"He's the Bear Hunter Lind you were looking for." After the two arrived in front of Lind, Raul pointed at him and made the introduction.
"Bear Hunter, my lord, my name is Rolly. I'm the son of Bitterbridge's blacksmith." The young, powerfully built man stepped forward somewhat nervously. He took a deep breath, as if making an important decision, his expression taut and his tone extremely formal. "I can no longer find any opponents in Bitterbridge. The knights look down on people like me and won't spar with me. I've heard your legends, and just now I also heard from your camp that you once crossed swords with Lord Fortimo, so I wanted to…"
Halfway through his words, the young man's face showed hesitation. He seemed unsure how to continue and froze in place.
"Do you want to test yourself against me?" Lind spoke the words Rolly was struggling to say.
Rolly let out a breath of relief and nodded, then asked with some worry, "Is… is that allowed?"
"Of course." Lind nodded, then glanced at Raul and asked, "Has he already fought you all?"
Raul gave a bitter smile. "He has. This guy's strength is terrifying—we're no match for him." He then looked at Rolly and added, "When we were still in Highgarden, we heard rumors that Baron Caswell had a formidable fighter under his command—a blacksmith's son, only in his teens, yet already stronger than most grown warriors. Now that we've seen him in person, we know those rumors weren't exaggerated at all. Just like the stories about you, Lord Lind."
Hearing this, Lind studied Rolly with mild curiosity. He then drew the twin swords at his waist and gestured toward him. "In that case, let's begin."
"Wait—?" Seeing Lind's movements, Rolly froze and asked, "With real swords?"
"Of course." Lind replied in a low voice. "Practice swords aren't dangerous, but they don't reflect real combat. Deep down, you know that even if you're hit, you won't die—just get hurt—so you subconsciously make mistakes in attack and defense. Those mistakes don't matter in training, but on the battlefield, they're fatal."
Rolly didn't fully understand the explanation, but it sounded reasonable. He immediately turned and hurried toward the castle, clearly intending to fetch his sword.
After Rolly left, Raul asked with some confusion, "Lord Lind, how come you have time to guide this kid? We've been asking you to help improve our swordsmanship these past few days, and you always said you didn't have time."
Hearing the faint dissatisfaction in Raul's tone, Lind replied calmly, "I've already said this. What soldiers like you need to improve isn't swordsmanship—it's battlefield coordination and formations. Superb sword skills won't help you survive when thousands clash together, but a perfectly coordinated team of comrades will."
Raul curled his lips but said nothing more. He knew Lind was right. Still, deep down, he wished he could master great swordsmanship, be noticed by a knight, become a squire, and one day be knighted—instead of spending his entire life as a mere guard soldier.
Perhaps because Rolly had caused too much of a stir earlier in the camp, several curious onlookers gathered on the open ground. Most of them wanted to see how Lind would "teach" the blacksmith's son—and perhaps vent some lingering resentment from having been defeated by him earlier.
By the time Rolly returned with his longsword, two to three dozen people had gathered around, including not only Tyrell guards but also soldiers from Bitterbridge Castle.
Seeing so many people watching, Rolly showed no stage fright. On the contrary, he looked even more excited. He stepped in front of Lind, impatiently drew his sword, and assumed the most common offensive stance.
"Begin." Lind didn't adopt any preparatory stance. After reminding Rolly, he walked toward him at an unhurried pace—less like a duel and more like a casual stroll.
Yet it was the fully prepared Rolly who felt immense pressure. In his eyes, Lind seemed to transform into a ferocious beast slowly closing in on its prey. The pressure forced Rolly to retreat two steps just to breathe more easily.
But Lind didn't stop. He continued advancing, and the pressure returned—stronger than before.
Realizing that if this continued he might not even have the courage to swing his sword, Rolly gritted his teeth against the invisible weight, let out a roar, and raised his sword to slash fiercely at Lind.
The strike was powerful—but no matter how fierce a blow is, if it doesn't hit, it's meaningless.
Lind shifted slightly to the side, effortlessly avoiding the falling blade. At the same time, his left-hand half-sword swept toward Rolly's neck, while the sword in his right hand thrust forward at a slight angle. In an instant, one blade rested at Rolly's throat, the other pressed against his chest.
The surroundings fell silent.
Then, cries of astonishment erupted from the Bitterbridge guards. Rolly was a renowned powerhouse in Bitterbridge Castle—over a year had passed since any guard soldier could defeat him. Only a few of the castle's knights might surpass him. Yet such a man had been defeated so effortlessly. For those who had once lost to Rolly, the sight was utterly shocking.
The Tyrell soldiers, however, had already grown accustomed to Lind's strength over this past month. They showed little surprise.
As for Rolly himself, he was completely stunned. The moment he felt Lind's pressure, he had already sensed the gap between them—but he never imagined it would be this vast. It barely even counted as a duel. Lind had taken a single step and casually swung his swords, and it was over. A crushing sense of frustration he had never known before surged through him.
"Again. Continue." Lind withdrew his twin blades, stepped back two paces, and spoke calmly.
Rolly froze for a moment, steadied his shaken confidence, took a deep breath, tightened his grip, and attacked again—just as he always did.
The result was identical. Lind sidestepped slightly, avoided the attack, and struck at the opening Rolly exposed, subduing him once more.
His confidence shattered again. Rolly began to wonder whether he had never been as strong as he believed. Perhaps the castle guards had deliberately let him win because he was young. Perhaps… he should give up on his dream of becoming a knight and honestly inherit his father's blacksmith shop.
"Do you know where your flaw lies?" Seeing Rolly's confidence broken, Lind stopped and spoke seriously.
"My… flaw?" Rolly was completely bewildered.
Lind explained like a teacher, "I'm guessing you've never received formal sword training. Your swordsmanship comes from watching castle guards and Caswell knights train and imitating them. Your technique is crude—it relies entirely on your physical talent. Against those weaker than you, you can win. But against someone with better physical conditioning or refined swordsmanship, every advantage you have disappears."
Rolly's face turned pale. He had never imagined he had so many shortcomings. Still young and mentally immature, even a small blow triggered deep self-doubt, and the pride he had built up over the years began to crumble.
Lind then offered some advice. "If you want to improve quickly, focus on dodging and defense. And if possible, find a sword instructor."
"A lowly blacksmith's son should stay in his place. Hands meant for hammers have no right to hold a sword." A sharp, piercing voice suddenly rang out from beyond the crowd.
Upon hearing it, the Bitterbridge guards—including Rolly—clearly recognized the speaker. They all lowered their heads slightly, while the others looked toward the source in curiosity.
A short figure emerged from the back of the crowd, surrounded by several well-equipped baronial guards and servants.
It was a sickly-looking youth. His face was pale, cheeks sunken, eyes dull and lifeless, as though he might faint at any moment. Yet his luxurious clothing and the reactions of those around him made his status obvious—most likely a child of Baron Caswell.
The youth stopped beside Rolly. He ignored Rolly's bowed head and instead looked at Lind first, his eyes openly filled with jealousy, resentment, and even hatred.
That near-hostile gaze puzzled Lind—this was clearly the first time he had ever seen the youth.
The youth's eyes lingered on Lind only briefly before turning to Rolly with the same expression, his face full of contempt. "You're just a blacksmith's son. You'll spend your whole life by the furnace, just like that filthy old man at home."
Rolly said nothing, his head still lowered—but the hand gripping his sword trembled with barely restrained fury.
The guards beside the youth noticed this immediately. All of them placed their hands on their weapons, ready to strike the moment Rolly made a move.
The surrounding Bitterbridge guards showed no concern for their comrade. Instead, many wore mocking smiles, clearly enjoying the spectacle. Rolly's relationship with them was evidently poor—perhaps even hostile.
"What? Thinking of attacking me with that sword?" The youth noticed Rolly's reaction and sneered. Stepping forward, he slapped Rolly hard across the face in full view of everyone.
Though the youth appeared frail, the slap carried considerable force. The sound echoed clearly, and Rolly's head jerked aside. The youth himself shook his hand afterward, as if even his palm hurt.
Despite the humiliation, Rolly did not resist. He remained silent, head lowered, sword clenched.
Seeing that Rolly dared not strike back, the youth sneered. "Useless trash. Crawl back to your filthy hole. You disgraced Bitterbridge tonight—report to the castle gates tomorrow to be punished."
Rolly turned to leave. After taking two steps, he seemed to remember something. He turned back, bowed respectfully to Lind, then hurried toward Bitterbridge Castle, breaking into a run before disappearing from sight.
"One should do what their birth allows—and nothing more. Knights are not something lowly people can become." Still unsatisfied, the youth now directed his venom at Lind. "I've heard of you, Bear Hunter Lind. A hunter's son. The forest suits you best—not—"
Before he could finish, Lind said coldly, "Do you think I'd dare to kill you?" He glanced at the guards beside the youth. "Or do you think they can protect you?"
As Lind spoke, the killing intent born from the Peacekeeper surged outward, crashing into the youth and those around him.
Already frail, the youth collapsed instantly, fainting on the spot. The guards trembled violently under the pressure, unable even to grip their weapons. The servants simply crumpled to the ground.
Satisfied with the lesson, Lind withdrew his presence and said disdainfully, "Take your master and get lost. And remember to change his pants—wetting himself at this age is an embarrassment to Baron Caswell."
No one dared say another word. They hurriedly lifted the unconscious youth, helped the servants to their feet, and fled in panic.
The onlooking Bitterbridge guards lost all interest in spectating. Having witnessed the youth's humiliation, they knew his personality well—retaliation was inevitable. Their faces turned grim.
"You shouldn't have threatened that lord," Raul said as he walked up to Lind. "He's likely Baron Caswell's only son—the future Lord of Bitterbridge. This will put Lord Garlan in a difficult position."
Faced with Raul's concern, Lind merely smiled, completely unconcerned.
...
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(End Chapter)