land.
He demanded that Andrew leave behind a letter, a final wound to sever her attachment: "You are not worthy of her. You are nothing but a peasant. Only nobility can stand beside my daughter."
Crushed, humiliated, and heartbroken, Andrew obeyed.
He left the letter and vanished, carrying only the memory of her face and the dream they'd once shared.
He found himself in a remote village—the same village where fate led him to Chen Mo. There, he tried to forget, to bury the past and live as a nameless man.
But he could never erase her.
The girl with the silver sword, the one who had once trained beside him beneath the forest moonlight.
Her name was—
Amelia.