Kaelor blinked. "Alone?" Even he knew that forging a hundred iron-ranked Mountain Sabers, each weighing six to seven pounds, was an enormous feat for a single blacksmith.
"Of course, My Lord. Return in a month."
Kaelor nodded once and left the forge. He made his way straight to his room and brought out the Swordmaster booklet.
"System, fuse whatever knowledge is in this book with me."
As expected. This was no ordinary text, it had been written by a Swordmaster.
Blue flames engulfed the booklet, lifting it gently into the air as if carried by unseen hands. One by one, the pages detached themselves, fluttering like leaves in the wind, and began to encircle Kaelor.
He watched, wide-eyed, as golden letters lifted off the parchment, glowing brilliantly before they hurtled toward him. The sudden burst of motion made him flinch and shut his eyes, but he felt nothing.
A torrent of knowledge flooded into his mind, ancient, vast, and sharp. Alongside it, a deep compulsion seized him, an unrelenting pull that guided his limbs.
Without hesitation, Kaelor grabbed Ignis and left his room, drawn as if by instinct to the open space behind the house. There, beneath the sky, he unsheathed his sword and began to move.
A heavy vertical swing. A clean horizontal slash. Diagonal cuts, smooth and steady. Forward and back, back and forward. They were simple, foundational movements, yet as he performed them, a cool sensation rippled through his muscles, and his motions began to change. They grew more refined, more fluid, until it felt like his body had memorized these drills over years of tireless practice.
Kaelor didn’t even notice when his speed picked up. His clumsy footwork melted away, replaced with swift, precise steps, measured, efficient, instinctive.
It was as if his muscles had awakened to a rhythm he’d never known, like he’d trained in secret all his life.
Though they were only the basics, Kaelor had crossed into something rare, a transcendent understanding of fundamental swordplay. His stance steadied. He drew in a deep breath, lifted Ignis high overhead, and swung it down with force.
The air cracked. The blade cleaved forward, and a crooked gully tore open across the ground, stretching fifty meters long and half a meter deep.
For the first time, Kaelor’s eyes truly opened. He saw it, flowing through him like a river without color. A current. A living energy.
He willed it to his right foot.
Then, with a stomp, he launched himself into the air, soaring nearly four meters high in a single bound.
This was it. The mark of an Expert, not just in technique, but in physique.
With this newfound mastery, Kaelor had become a true threat to Hound, whose saber technique remained mired at the Adept level, despite his body having reached the heights of a Swordmaster.
Slowly, Kaelor sheathed his sword. Only then did he notice, the skies had gone dark, veiled in a deep twilight hue.
"What is my reason for picking up the sword?" he murmured, eyes fixed on the heavens above.
"To me... it’s the only way to survive. To grow. I want to live, not small like I once did..."
His voice drifted off as he stepped toward the front yard, where the view of the town stretched before him. The distant torches flickered faintly, their light swallowed by the settling dusk.
"But now... I’m a lord." He exhaled, the weight of it settling on his shoulders. "And I’ve come to see that action really does speak louder than words."
His gaze dropped to Ignis in his hand. For a moment, he studied the blade, then turned and walked back inside.
His will? Build a new order, a paradise for himself and to do that, he needed strength. In this world, strength meant weapons and in Kaelor’s situation, a sword!
Behind him, the town rested in uneasy silence. Thirty-nine Dreadclaws stood on patrol, each one bearing the strength of a mid to peak-level Adept, the pinnacle of what a human could achieve without stepping into the realm of the extraordinary. Slaves still bound in chains remained tucked behind barriers, out of sight but not forgotten.
For tonight, at least, the town was safe.
The next day, Kaelor stood before a crowd of one thousand four hundred slaves, his arms clasped behind him, head tilted slightly to the side, as though studying each one of them.
They were all busy devouring their breakfast, their faces bright with hunger and relief. The aroma of cooked meat hung in the morning air. Preparing the meal had taken a small army of Redwood Town’s women, who had risen before dawn to make it happen.
To feed them, Kaelor had sacrificed ten large Bighorn sheep, which Jon had fetched at first light, guiding a creaking wagon pulled by two sturdy draft horses.
It had taken effort, coordination, cost, and care. But as Kaelor watched their joy at the sight and taste of meat, a slow, fulfilling smile formed on his face.
While the slaves ate, the Dreadclaws moved among them silently, working methodically to detach the chains that bound them together.
Not all the way, of course. Kaelor wasn’t foolish. The group links were broken, but individual shackles remained fastened around wrists and ankles. They were, in truth, already free. But he wouldn’t tell them that, not yet.
He wanted them to earn it. Or at least feel that they had.
Their first task would be to build a massive wooden wall enclosing the valley, defensible, towering, and lasting. Once complete, it would give Redwood a spine. These men would help raise it, and in doing so, become its first protectors.
Kaelor had plans. Redwood would become an agricultural stronghold. The soil here was rich and dark, far better than the rocky terrain of Oasis. Leaving such land unworked would be wasteful. But it would all mean nothing if the town remained exposed.
Then, a flicker of golden text swept before his vision:
[Your slaves have positive thoughts towards you and are willing to serve wholeheartedly. Loyalty 45%. For gaining a little trust from your new people, you have gained 3,000 FP!]