Chapter 189: The Chance to Choose

After surrendering, Pascal’s personal guard had already spent a full day and night inside this “cell.” 

It looked more like a warehouse, and the surroundings were quiet. When they were awakened that morning, dawn had only just begun to break, yet they could already hear the soldiers of Coldsteel City training outside—far earlier than the allied army ever did. The sheer diligence of these so-called rebels left the members of Pascal’s guard deeply ashamed.

Now the captain of the personal guard, Ackerman, leaned against the cold wall, staring blankly at a stain on the floor in utter dejection. Most of the others looked much the same.

The war was over.

They had lost.

Sir Pascal was dead, and they had become prisoners. Though they had surrendered willingly, until the enemy lord personally approved otherwise, they were still prisoners of war.

And in this era, prisoners of war could hardly expect humane treatment. Stripped of armor, thrown into filthy dungeons, fed food fit for pigs, beaten and humiliated endlessly by the victors—those were the words most commonly associated with captivity.

That was hardly surprising. The Vaughn Continent had no international law, no Geneva Convention. Torturing prisoners was both an outlet for the winners and a way to crush the spirit of the defeated. High-ranking nobles might be ransomed, but ordinary soldiers could only endure the consequences of their own defeat.

Yet Ackerman was surprised. None of that had happened to them. Though all their weapons and armor had been confiscated, they had merely been brought to this spacious warehouse and left alone. Dry straw had even been spread across the floor as bedding, and although the meals were simple, they consisted of hot black bread and meat soup.

Ackerman hated to admit it, but aside from losing their freedom, the conditions here were far better than what the allied army endured during field campaigns. It was difficult to imagine this coming from a minor territorial lord. He had once visited Knight Verdi’s territory, and compared to this “prison,” Verdi’s military camp resembled a pigsty.

What exactly was this? They had lost the war, failed to protect the knight they served, and now even the objective conditions around them surpassed everything they had known. That was the true source of Ackerman’s despair.

Defeat after defeat.

Clank.

Outside the warehouse’s heavy wooden doors came the sound of chains rattling, followed by the doors swinging open. Blinding sunlight flooded in instantly, making the long-accustomed Ackerman raise a hand to shield his eyes. A tall figure entered with several others behind him.

Backlit by the sunlight, his face could not be clearly seen, but that calm, commanding aura was something Ackerman had witnessed once already on the battlefield.

While everyone stared blankly toward the doorway, the leading figure spoke, “How long has it been, and you already look like this?” 

His voice suddenly sharpened. 

“Stand at attention!”

The command struck like thunder, jolting the utterly dispirited knights awake. Almost the instant the words rang out, every member of the guard sprang reflexively to their feet, bodies rigid as they snapped into standard military posture. They were professional soldiers—an elite lord’s personal guard. In their disoriented state, the familiar military command had triggered pure instinct. Muscle memory acted faster than thought.

Ackerman was no exception. Only after standing ramrod straight, eyes forward, did he suddenly realize—

This was not Sir Pascal’s camp.

And the man issuing the order was the very one who had slain their lord in the duel: the kingdom’s Pioneer Knight, Nolan.

“What do you want?” Ackerman demanded, humiliated by his own reflexive obedience. “To mock us? We are proud knights. Even if we die—”

Before he could finish, Nolan cut him off, “Listen carefully. Whatever complaints you have, swallow them!” He strode into the warehouse like a commanding officer inspecting troops. “You’re soldiers, not children who need comforting. I’m not your caretaker, and I’m certainly not your mother. I don’t have time for this.”

Ackerman was left speechless by the verbal assault, his chest heaving, his face flushed dark red.

Nolan did not wait for a response before continuing, “You’ve got decent strength and enough combat experience. You still have a chance to contribute to the kingdom’s revival. If you still consider yourselves soldiers of Elfin, and if even the slightest yearning for the word ‘glory’ remains in your hearts… I can give you an opportunity.”

With that, he tilted his head slightly toward the Black Armored Legion soldiers behind him.

The twenty legionnaires immediately understood. In perfect unison, they stepped forward and tossed the spare longswords they carried onto the floor before the captives.

Clatter!

Cold steel struck stone with a sharp metallic crash that echoed against every prisoner’s heart.

Looking at the stunned expressions on their faces, Nolan spoke calmly. “Anyone willing to fight for ideals and for the kingdom—pick up a sword and follow Captain Hank to the training grounds. I’ll give you two minutes to decide.”

“You’re trying to persuade us to surrender?” Ackerman gritted out through clenched teeth. “We are Sir Pascal’s most loyal personal guard! We—”

“Watch your wording,” Nolan interrupted him again, even more forcefully than before. “This isn’t persuasion to surrender. This is a notice from the Lord of Coldsteel City. You may accept it or refuse it; I don’t care. My Black Armored Legion is elite among elites. Losing any one of you will not weaken it.”

His gaze swept slowly across the faces before him—angry, confused, conflicted.

“Now, the choice is yours. You can rot here like stray dogs, forgotten by the world, dragging out a miserable existence. Or you can take up your weapons again and fight for the glory you claim to believe in. Change something. Fight for something. Become your own heroes, even if only for a single moment. The countdown starts now. Miss your chance, and it’s gone.”

After speaking, Nolan folded his arms and stood silently, refusing to say another word.

The warehouse fell deathly quiet except for the occasional sound of someone swallowing nervously. Every member of the guard remained silent. No one moved. But every pair of eyes flickered violently, each man locked in fierce internal struggle.

Standing behind Nolan, Hank could not help glancing at his young lord. This was the first time he had seen Nolan employ such tactics, and the effect was undeniably powerful. From the moment he barked “Stand at attention,” everything had been part of a layered psychological offensive.

First came the familiar military command, using a soldier’s conditioned obedience to establish absolute subconscious authority—the relationship of superior and subordinate. From that moment onward, the “negotiation” had never been between equals.

Then Nolan continuously projected strength, systematically crushing what little pride the knights still clung to.

Most impressive of all, from beginning to end, he never once mentioned “serve me” or “obey,” words that would easily provoke resistance. Instead, he framed everything around “the kingdom,” “glory,” and “becoming your own hero.” For any Elfin soldier who still possessed even a trace of passion in his heart, those words carried fatal appeal.

Finally, Nolan imposed extreme pressure through a brutally short time limit, giving them no opportunity to carefully weigh the pros and cons. It prevented any back-and-forth bargaining while further lowering their psychological footing.

This kid really does know what he’s doing, Hank thought.

Time ticked by second after second.

Ackerman clenched his fists so tightly his hands trembled. He understood what this lord was offering: a chance to choose. And it was not an easy choice.

Sir Pascal had recognized his talent and lifted him from being a useless minor noble wasting away his days to the strength and position he held now. How could he forget that debt? Loyalty like that was not something one could simply discard. Moreover, this Lord Nolan’s so-called “joining glory” meant denying his former beliefs and admitting that everything he had previously stood for was contrary to the true path.

Denying oneself was the hardest thing of all. Even the most wicked people searched for justifications for their actions, even if those justifications were lies they told themselves. It was the instinctive self-protection of social creatures.

Ackerman raised his head, determination filling his eyes. He was prepared to use his life to uphold the final fragment of loyalty he possessed as a knight, just as Sir Pascal had done.

Yet just as he was about to refuse—and perhaps even die to prove his conviction—a faint sound of footsteps suddenly came from behind him.

One man silently stepped out from the crowd.

Under the stunned gazes of everyone present, he bent down and picked up the sword lying on the ground.