Chapter 33

That day, the new recruit barracks in a corner of the Knight Order of the Holy King’s headquarters was buzzing with a single topic of conversation. It had all started a few days prior with a notice sent out to the entire Order.

The content was simple: a new recruit would be joining their ranks. Mid-term enrollments that bypassed the annual public recruitment exams were rare, but they usually didn't cause much of a stir.

The reason this particular case had everyone talking was the recruit’s age. He was far below the standard requirement.

He was a thirteen-year-old boy—the youngest recruit in the history of the Order.

As if that weren't enough to fuel the rumor mill, word had it that he had defeated dozens of senior knights single-handedly during his entrance exam. Curiosity about his true identity was reaching a fever pitch.

In the barracks where the 94th Class—the boy's peers—resided, the commotion was even more intense. The most restless among them were the members of Squad 7, who had learned they would be sharing a room with him.

"Hey, what are we going to do if the new guy is really like the rumors say?"

Isaac, the leader of Squad 7, restlessly tossed the question to his teammates.

"That again? The rumors are so hard to believe, I doubt it’ll be that bad, but..."

"But it seems to be a fact that he beat several seniors to a pulp, so he’s definitely not normal."

"Wasn't he supposed to be some two-meter-tall muscle-bound freak who punches people out without even using a weapon? And that no attacks work on him? I don't have the confidence to live with a monster like that."

"I even heard someone say he might be a ghost—a collection of grudges from knights who died on the battlefield. That’s why physical attacks don't hit him."

"That’s impossible... right?"

The words tumbled out one after another, a clear manifestation of their anxiety. The rumors that had swept through the Order over the last few days had become increasingly divorced from reality.

While they wanted to laugh it all off, there was a lingering sense of credibility that made it impossible to dismiss entirely—even if the ghost story was a bit much. And so, whenever they had a spare moment, they spent it clashing over their various speculations regarding the newcomer’s true nature.

However, those debates were ending today.

The boy at the center of the storm was finally arriving.

Suddenly, the doorknob turned without a preliminary knock. Four pairs of eyes snapped toward the door.

With a long, rhythmic creak, the old door slowly swung open. The man who appeared from the other side was—

"Pardon me. Is everyone here?"

He was a man with a stubbly beard and messy hair that grew long at the nape of his neck.

Since they had only been in the Order for a few months, the recruits didn't recognize him, but seeing the officer’s rank on his shoulder, they immediately snapped into a salute.

"Yeah, yeah, at ease. I just brought a delivery. I’ll leave the rest to you."

From behind the superior officer and his flippant greeting, a boy roughly 160 centimeters tall peeked into the room.

His expression was severe.

"You've got some nerve treating me like an object, Cody. How about I shove you into a wine barrel and kick you into the sea instead?"

Just as the recruits wondered if the boy might be nervous, he opened his mouth to hurl an insult at a superior officer without a shred of hesitation. Faced with such an unprecedented sight, Isaac and the others stood frozen, mouths agape.

A fresh recruit not only failing to use formal language but speaking to an officer with such blatant disrespect was unheard of. It couldn't be excused as childishness or mere high spirits.

It was behavior that defied their every understanding of common sense.

"In that case, make sure the barrel is full of booze. I’d prefer a cognac I can’t usually afford."

"Make do with low-grade ale. It suits you better."

"Talk about cheap. It’d be a tragedy if my last drink in life was low-grade ale."

Even more shocking was that the officer didn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he wore a carefree, flippant smirk.

While the recruits' brains struggled to process this abnormal exchange, the officer waved a hand and left the room with a casual "See ya." Naturally, this left the boy alone in front of Isaac and his squad.

He wasn't the two-meter-tall giant from the rumors. His features were handsome and gave off a mature impression for his age, yet there was still a lingering sense of youth about him.

He wore black clothes that matched his black hair, but what truly caught the eye were his deep crimson eyes—eyes that seemed to draw in anyone who looked into them.

Those eyes narrowed, pinning the four men with a sharp gaze.

"I am Harold. You lot had better take the utmost care not to displease me."

He spoke with an arrogance so casual it was almost easy to miss, yet his words were an absolute declaration.

It went beyond being cheeky; it was sheer, unadulterated insolence. Ordinarily, as his seniors, they should have been furious, but the sheer scale of his audacity left them simply stunned.

"...Ah, yes. I'm Isaac. I look forward to working with you."

Stunned as he was, Isaac managed to squeeze out a response, though his cheek twitched as he used an excessively polite tone. No one judged him for looking pathetic in front of a younger boy.

Everyone present was overwhelmed by the crushing weight of Harold's presence—a presence that brooked no argument. If Isaac was pathetic, then they were all pathetic.

For the members of Squad 7, 94th Class, this was an encounter they would never forget for as long as they lived.

---

Harold proved to be fundamentally taciturn; after that initial greeting, he spoke only the bare minimum. Part of it was likely because Isaac and the others were so intimidated by the suffocating atmosphere around him that they couldn't bring themselves to start a conversation.

They spent the rest of the day in that tense silence, leading into the next morning.

In the early hours, while the morning mist still clung to the ground, all recruits with less than a year of service—including Squad 7—were gathered at the outdoor training grounds. It was a standard early morning training session.

The only difference was the introduction of Harold before they began.

"You've probably heard the rumors, but this is Harold Stokes. He's the youngest recruit to ever join our ranks."

The instructor's words sent a ripple of murmurs through the recruits. Most of it was likely surprise that he wasn't the giant they’d expected, but an ordinary-looking boy.

The whispers were largely skeptical, questioning his supposed strength. Harold, standing beside the instructor, didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow, appearing as though he couldn't even hear them.

"Now that you've joined, age doesn't matter. You will be treated the same as everyone else. Harold, are you prepared for that?"

"Don't ask such idiotic questions. Being treated like these commoners is already far too soft."

"So the rumors that you don't know how to hold your tongue are true. You’ll join the others after you run thirty laps around the training grounds! Move!"

The recruits gasped.

Early morning training usually began with ten laps as a warm-up before moving on to drills and practice swings. It wasn't uncommon for people who were late or perceived as slackers to be given extra laps as punishment.

However, thirty laps was unheard of. For the 94th Class, who had been there for less than six months, it was a number they were hearing for the first time.

Harold's attitude had clearly rubbed the instructor the wrong way.

Ordered into the punishment run, Harold set off without a word of protest. Immediately after, the instructor barked at the rest of the group.

"What are you standing around for?! Do you want to run as many laps as him?! If not, get moving!"

Driven by the desire to avoid such a fate, the recruits scrambled to begin their own run.

One lap of the training ground was roughly 400 meters. Thirty laps was twelve kilometers. Even for these trained recruits, finishing such a run would take at least fifty minutes. For someone Harold's age, it would likely take over an hour.

No one believed he would have any strength left to participate in the actual training afterward.

Everyone expected him to drop out on his very first day.

However, by the second lap, they noticed something was wrong.

The distance between them and Harold, who had started first, wasn't shrinking. If anything, the gap was widening.

"He's going way too fast."

"He'll never last thirty laps at that pace."

A few people running alongside Isaac voiced their honest thoughts. Everyone agreed.

But contrary to their expectations, by the fifth lap, Harold had already caught up to Isaac’s group and lapped them. His pace hadn't slowed in the slightest.

His breathing was perfectly rhythmic, his posture unwavering, and his limbs moved with explosive power. His light, effortless stride suggested he was nowhere near his limit—he even looked like he had energy to spare.

It was unbelievable. If any of them had tried to match Harold's pace, they would have been gasping for air by now.

And yet, Harold glanced back, thought for a moment, and then muttered to no one in particular.

"I suppose I'll pick up the pace a bit."

Those who overheard him felt a literal chill. He’s going to go even faster?

Suddenly, Harold's stride lengthened. He accelerated with terrifying efficiency.

Almost simultaneously, the other recruits felt their legs grow heavy. The fatigue they usually felt at the end of the session was hitting them right now.

They wondered why, until the realization dawned: they had unconsciously tried to keep up with Harold, and their own pace had skyrocketed. They were already out of breath.

They still had four laps to go. Just the thought of it made their legs feel like they were going to give out.

With their rhythm completely shattered, it took them five minutes longer than usual just to finish their ten laps. They were utterly exhausted.

But the real shock came a few minutes later when Harold finished his thirtieth lap. His speed was nothing short of miraculous.

Even the instructor looked like he was seeing a ghost. Harold, meanwhile, was sweating, but his composed expression hadn't crumbled.

"...It seems you have plenty of endurance."

"Obviously. I haven't trained so poorly that I'd be exhausted by a light jog."

"Hmph. Then for the next set of forms, I'll have you swing this."

Determined to break Harold’s spirit, the instructor handed him a longsword—a weapon far longer than those usually used in form practice. A longer blade meant significantly more weight and centrifugal force, making it exponentially harder to control.

For a body whose bones and muscles weren't yet fully developed, even swinging it properly should have been a struggle.

But that was for ordinary people. Everyone present, including the instructor, was beginning to suspect that Harold was the exception to every rule.

Unconcerned with their stares, Harold took the longsword and moved away from the group. He began swinging it in every direction, seemingly testing its weight and center of gravity. His fluid, effortless bladework looked more like a dance than a drill.

Just then, a gust of wind swept through the grounds.

It wasn't a gale, but it was enough to rustle the trees and shake loose several green leaves. The fresh leaves danced through the air, carried by the wind toward Harold.

The moment the leaves crossed his field of vision, Harold unleashed a flurry of slashes. The speed was so extraordinary that to Isaac, the longsword became a blur of afterimages. His peers likely saw the same.

It was obvious what Harold was trying to do: he was targeting the falling leaves.

Is that even possible? Isaac wondered.

Cutting something that moved irregularly and would be blown away by the very wind pressure of the sword required astronomical skill and dynamic visual acuity.

But for Harold, it was simply a matter of course.

Six leaves were caught in the wake of his slashes. They were carved into perfect vertical and horizontal crosses, resulting in twenty-four tiny fragments.

The shredded leaves were swept up by the wind and vanished into the sky. Harold didn't even look at the recruits standing there in stunned silence; he just stared at the longsword.

"Hmph. Not bad."

It had been a mere test swing. A trial run. Something he expected himself to be able to do.

Harold's attitude spoke volumes.

Standard blades are thick. Shredding a leaf floating in mid-air is a feat of extreme difficulty. If it can be done at all, it is only with the very tip of the blade—the few millimeters sharpened for thrusting.

To accurately strike something as light as a leaf, something that shifts its shape and path with the slightest breeze, using only the tip of a heavy, unwieldy longsword...

If the slash were off by a single millimeter, or if the distance were misjudged by the width of a piece of paper, the feat would fail.

Just how much power did Harold possess to pull that off so casually?

The rumors of him overwhelming dozens of senior knights were almost certainly true.

The entire 94th Class finally understood. Harold stood at a height they could never hope to reach.

They felt it in their bones. It was the same instinctual dread a wild animal feels when facing a natural predator—an absolute hierarchy established from the moment of birth.

By the second day of his enlistment, Harold had asserted his absolute dominance over the 94th Class by simply demonstrating the overwhelming gap between them.