Chapter 191: A Trial of Skill

“Whitebird Assault!” Ackerman roared, pouring all his strength into the strike. His longsword burst into a blinding streak of white light as it thrust straight toward Nolan. The attack was like a ferocious white bird skimming the sky, carrying all of his frustration and resolve. 

Hank, who had been standing by with his arms crossed, frowned deeply. This was too much. It had already gone beyond the bounds of an “honor duel.”

The concept of an honor duel had first originated in the Rus Empire, the greatest human empire. Its purpose was to resolve disputes between nobles or knights without taking lives. Once the duel ended, all grudges were considered settled, which was why it was also known as a “battle of closure.” Over time, honor duels evolved into two forms. One was a pure contest of honor, meant only to resolve conflict, where the fight ended once one side conceded. The other was a “death duel,” fought to settle irreconcilable hatred, ending only with one party’s death. Refusing an honor duel was seen as cowardice and invited universal scorn, while declining a death duel carried far less stigma. Unless explicitly declared otherwise, an honor duel defaulted to stopping short of lethal force.

Ackerman had clearly let go of his hostility earlier and had shown no intention of avenging Pascal. He had only wanted to give himself closure. After losing twice to Nolan, any knight with dignity should have conceded. Yet now he had unleashed a killing move. This was no longer a duel of honor but a fight to the death. If not for his absolute trust in Nolan’s strength, Hank might already have intervened to stop this reckless act.

Nolan, however, remained utterly calm. He did not move. He even slid the scabbard back to his waist and folded his arms across his chest, as though he had not seen the deadly white light rushing toward him.

Ackerman’s strike had already been committed. There was no pulling back.

At the very instant the white light was about to touch Nolan, Nolan softly spoke two words.

“Conclusion.”

A thunderous explosion followed.

Dust surged into the air as sand and gravel scattered in all directions. Ackerman’s Whitebird Assault slammed into the ground two steps beside Nolan, carving a deep gash into the hardened earth. The fissure stretched outward for five or six meters before finally stopping.

The onlookers were stunned. Members of the Black Armored Legion let out quiet sighs of relief, thinking Ackerman had shown restraint at the last moment and deliberately diverted his strike. Since their lord clearly had no intention of continuing, this must have been Ackerman’s final act of submission.

But Ackerman himself was the most shocked of all.

He stood frozen, staring at the long scar in the ground before looking back at Nolan in disbelief. He could swear to Sir Pascal’s spirit that he had not held back in the slightest. That strike had been aimed squarely at Nolan. Under normal circumstances, it should have been impossible to miss—yet it had.

What kind of unfathomable technique was this?

Nolan watched the shifting expressions on Ackerman’s face and spoke calmly. “Have you had enough?”

Ackerman stared at him blankly. In Nolan’s deep green eyes, there was no trace of mockery, only steady composure and absolute control. Ackerman nodded stiffly. His mind had gone blank, and all his anger, resentment, and humiliation had dissipated in that moment, leaving only boundless shock.

Of course, Ackerman had not missed. Nolan had simply used him to test the ability of Conclusion.

He was quite satisfied with the result. Severing the link between “Ackerman’s strike” and “the strike hitting its target” would have cost two points of Origin Power. But by redirecting the link to “the strike hitting the ground to the right,” he had spent only one. For an experienced swordsman, forcing a complete miss involved a broader logical leap and thus greater cost. Flexible use of Conclusion was crucial for conserving Origin Power.

Ackerman was completely convinced.

He dropped to one knee, drove his sword into the soil, and lowered his head. His voice carried a depth of respect he had never shown before. “Thank you, my lord, for your guidance.”

That single address—“my lord”—was both gratitude for the chance Nolan had given him to return to the battlefield and an expression of his admiration and submission to a true superior.

Nolan stepped forward and helped him to his feet. “Those of integrity should not be buried. Though we once stood on different sides, we can still fight together for a better cause.” His gaze swept past Ackerman to the guards behind him. “You are loyal. Sir Pascal wished for your blood to be shed for the kingdom’s future. I am simply giving you the choice to reclaim your honor.”

He turned to face the rest of the guard unit. They still stood in formation, but the struggle and confusion that once filled their eyes had vanished, replaced by reverence born of witnessing true strength.

“Report to Captain Hank at the training grounds. There will be an evaluation in three days,” Nolan said, raising his voice. “I’ve given you an opportunity, but joining the Black Armored Legion isn’t something you get by wishing for it. Those who fail can go back to farming.”

A jolt ran through the guards, and a sharp sense of urgency rose within them. They had thought picking up their swords again meant acceptance, but now they faced a harsh test. Yet that very harshness rekindled their fighting spirit as knights.

Hank nodded at Nolan, approval clear in his eyes. He stepped forward and barked, “You heard him. Stay with me, and don’t fall behind!”

Ackerman quickly rejoined the ranks, his gaze firm once more. He knew this was more than training. It was their chance to prove themselves again, and he would repay Nolan’s trust with his strength.

Under Hank’s command, the guards swiftly left the warehouse and ran toward the training grounds. Their backs no longer carried yesterday’s dejection, but instead a renewed vitality, as though they had been reborn.

The addition of Ackerman’s elite unit did not significantly boost the Black Armored Legion’s raw strength, but they served as the perfect example to prisoners of war and the entire Demont Province: anyone who sought honor would be accepted.

Nolan watched them go, his gaze distant. The war machine that was Coldsteel City had finished warming up. It was time to chart its next course.

Several days later, the spoils of the Somme River campaign had finally been sorted and absorbed. Coldsteel City’s military supplies had doubled, morale was high, and captured goods filled the warehouses. Craftsmen worked day and night repairing damaged weapons and armor, while the city’s fortifications improved with visible progress each day.

Outside the city, the training grounds rang with the clash of steel and the shouts of soldiers.

Rehanna stood with a longsword that gleamed with a chilling light. The blade was slender, and a sapphire-like gem, as blue as a wolf’s eye, was set into the hilt. Each swing carried a sharp, cutting wind, as though frost trailed in its wake.

This was the Ice Wolf sword, once belonging to Fenrir, a Fantasy-tier weapon.

“Ha!”

Rehanna spun into a sweeping slash, the tip of her blade stopping just short of Little Donnie’s throat. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his own sword was pinned down, his body forced nearly to the edge of the field. Frost had crept across half his body, and his hands were beginning to go numb.

“Nicely done, Sister Rehanna!” Little Donnie grinned as he stepped back and lowered his sword, rubbing his sore wrist.

Rehanna withdrew the Ice Wolf sword and ran her hand along its blade, unable to hide her delight. It suited her perfectly. When Nolan had first given it to her, she had felt almost unworthy.

“This sword reveals its true power only in the hands of a swordsman who is both meticulous and ruthless,” Nolan had told her. “It suits you well.”

Remembering those words, warmth rose in her chest. She knew Nolan had entrusted her with the weapon out of genuine faith.

Little Donnie watched from the side, his eyes full of envy. In Rehanna’s hands, the Ice Wolf sword seemed alive, its cold killing intent palpable even to him.

“Brother Nolan was right. That sword really does fit you,” he said sincerely, though a trace of regret crossed his face. He had once imagined wielding such a weapon himself and cutting down enemies on the battlefield.

“You’re staring at it like you want to glue your eyes to it,” Rehanna teased.

Little Donnie scratched his head, embarrassed. “A good sword belongs with a strong wielder. That’s only natural,” he said, then added, “Brother Nolan also said that while I have plenty of courage, I might not yet have the control to bring out a weapon like that. He’s right. I accept that.”

He trusted that Nolan would never overlook him. Whatever Nolan gave them was always the best and most suitable.

As the two finished sparring and paused to rest, a member of the Black Armored Legion hurried over. He stopped before them, struck his chest with his right fist, and gave a crisp salute.

“Captain Rehanna, Captain Donnie, my lord has ordered you both to assemble at the lord’s residence at five this afternoon for a meeting!”

Rehanna wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes sharpening. “Understood. Thank you.”

The soldier saluted again and departed.

Rehanna and Little Donnie exchanged a glance, both seeing the same barely contained excitement in each other’s eyes. Nolan had called another meeting of the core leadership. They knew exactly what that meant.

Their lord was about to make his next move.