Both of them were using practice swords—real iron swords, but the edges were dull.

No one mentioned protective gear, so if they were hit, injury was guaranteed. In the worst case, death was also possible.

The swordsmanship of northern knights was mostly practical. They abandoned flashy sword moves and focused on the basics from the very start—strikes, thrusts, blocks, and so on.

The rest of the training was about knowing when to attack, when to retreat, when to chop, and when to block.

With daily practice, the muscles would form reflexes, and then it was time for real combat. The ones who survived, the ones who were injured—these experiences would become the foundation of their strength.

The rest came down to greater strength, faster speed, more agile reactions, and a stronger will.

Virut held his sword properly and performed a salute.

But Derek's sword tip sharply jabbed into his wrist.

Virut winced in pain, almost dropping the sword. His gaze toward Derek was full of confusion—he didn’t understand why Derek would strike him unexpectedly.

"Did you hit your head on a southern woman's thigh or something?" Derek snapped. "Did your grandfather ever tell you about his knightly salutes on the battlefield? Or have you ever heard of a northern knight lowering his head to wait for a return salute?"

Derek’s normally calm demeanor was replaced by a furious, bull-like rage.

"Listen up, we are northern knights, we are like dragons. We don’t need others' approval. The sword in our hands is our confidence. Only southern women try to bind knights with such silly rules. Next time you meet someone like that, aim for their forehead and chop it open to see if it’s full of crap."

The knight attendants were stunned. This… was this the new generation of northern knights?

To be honest, while the knight education in the north hadn't slackened in recent years, it was still lacking the baptism of war. Some nonsensical things had begun to creep into the noble circles, and even northern knights weren’t exempt.

Virut’s expression shifted slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was from dissatisfaction.

But Derek didn’t care what he was thinking.

There was no problem that a good beating couldn’t solve. If it wasn’t enough, just beat him some more.

Humans are born to revere strength, and overwhelming power is the greatest form of persuasion. Strong people are never wrong.

"Now, grip your sword tightly. I’ll give you one more chance."

Virut clenched his sword tightly, letting out a loud roar as he charged forward.

Derek struck upward from below.

Clang!

Virut, whose strike should have had the advantage, found himself stumbling backward instead.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Are you a woman? I don’t feel any strength from you at all."

Derek roared like a dragon again.

Virut was both shocked and unwilling to believe it. His talent was good—otherwise, he wouldn’t have reached Level 6 at this age.

His physical strength and speed were definitely among the best of his peers, but facing Derek, he was far too weak.

Derek didn’t hold back, quickly advancing and humiliating him with a series of swift, skillful blows.

"Is that how a woman reacts? I still have to be careful with my force, or I might knock you over. You can't even handle the same amount of force; your swordsmanship is far too lacking. And your footwork—are you a wooden post? What’s wrong with your legs? Kick me."

Every part of Virut’s body took hits, and Derek showed no mercy.

At this point, all the resentment and confusion were gone. All Virut could feel was pain—pain so intense that he couldn’t think about anything else.

Finally, Derek kicked him over and tossed the practice sword to one of the attendants.

"Too weak. Really too weak. Is this how the younger generation of northern knights are now?"

Many were displeased by this remark. Virut struggled to get up, still looking defiant.

Yes, Derek had a famous reputation and remarkable achievements, so it was acceptable that he could teach Virut a lesson.

But that didn’t mean that the younger generation of northern knights was weak. In fact, every time they had exchanged with knights from other regions, the northern knights had usually had the upper hand.

"So? Not happy?" Derek turned around and saw a group of faces that looked far from satisfied.

"If you’re not happy, speak up. If you don’t even have the courage to resist, how are you not a coward?"

Were they worried about Derek’s title as a viscount? Worried about their reputation?

That wouldn’t do. Derek’s men never stayed silent.

"Viscount, I’m not happy." Virut spoke up.

The group of young knights, having been riled up, quickly joined in with their own shouts.

"Good, now you’re showing some northern knight spirit." Derek grinned. It wasn’t fun playing with softballs—now it was getting interesting.

"Virut, I know you’re called a knight genius. But look at the knights here. Each of them is from the most ordinary backgrounds. None of them have received full knight training. Now... choose anyone. Let me see if your ‘knight genius’ is truly deserving of the name."

Virut scanned the crowd and saw that the knights looked strong. One by one, they had imposing builds, each looking formidable.

But a knight's skill couldn’t be judged solely by their physique.

If he couldn’t beat Derek, could he not beat these commoner knights?

Virut, being a bit prideful, intentionally chose the biggest and strongest-looking knight. At least this size would guarantee some level of power.

"Heh, not bad, this big guy must have the most strength."

The knights eagerly crowded around, even though many of them had received the title of honorary knight, they were still considered commoner knights. The next generation still had to fight for their place.

So seeing these noble knights being beaten was quite a satisfying sight.

The chosen big guy was also a bit irritated—why did this brat choose him among so many others? Did he think he was easy to pick on?

"You little brat, there’s no genius in the Augusta family, only fools. Let me teach you that lesson today."

This time, Virut didn’t use any fancy moves. He directly attacked with his sword.

Though his body was bruised, his foundation was solid. His movements were clean, and his strength and speed were on par with anyone else.

There was no one in the group who could block his attack.

But the big guy, nicknamed "Bear," was more straightforward. He used his strength to knock Virut’s sword out of his hand, then slammed his sword into Virut’s waist.

Virut collapsed from the pain, unable to get back up, while the practice sword was pressed against his neck.

"Heh, typical nobleman."

Bear smugly put away his sword and started showing off to his comrades.

The noble knights were shocked. It wasn’t surprising that Virut had lost—after all, he was Derek’s knight. But to lose so easily… that was shocking.

"Again! Choose another one."

Derek’s voice rang out with malicious amusement.

From then on, Virut challenged every knight present, one by one. In the end, he was so battered that he could hardly hold his sword, but his fierce spirit remained. Despite repeated failures, he kept challenging.

Of course, what impressed the new knights the most was Derek’s own knights.

Nearly every one of them was an exceptional knight, many of them being title-holders with knight-level accomplishments. Any of them could easily defeat these young men.

For a moment, everyone was dazed, as if they were dreaming.

Since when had the world of knights become so competitive?

Could it be… that they were just too weak?