A silence followed, thick with disbelief.
Then a voice from the crowd murmured, "In an instant... Lord Roland attacked multiple times... too fast for us to see."
Gasps echoed. Some unconsciously stepped back.
Till now, Roland hadn’t used a blade—only the blunt scabbard and his limbs. Every strike was efficient, brutal, and clean. His movements were like a tide—graceful but crushing.
Roland glanced around, a small smile on his face.
’If I can’t even do this much, then wouldn’t that mean my years of hardship were meaningless?’
He wasn’t the strongest in the world. He didn’t possess monstrous strength or legendary artifacts. But he had trained, survived, and bled through dozens of real-life battlefields and places where only four out of ten came back.
He hadn’t accomplished grand feats, but he’d given more than most. And now, those experiences spoke through his body.
Another wave of attackers came, driven by pride, vengeance or desperation.
They circled and lunged.
Roland moved again leaving behind after images that made one dizzy to look at.
A sweeping kick upended one, while his elbow cracked against another’s temple. A blade aimed at his neck was caught between his fingers and snapped in two. Another fighter tried to grapple him from behind, but Roland slipped from the hold and flipped the man over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.
Within seconds, half a dozen fighters were sprawled out around him groaning, whimpering, unconscious.Roland slapped them to dust.
From the shadows, a figure emerged wielding a chain laced with a glistening green liquid. Poison.
Roland’s instincts screamed.
He then flung daggers from a distance with mechanical precision. The chain came first, whirling like a serpent, then the blades.
The chain wrapped around his ankle, but instead of panicking, he grabbed it with one hand and yanked. The wielder flew forward helplessly, slamming into the dagger-thrower with a meaty thud.
Roland landed on a crouch but something was off.
A figure appeared in front of him, swinging a limp body like a club.
It was the same man or should be..
The guy was using others who had been knocked out to confuse him.
Roland rolled to the side, narrowly missing the brutal strike. The weaponized body flopped to the ground, unconscious.
Roland prepared to counter but the man had turned around to run but as Roland chased him.
A handful of sand struck Roland’s eyes.
"Damn..cheatind" Roland muttered, momentarily blinded. But instead of recoiling, he chuckled, shutting his eyes and sharpening his other senses.
A dagger scraped past his ribs.
Roland’s hand snapped backward, grabbing the would-be assassin’s wrist mid-swing.
"You were close," he said coldly.
With a flick, he snapped the dagger in two.
The attacker’s eyes widened in fear—but before he could retreat, Roland’s knee met his stomach and sent him flying but just he was knocked.
A coin whistled through the air like a bullet aimed for Roland’s neck.
He tilted just enough. The coin sheared a single strand of his hair cutting it precisely.
He turned, eyes narrowing.
The same man rolled down stood twenty feet away, holding another coin between two fingers, ready to flick.
"You pass," he said, nodding.
The man blinked in shock.
Finally, the dust settled.
Groans filled the space.
Bodies lay sprawled across the arena—dozens of them. Some clutched their ribs, others had dislocated joints or bruised limbs. But not a single one had been lethally wounded.
He was still unscathed.
His armor was untouched. No blood stained his gloves. He stood at the center like a pillar amidst a battlefield, the wind playing gently with his cloak.
Every eye turned to him not with hatred, but with awe.They had thought him a noble with flashy moves.
Now they realized they were standing in front of a predator disguised as a man.
A warrior who was quite experienced and strong.
One by one, they bowed their heads not out of fear, but respect.
Even the one Roland had deemed "passed" stepped forward and bowed slightly, eyes burning with admiration.
Roland gave a slight nod.
This wasn’t about showing off.
That strength wasn’t only in magic or mythical power but in technique, experience, and willpower honed over years of battle.
Roland exhaled slowly and whispered with a soft smile—
"Still not enough..."
Roland then pointed at the man.
Then he turned calmly to Roan.
"Bring him to my office later," he said, voice cold and commanding.
He hadn’t even bothered to ask the man’s name. That alone spoke volumes.
Observed and assessed. His calm under pressure, his precise decision-making, the way he never let emotion cloud his judgment—it all pointed to a rare kind of talent.
A genius, Roland thought. A different breed of wolf.
And geniuses needed testing.
Roland slowly turned back to the stunned assembly. He took a breath and raised his voice—not loud, but clear and cold, cutting through the tense silence like a blade through silk.
"This," he said, nodding at the man behind him, "is the man you serve."
A few soldiers blinked, confused. Some frowned. But most... froze.
"Don’t mistake kindness for weakness," Roland continued, steel in his eyes. "I’m not interested in blind obedience. I don’t want puppets who kneel for fear."
"I want loyalty born from strength. Loyalty that comes from respect. And respect..." He let the word hang. "...is earned."
He dropped the kitchen knife with a sharp clink. It landed at his feet, still wet from earlier.
"The offer still stands," he said without emotion. "Any one of you who thinks they can draw blood from me—step forward. One cut. One scratch. And you walk away with a thousand gold coins and a personal martial art."
The mood had shifted completely. The contempt in their eyes had been replaced with disbelief—then awe. Some soldiers lowered their gazes, ashamed. Others clenched their fists in silent respect. A few who had sneered at Roan moments ago now looked at Roland like a myth walking.
He had shattered their doubts.
Roan stepped forward at last, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.
"You certainly know how to make an entrance, my lord," he said, voice laced with admiration.
Roland exhaled slowly, scanning the crowd once more.
"Clean up," he ordered. "Tend to the wounded. We begin training tomorrow."
Then he turned his back and walked away.
No one dared speak. No one dared meet his gaze.