After the apprenticeship ceremony, master and apprentice didn't hurry back to the tavern—there was nothing waiting for them there anyway. They decided to stay by the river and continue training on the open ground.
Half a month earlier, while still camped by the sea, Ethan had already taught Kevin a two-handed sword style powerful enough to stand against ancient horrors. That foundation had dramatically improved Kevin's martial skill.
But two-handed greatswords were almost useless on a real battlefield.
In actual war, ranged weapons—bows and crossbows—handled distance. Spears dominated mid-range. Up close, sword-and-shield combinations provided the best defense.
The simple rule: stay as far from the enemy as possible. When forced into melee, cover yourself as thoroughly as possible.
Weapons like two-handed swords—devastating on the attack but weak defensively—mostly shone in duels or street fights, not in formation combat.
It wasn't that they were impractical or lacked style; their application simply didn't fit massed warfare.
Ethan and Kevin had started as strangers traveling the same road. Now that their teacher–student bond was formal, Ethan could no longer ignore the boy's survival odds in a real fight.
So he donned full plate armor, took up the "Shield of the Royal Crest of Lordaeron" in one hand and "Azure Song" in the other, and began realistic sword-and-shield sparring with Kevin—training the boy's combat instincts and sharpening his technique under genuine pressure.
To avoid injuring his student, Ethan no longer beat him as ruthlessly as before. He stopped his blade a hair's breadth from every vital point.
Even so, the razor-thin margin between life and death still created crushing psychological strain. Every time Ethan's sword slipped past Kevin's guard and hovered over a killing line, raw terror flooded the boy's mind.
Unconsciously, Kevin's counterattacks began to carry killing intent far beyond his conscious control.
Facing those strikes, Ethan neither dodged nor parried. He simply let "Ellie" crash against his plate.
The armor—forged from Azeroth's highest-tier materials—was far beyond anything Kevin could pierce. Not even a white mark remained.
The first time the blade rang harmlessly off Ethan's waist plate, Kevin dropped "Ellie" in panic and rushed forward to check for wounds.
Ethan wasn't hurt at all. He calmly pulled the boy aside and dissected every flaw in the attack—footwork, angle, timing, everything.
After several such exchanges Kevin relaxed. He began to strike with full commitment.
Of course this level of realistic sparring was exhausting.
Every evening after dark—once they returned to the tavern and ate—Kevin would climb straight into bed, leaving his teacher to entertain himself in the common room.
Fortunately Kevin already had years of solid instruction from his father on the Fingers Peninsula. That foundation let him absorb the new training quickly.
After three days of intense, life-and-death drilling, Kevin's sword-and-shield skill reached—at minimum—a functional battlefield level.
As long as he avoided stupid mistakes, he could handle several untrained opponents without much difficulty.
On the final day of practice Ethan scooped river water to wash sweat from his face, then looked down at Kevin—sitting on the grass, panting heavily.
"That's enough for sword-and-shield fundamentals. From now on spend more time drilling the weaknesses we found these past few days—especially the downward chop and the straight thrust. Refine those motions until they're instinctive."
For some reason, as he spoke, Ethan's brows furrowed deeper and deeper.
"I told you multiple times—a straight thrust is a straight thrust. No flourishes. Center line, center line! You still keep forgetting."
Kevin lowered his head in shame.
"I'm sorry, Teacher. I'll drill it harder tomorrow."
After rinsing off in the river, master and apprentice walked slowly back toward the village in the warm afterglow of sunset.
They had only gone a few steps when Ethan noticed something off.
The village was far noisier than usual.
Unfamiliar faces—many carrying swords and knives—stood in small groups along the street, laughing and talking loudly. The locals didn't seem bothered; some even joined the conversations.
"Teacher—who are all these people?"
Kevin asked quietly, glancing sideways.
"Shh. Definitely not pirates. Keep quiet."
As a long-time introverted gamer, Ethan might have been commanding and decisive in Azeroth raids, but real-world crowds still triggered mild social anxiety. He disliked being the center of attention.
Unfortunately his golden plate armor was impossible to miss. Every stranger they passed turned to stare.
The tavern that evening was transformed.
The narrow common room was packed—familiar faces mixed with dozens of new ones. Men raised tankards and shouted toasts; the noise level rivaled a sports bar during a championship match.
But the moment Ethan stepped through the door the entire hall went quiet. Every head turned.
Being stared at by a room full of rough, armed men made even Ethan—rational or not—stiffen slightly.
He returned to his room, stripped off the armor, changed into plain clothes, and came back downstairs.
By then the crowd had lost interest and the room returned to its rowdy normal.
Ethan walked to the bar, pulled out a high stool, and sat.
He leaned toward Gabriel.
"What's with all these new faces? I've never seen them before."
Gabriel wiped a mug with a rag.
"Militiamen from nearby villages. A few days ago—after Boss William sent word to Ser Rodney—the garrison commander called up every able-bodied man to hunt the pirates."
"Just last night Lord Rodney's force clashed with them. Killed more than a dozen raiders. We took some losses too, so they pulled back to regroup. Since it's close, a lot of them came here to rest."
Ethan nodded slowly.
"No wonder I haven't seen William or the others these past few days. They were all called up?"
"Yeah. They got back tonight, but most went straight home to their families."
"How many men did Ser Rodney bring?"
"About 150–160. More than the pirates, at least."
"Where are they staying? Your village doesn't have enough spare houses."
"Those with kin here stay with family. The rest pitched tents outside."
"Hm… bring my dinner."
Gabriel looked apologetic.
"We're out of ale tonight—only fresh milk left."
Ethan usually didn't let Kevin drink, citing his age and growth. Gabriel figured the same rule applied to the teacher.
"Milk's fine."
The dinner tray arrived quickly: a thick slice of whole-grain black bread, a large bowl of vegetable soup, bacon swapped for a generous wedge of cheese, and a tall mug of fresh milk.
Ethan thanked Gabriel with a nod and began eating.
He had taken only two mouthfuls when a rough voice rang out from across the room.
"Ha! Big guy like that still drinking milk? Bet he needs a wet nurse to wipe his chin when he spits it up at night!"
Loud laughter erupted from the same corner.
Ethan turned.
A lean, weather-beaten middle-aged man grinned back at him with open mockery.
"Who's that?" Ethan asked Gabriel quietly.
"Eric. Headman of Redstone Village. One of Lord Rodney's favorites."
"What did I do to piss him off?"
Gabriel shrugged and kept wiping mugs—clearly not getting involved.
Ethan considered for a second, then stood.
He walked straight over to Eric's table, met the man's eyes, tilted his head back, and drained the entire mug of milk in one long pull.
Then—still holding eye contact—he slowly tightened his grip.
The wooden mug cracked, splintered, and shattered into pieces that clattered onto the table in front of Eric.
"I'm curious," Ethan said calmly, "are your bones harder than that cup?"
The tavern went deathly silent. Every eye locked on the two men.
Eric rose slowly. The mocking grin had vanished; his face was hard.
"A cup doesn't hit back, boy."
Ethan nodded.
"And a cup doesn't talk. It's annoying."
Eric's pupils contracted.
"Maybe I should teach you some respect for your elders."
Ethan gave a short laugh.
"You—" he pointed at Eric, then swept his finger across the four men sitting with him—"and you two. Come outside. I'll give you all a lesson."
Without waiting for an answer he turned and walked toward the door.
Eric and his companions exchanged quick glances, then stood and followed.
Outside in the courtyard Ethan stopped and rolled his shoulders.
"I don't know why you're picking a fight for no reason, but I'm pretty sure you won't stop until I beat some sense into you."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Come on—all five of you at once. Saves time."
Eric bared his teeth in a grimace that was half smile, half snarl.
"Big man—William told me you took down six or seven pirates single-handed. I don't buy it. Plenty of liars in this world who claim credit for other men's work. Let's see if you're a coward or the real thing."
As he spoke, Eric and his four friends fanned out, surrounding Ethan in a loose circle.
Ethan quickly scanned them—no weapons visible, just fists and bravado.
"A fight should have stakes," he said.
"If I drop all five of you—what then?"
Eric snorted.
"We'll talk after you win—if you win."
Before the words finished, one of the men lunged from behind, trying to pin Ethan's arms.
Ethan didn't resist the grab—instead he spun hard, flinging both arms wide.
The man clinging to his back was hurled off-balance and crashed into another raider. Both went down in a tangle.
Ethan pivoted and open-palmed the nearest attacker square in the face—driving him straight into the mud, stunned.
A fourth man threw a wild straight punch at Ethan's jaw.
Ethan raised his forearm to block, caught the wrist with his other hand, and yanked—throwing the man over his hip into the dirt.
Eric seized the opening and darted in low, aiming a vicious kidney punch.
*Kidney shot? Cute. I've seen that move in too many bar fights.*
Ethan leaned back just enough. Eric's fist cut empty air.
Ethan clamped both hands on Eric's head and shoved hard backward.
Eric stumbled, tripped over one of his fallen friends, and landed hard on his back.
In less than ten seconds Ethan had put the Redstone militia captain and his four closest cronies flat on the ground—none of them able to stand.
The surrounding militiamen and villagers stared in stunned silence.
Ethan walked over to Eric, crossed his arms, and looked down.
"I win."
Eric clutched the back of his head—still throbbing where Ethan's fingers had dug in—and forced a crooked grin.
"You win. Name your price."
"An apology. And you buy me a drink."
Eric barked a laugh.
"Hope your drinking is better than your fighting."
Ethan extended a hand.
"You can find out."
Eric took the grip, pulled himself up, then raised his voice so the whole yard could hear.
"That's a real man!"
Cheers and applause exploded from every side. The sudden wave of enthusiasm left Ethan visibly embarrassed.
*It was just a fight. Why are they acting like I won a tournament?*
He clearly still had some adjusting to do in this world.
Because Ethan had controlled his strength perfectly, the troublemakers recovered quickly—shaking limbs, rubbing bruises, but nothing broken.
Back inside, Eric waved his friends back to their old table to keep drinking while he steered Ethan to a quieter spot by the window.
At that table sat a middle-aged man in a black velvet coat and a younger man with medium-length curly hair.
"Lord Rodney—this kid's grip is no joke. My scalp still hurts," Eric complained as he sat.
The middle-aged man gave a low chuckle, then turned to Ethan.
"My apologies, sir. That pointless scuffle was on my orders. If you have any grievance, direct it at me—not my men."
Ethan shrugged.
"No harm done. I'm not the one who ended up on the ground. So—did I pass the interview?"
Rodney flipped a silver stag coin to the curly-haired youth across from him.
"Harry—tell the barman to bring out the good stuff. None of the cheap swill."
Then he nodded to Ethan.
"Yes—you passed. Strength and composure both impressive. Sir Ethan Cole—may I ask which house on the Fingers Peninsula you serve?"
Ethan smiled inwardly.
*How much does he actually know about the Fingers houses? If I name a fake one and he calls the bluff, that'll be awkward.*
In truth, his entire "Fingers Peninsula knight" story had more holes than a fisherman's net.
According to Kevin, the Fingers were a remote, rocky, windswept coast—hardly the kind of place that produced shining knights in golden plate.
Ethan considered for a second, then answered smoothly.
"To be honest—I'm not from the Fingers at all. I'm from Pentos across the Narrow Sea.
Kevin's uncle and I were comrades in the same sellsword company.
I was fulfilling his dying wish—bringing the boy east to join a warband.
We ran into trouble on the voyage and got thrown off the ship bound for Braavos.
I don't think my origin should be an obstacle."
Rodney inclined his head.
"Indeed. Origin doesn't matter—as long as you're not a pirate, you're a friend here."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly. Rodney Corbray—garrison commander of Rockfall Village and several neighboring hamlets."
He paused, then continued.
"I'd like to hire you to join our fight against these raiders.
With a warrior of your caliber standing with us, our odds improve dramatically.
You wouldn't mind earning some coin before heading back east… would you?
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