Abel had two Entry Slots—likely the difference between a Silver One-Star and a Silver Two-Star Knight. Yet only the first slot contained an entry.
Ron studied the attributes. The green entry held two effects:
**[Great Wisdom, Seeming Foolishness]: A thick, honest, and cheerful façade lowers others' vigilance, greatly enhancing one's ability to read situations.]
Recalling his interactions with Mr. Abel, Ron realized those subtle depths he had sensed in the Second-Order Knight were no illusion.
Ron casually praised him again—words like "With you in the Baron's Manor, I feel at ease." Abel, in turn, expressed his loyalty once more.
Even so, his Favorability stubbornly hovered at 89. The jump to 90 seemed to be a wall.
Ron was still thinking about how to test the man's strength when Abel thoughtfully suggested, "My Lord, please stay and observe today's training. It will not disappoint you."
Ron agreed at once. It was the perfect opportunity to witness extraordinary power in action.
Attendants moved tables and chairs to the walkway beside the training courtyard, serving tea and snacks. Only after Ron sat did Abel shout, "Sig, Brolofen! Begin sparring—show your true skill!"
The two knights stepped forward excitedly. The others looked regretful their names weren't called.
They selected their weapons and walked into the field. As Silver-rank knights, their strengths were close.
Ron remembered Brolofen had the White Entry [Basic Arm Strength], which—as its name implied—enhanced raw arm strength.
Noticing Ron's gaze, Abel explained, "Sig has the highest talent among them; he is at the top of First-Order Knights. Brolofen, however, excels uniquely—no one can match his arm strength. If they fought purely with swords, Sig would likely lose."
Ron asked curiously, "Is Brolofen that strong? How do you compare to him in arm strength?"
"If I go all out? Very easily," Abel said matter-of-factly.
Ron understood. White Entries weren't strong enough to overcome rank differences, but within the same rank, they could still be overwhelming.
The match began.
Ron watched intently. Their swordsmanship was impressive—skillful, fluid, and refined. But Ron, who understood almost nothing about swordsmanship, felt it was vastly different from what he imagined extraordinary combat to look like. He couldn't see any obvious "power" at all.
Still, one thing was clear:
Brolofen was ferocious. Like a heavyweight champion, every strike carried brutal force. His greatsword looked like a toy in his hands.
Sig was agile, weaving around with precision. The fact he could hold his ground against Brolofen contradicted all conventional logic—clearly, extraordinary strength was at play.
Suddenly Abel said, "Brolofen is about to lose."
Ron frowned. Brolofen still looked unstoppable—how could he be losing?
Three seconds later, Sig's sword rested against Brolofen's neck.
Victory decided.
Ron was impressed. Against Abel's eyes, these matches were child's play.
Several more sparring rounds followed. As the novelty faded, Ron found himself growing bored. Extraordinary strength was impressive, but without understanding the fundamentals, it was like watching a group of scientists explain nuclear fusion to a student who had never taken physics.
Still, he couldn't leave. Doing so would crush the knights' morale. So he sipped tea, ate snacks, and chatted casually with Elva and Abel about trivial things—who was strongest, who had a girlfriend, and so on.
When the last match ended, Abel stood, bowed, and picked up his greatsword.
Ron paused—interested.
"For the final match," Abel declared proudly, "all of you come at once."
The knights stiffened.
A small voice whispered, "Captain is being sneaky… waiting until our fighting aura is nearly exhausted so he can show off in front of My Lord."
Abel's gaze locked onto Sig.
Brolofen smirked. "You're done."
The knights gathered. Under their Lord's watching eyes, whoever fell first would be humiliated.
Abel gave them no chance. He gripped his greatsword, muscles tightening. An oppressive aura erupted from him—like flames.
The sword itself seemed wrapped in heat. The air distorted around it.
Ron's eyes widened. Is this a Second-Order Knight's fighting aura? He's enveloping the sword…
In the field, Abel rooted himself like an ancient tree. Veins bulged along his arms. Sig blanched.
"Defend! He's using that move!"
Everyone felt it. Sweat dampened their foreheads.
"Pale Fang!"
Abel swung his greatsword—despite standing over ten meters away.
A violent gust of power slammed into the knights.
Boom!
More than twenty First-Order Knights were sent flying, all collapsing to the ground.
Not one rose.
Ron stared speechlessly.
This… this is extraordinary power…
I want it.
That night, Ron sat on his bed, flipping through a notebook—Abel's personal cultivation notes. To any First-Order Knight, it was priceless.
Ron had asked Abel earlier about his cultivation talent and how long it would take him to reach the Second Order.
Abel had given good news: Ron did have talent for Dou Qi cultivation…
Bad news: it wasn't much.
Seven years—at minimum—to reach Second-Order Knight. And that assumed noble upbringing and resources.
Ron suspected Second Order would unlock his next Entry Slot.
Magic was out. Fighting aura was viable but slow. Faith and divine power were an option—but believing wholeheartedly in a "god" was nearly impossible for someone with his modern worldview.
He had even considered exchanging his [Immortality] entry for a cultivation-related one…
But the fear of never regaining it made him instantly discard such a thought.
His golden entry had only appeared once. Maybe his golden finger had only one activation.
He would never give up Immortality.
With nothing left to do, Ron meditated according to the notes. Dou Qi cultivation required a unique method—without guidance, most people would never even get started.
The world teemed with various energies. Knights required Qi, an omnipresent but violent energy that harmed the body if inhaled directly. Meditation pacified it, allowing it to form a Qi vortex inside the body.
Entry-level meditation produced a small vortex—the sign of initiation.
"Eh? I already have a Qi vortex?"
After three hours, Ron entered a deep meditative state—and discovered a tiny, nearly imperceptible Qi vortex.
Clearly, his body's previous owner had cultivated before.
"You were lazy, weren't you… It's tiny."
Shaking his head, Ron continued meditating, slowly drawing Qi into his body and strengthening the vortex.
At dawn, Ron woke naturally—energy overflowing from his immortal vitality. Even after a sleepless night, he felt refreshed.
"So meditation can't replace sleep… but since I have excess vitality, I can cultivate longer. That means I can reach Second Order sooner."
He felt delighted. Abel didn't know that Ron's energy reserves far exceeded an ordinary person's. He could safely reduce sleep to four hours a night, spending the rest cultivating.
If he weren't afraid of attracting suspicion, he'd hang a sign above his bed:
Heaven Rewards Diligence
Days passed.
Ron's schedule was full—handling official duties during the day while playing with jewelry to acquire new entries…
And cultivating Dou Qi at night.
Despite being immortal, he avoided completely depriving himself of rest—paralysis still counted as "not dying," after all.
Three days later, a silver-haired man in his thirties rushed into the manor. He spotted Egbert talking with Abel and blurted out nervously:
"Father—"
"Mind your manners!" Egbert snapped. "I am speaking with Mr. Abel. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"
The man—Blake—shrank under his father's stern glare.
Abel mediated gently, "Mr. Egbert, please don't be angry. Let us hear what Blake has to say. He must be urgent for a reason."
Egbert nodded. "Speak."
Blake swallowed and reported, "The mayor of Cott Town came to the mine this morning. He said Ms. Elva was found dead in her home. Based on the state of the body, the death occurred about a week ago."
Egbert and Abel remained expressionless.
Blake continued, unaware they already knew the truth.
"There were no signs of struggle. It was a single fatal strike. All valuables were gone. I believe the culprit killed her for money."
Seeing the two men silent, Blake grew anxious. "Ms. Elva was the Head Maid of the Baron's Manor. Her murder is an insult to My Lord! We cannot let the culprit go unpunished!"
Egbert nodded. "Correct. Go to the three towns. Post this notice:
'The Head Maid of the Baron's Manor was murdered by the Black Crow, who stole her possessions. The Baron's Manor launches a full-scale manhunt. Informers will be rewarded.'"
"But—!"
Egbert narrowed his eyes. "Still not going?"
Blake paled. "Yes, Father!"
When he left, Abel chuckled. "So this is the 'opportunity' you mentioned. But… you really won't tell him the truth?"
Egbert shook his head. "Blake has grown complacent since the previous Lord granted him the surname Arnold. He needs a lesson. If he cannot handle this task well, I will ask My Lord to remove him from the mine and send him home to reflect. Hard."
Cruel.
Abel was stunned. He knew well how Egbert's family operated.
Their most outstanding son from each generation served the Baron's Manor, eventually becoming its steward. If approved by the Baron, they were granted the surname "Arnold."
Once Egbert stepped down, Blake should have been the next steward.
If Blake lost his position now, he might lose the surname as well.
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