Derek hadn’t let them off the hook, or rather, the knights hadn’t let the new recruits off the hook.

The most direct way to integrate into the group was, of course, through fists.

Every new recruit experienced what Virut had gone through.

It wasn’t that no one had taken care of them—it was just that if you couldn’t stick it out, you were doomed.

After the training that had them crying out in pain, it was obvious who had the stronger willpower.

For Derek, talent was secondary; willpower was far more important.

And this wasn’t the end of it.

Soon, the new knight apprentices would understand why the Augusta family had no geniuses.

Training. Everyone trained until they dropped.

Why are there so many soldiers, but only a few who become knights?

When Derek chose people, aside from loyalty, he looked for willpower.

If you could survive, even if you were a fool who could only train hard, that was good enough.

As long as you didn’t die from the training, you trained until you could no longer move.

It wasn’t just the new recruits who trained. The official knights also trained, and Derek himself trained.

They ate, lived, and suffered together. Derek remembered the valuable lessons from his previous life.

That evening, Derek, holding a medicinal alcohol, walked into the recruits’ dormitory.

The knights' quarters were simple, and the Augusta family style was everywhere.

Rough wooden furniture, some still with splinters.

Thick bedding made of plain burlap.

The dinner had plenty of oil and fat, but the taste was another matter.

Anyone who came to be a knight’s attendant would know—this wasn’t just about the training, it felt more like doing forced labor.

Which noble son had ever endured this kind of hardship?

Even though training was difficult, the living conditions were a whole new level of suffering.

Many of them regretted it and were thinking of running away.

Even though they knew being close to Viscount Derek was important for their families’ future, knowing and doing were two different things.

Virut, in particular, had collapsed on his bed, his whole body aching to the point where he questioned his life choices.

The northern knight life he had always aspired to was actually more about the glory of being a northern knight. He had never imagined the process would be this painful.

His self-perceived "hard training" now seemed like nothing.

But the pain was too intense for him to think about anything else.

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Of course, if you asked if there was no resentment in his heart, that would be a lie.

The image of Viscount Derek seemed to be slowly shattering in his mind.

"Virut, do you think Viscount Derek is deliberately torturing us?"

Someone leaned in and spoke, immediately drawing the attention of the attendants who were filled with grievances.

Virut glanced at them but didn’t respond. Among the nobles, not all words were friendly. Who knew if this person was trying to fish for information and then turn around and sell him out?

"I think he is. If it’s really like this, can hard training make someone a titled knight? If hard training could make someone a titled knight, there wouldn’t be so few of them."

Someone voiced their anger, and everyone knew that talent determined the upper limit. They didn’t believe their own talent could ever make them titled knights.

These words were like a spark that ignited a barrel of gunpowder.

Everyone began to grumble, pointing out all the unreasonable things.

Virut started to doubt if he had made the wrong choice.

"Viscount is coming!"

Suddenly, someone shouted, and the noisy discussion immediately fell silent—so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Complaining a bit didn’t necessarily mean they had the guts to leave.

The families who had sent their sons here hadn’t done so without any investment.

If Viscount Derek caught them talking behind his back, it wouldn’t be a pleasant thing.

Many had prepared themselves for the worst—just like earlier, the Viscount would come and roar like an angry dragon.

But what they actually got was a smiling Viscount Derek.

He knew when to be strict and when to act more approachable.

There was no point in losing his temper now—other than venting emotions, what would it achieve?

Being too harsh could backfire.

So he cheerfully walked through the crowd, even making excuses for the attendants:

"It’s fine, keep talking. When I was in the knight order, I used to complain about Count Pereira too. During training, I’m strict with you for your own safety.

Sweat more during training, so you bleed less on the battlefield.

I’m being strict now so that when you’re on the battlefield, you’ll all survive.

But once the training’s over, we’re all comrades. There’s no need to be so serious."

No matter whether they believed it or not, at least the atmosphere wasn’t as tense.

Derek walked through the crowd and pushed Virut, who had gotten up, back onto the bed.

"Stay down. You’ve suffered enough today. If I don’t treat you, you won’t be able to get up tomorrow."

Virut, bewildered, was pressed back down on the bed. He was still shouting, "Viscount, I’m fine."

"Stop pretending!"

Derek gave Virut’s shoulder a sharp slap. The latter yelped in pain.

"Hahaha, I thought you were a tough guy who wouldn’t feel pain. Turns out, one slap and you can’t handle it." Derek teased, making Virut’s face turn red. But then he became serious:

"Don’t take what I said earlier to heart. You’ve got good talent, just lack practice, but your willpower is strong. I have high hopes for you.

Now, stay still and don’t move."

Virut was casually maneuvered onto the bed. Derek personally applied medicinal alcohol to his wounds and massaged him.

The sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was somewhat soothing.

The other attendants stood there dumbfounded—no one had ever heard of a Viscount personally applying medicine to a servant.

They didn’t know why, but they all felt a warm surge in their chests, as if something was about to burst out.

Others felt this way, but for Virut, he was so moved that tears welled up in his eyes.

All the complaints and dissatisfaction had disappeared with every kind word and gentle rub from Viscount Derek.

Only one thought echoed in his mind: for the rest of his life, he was following Viscount Derek.

Who else could treat him like this?

No one.

And Viscount Derek was right—sweat more during training, bleed less on the battlefield.

The harshness earlier was just to motivate him.

Virut choked up and couldn’t say anything.

Derek wasn’t just putting on an act. He carefully finished massaging Virut and then called over one of the other attendants who had held on the longest to continue applying medicinal alcohol and massage.

The knights who had come with them didn’t sit idle either, helping with massages and teaching the recruits how to take care of their bodies and speed up recovery after training.

Brotherhood and camaraderie were being established in its early form.

With both emotion and discipline combined, there was no stubborn person who couldn’t be influenced.

By the next morning, the knight attendants were sore but full of renewed spirit, ready to begin the next round of training.

Derek took advantage of some free time and opened his panel.

Add points!

Even the attendants who had initially come with ill intentions were now visible on the panel.

So, you see, enemies... can become friends too.

Once they return home from the knight training camp, won’t they be able to influence the families behind them?

Derek smiled. You plotted against me, but I can plot against you too.

Let’s see who’s more tempting: your seduction or my emotional appeal.