"I can tell your reluctance isn’t because you want to fight Mic Nor," Sir Verren said, his gaze sharp. "From what you’ve just said, it can only be because of the competition itself. Is there something among the prizes you’re after?"
His words struck deep.
Renn hesitated, silently impressed by the old man’s perception.
He had seen right through him.
It was exactly as Verren said.
Renn wasn’t shaken because someone stronger than him existed—Michael didn’t intimidate him for that reason.
What bothered him was that someone stronger than him was here... in this competition.
This wasn’t about testing his limits or challenging himself.
He was here for the viscount title.
The money? The whispers of wealth promised to the winner? He didn’t care.
The Duke’s daughter? Marrying her might bring some benefits to his family. That was how little importance she held in his heart.
The viscount title stood above everything else.
It was the only thing that truly mattered to him.
Renn didn’t immediately respond. He stared at the floor, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Verren had cut to the heart of the matter.
"Yes," Renn finally said, voice low but steady. "I’m here for the viscount title."
Verren tilted his head. "That’s it?"
The way Verren said it—like it was nothing more than a fleeting whim—rubbed him wrong.
His eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
Verren didn’t answer with words.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached to his side and drew the sword strapped to his waist.
It was simple in appearance. Clean. Polished. But the moment it cleared the scabbard, the air shifted.
A white light began to coat its edge, faint at first, but growing in intensity like a second sun emerging in the small chamber. The vibration pulsed through the room. Not violent—but resonant, deep, and steady.
He knew that sensation.
The word escaped before he could stop it.
For a brief moment, his carefully composed thoughts crumbled.
Someone else could wield this energy?
No one ever told him—he’d never seen another.
"Did you think it was yours alone?" Verren asked, lowering the blade slightly. "That you were the only one?"
If other swordsmen were to hear his surprise, they would’ve laughed at him.
Qi was rare—but it wasn’t unique.
There were sword cultivators in remote sects, hermits in distant valleys, knights who transcended the ordinary. Qi was the mark of one who walked the path of mastery—not privilege.
But Renn had grown up with only the barest scraps of knowledge. His background was humble. His swordsmanship self-taught.
Even among nobles with greater means, knowledge of Qi was rare.
Renn had no one to explain it. No one to guide him.
"You really don’t know anything, do you?" Verren’s tone held no scorn—just calm observation.
Renn clenched his fists.
And that stung more than he wanted to admit.
His eyes flicked from the glowing blade back to Verren. The power the old man radiated was immense.
It was refined. More than his.
Verren sheathed his sword with a soft, final click. "I’m a swordsman," he said. "Like you."
"Sir Verren White. Grand knight of The LionHeart Kingdom."
"I say again boy, I want you to be my disciple."
Renn’s heart skipped a beat.
The words rang in his ears like a thunderclap.
He’d heard them before.
And now one stood before him.
He was ignorant about things like Qi and so much more but he wasn’t so ignorant that he couldn’t recognise the peak power of the kingdom.
Renn took a step back without realizing it, his throat dry. Panic began to claw at his chest—not fear of harm, but the pressure of realization.
He was speaking so casually to a Grand Knight.
He’d questioned him. Doubted him. Almost snapped at him.
Verren observed Renn quietly, as if understanding the storm that brewed within the boy.
Renn’s thoughts spun faster than his pulse.
How had he not known? Sure, the man looked powerful—his bearing, his armor, the way he spoke—but this?
And this one... wanted him as a disciple?
"But... why?" Renn croaked, the question escaping on instinct. His voice cracked slightly, like someone overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all. "I’m... I’m no one."
Verren’s lips curled into the faintest smile. "Not true."
"I watched you," he said.
"So few even grasp the true basics of the sword. Fewer can wield it. And among them... fewer still can let it flow so naturally. You’re not polished. You’re not refined. But you... you’re raw steel, boy. You don’t need praise. You need forging."
Renn’s chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths.
He didn’t know how to process it.
It was then that Verren struck—while the iron was still hot.
"Didn’t you say you were here for the viscount title?"
Renn turned to him, still dazed, uncertain why the old man had circled back to that.
"You can’t defeat Mic Nor," Verren said plainly, "so why not become my disciple instead?"
He stepped closer, his voice low and firm.
"If you agree now, I won’t just make you a viscount. You won’t be some token noble handed a barren territory. I’ll give you wealth. Strength. Loyal people. Lasting prosperity."
He paused, letting the words settle like a weight.
"Think about it. Isn’t this the path to your goal—and more? The title you want, and the power to protect it."
Renn was stunned speechless.
The title he had fought so hard for... handed to him?
No—offered. Just like that?
His instincts screamed to be cautious. This was too much, too sudden. Yet standing in front of him was a Grand Knight—someone who could flatten cities if the rumors were true. Someone who had no reason to lie.
And Renn could feel it.
This man meant what he said.