Derek had not finished with the newcomers—or rather, the veteran knights had not finished with them. The quickest way into a new circle was through one's fists, and every new arrival received the same welcome Verut had.

There was no lack of attention; the question was whether they could endure it. By the end of the miserable training, the strength of everyone’s will was obvious. To Derek, talent was secondary. Will mattered more.

And that was only the beginning. The new squires soon learned why House Augusta claimed to have no geniuses: everyone trained as though death were the only acceptable excuse to stop. Why, out of so many soldiers, did so few ever become knights? When Derek chose his men, he looked first for loyalty and then for resolve. A plodding fool who could grind away for years was good enough. So long as training did not kill them, they would train within an inch of their lives.

The new squires trained, the established knights trained, and Derek trained. They ate and lived together, sharing hardship. Derek remembered the advanced methods of his previous life.

That night, carrying medicinal wine, he entered the newcomers’ communal room. Their crude quarters matched the Augusta style: rough timber still full of splinters, thick bedding with coarse burlap covers, and meals with enough fat but terrible taste. One might have mistaken it for forced labor rather than knightly training.

What noble family's young master had ever lived like this? Their training at home might have been grueling, but their daily comforts had never been stripped away with it. Many already regretted coming. Some were even considering flight. They knew that placing them close to Viscount Derek was central to their families' plans, but understanding a duty and enduring it were two different things.

Verut lay on his bed aching from head to toe. He had admired the glory of northern knights without considering the pain required to earn it, and his former training now seemed trivial. Exhaustion left little room for reflection, but resentment still smoldered as his idealized image of Viscount Derek began to crack.

“Verut, do you think the Viscount is deliberately torturing us?” someone asked. The question drew the attention of many resentful squires.

Verut glanced at him and said nothing. Nobles were not all well-wishers; perhaps the man was fishing for words he could sell later.

“He must be. Can training really make us titled knights? If it could, titled knights would not be so rare.”

The complaint broke the dam. Voices rose throughout the room, listing every perceived injustice, and Verut began to wonder whether coming here had been a mistake.

“The Viscount is here!”

The room immediately became quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Complaining did not mean they truly dared leave. Their families had not sent them here without cost, and being caught by Derek would be unpleasant. They expected another dragon’s roar.

Instead, Derek entered smiling. He knew when to be strict and when to be approachable. Anger now would only vent emotion; pressing too hard would have the opposite effect.

“It is fine. Keep talking. When I was in the knightly order, I liked complaining about Count Perez with everyone too. I am strict in training because I care about your lives. Sweat more in training, bleed less in battle. I want you alive when you reach a battlefield. But after training, we are friends and brothers-in-arms. There is no need to be so stiff.”

Whether they believed him or not, the atmosphere eased. Derek crossed the room, pushed Verut back onto his bed, and said, “Stay down. You suffered enough today. If you do not treat it, you will not be able to get up tomorrow.”

“I am fine, Your Excellency,” Verut protested.

“Showing off.” Derek slapped his shoulder, making him cry out. “I thought you were a hard man who felt no pain. One slap and you cannot take it. Do not take what I said in the day to heart. Your talent is truly good. You only lack tempering, and your will is firm. I think highly of you. Now lie still.”

Derek personally applied medicinal wine and massaged him. It hurt, but also brought relief. The other squires stared. A Viscount personally treating an attendant’s injuries was unheard of.

Something hot rose in their chests. Verut was even moved to tears. Resentment and dissatisfaction vanished with Derek’s warm words and steady hands. Only one thought remained: he would follow Viscount Derek for life. Who else would treat him like this?

The Viscount was right. Sweat in peace, bleed less in war. The day’s cruelty had been meant to inspire him.

Derek was not merely putting on a show. After finishing Verut, he treated the squire who had lasted longest that day. The accompanying knights helped massage the others and taught them how to maintain their bodies and recover faster after training.

The first bonds between comrades had taken root. Emotion and discipline worked from both sides; even the most stubborn resistance could eventually be worn away.

The next day, even sore all over, the squires began new training in high spirits. During a break, Derek opened the Panel.

Allocate points.

Even the few squires who had arrived with questionable intentions now appeared on the Panel. Hostility was not always permanent.

And when they returned to their families one day, could they not influence the houses behind them? Derek smiled. Others could scheme against him; he could scheme against them. Which would prove stronger: their temptations, or his bonds of feeling?

With the Panel’s aid, the squires visibly filled out as their strength increased. The food was unpalatable but plentiful, and their modest contributions did not begin to cover the expense of training them. Rapid improvement drove them to work harder, especially Verut, who would have trained every waking hour if permitted.

But Derek’s program was not only mindless practice. A week later, each man received a warhorse and began riding across open country. Riding was a required skill for every northern noble son, and the squires were already competent. But competence was only a foundation. Better riding meant one could run faster than others on a battlefield.

Derek's roar returned. “Move! Did none of you eat? My dog could ride faster. Verut, stop grinning and show me what you can do.”

“Your Excellency, did you not say courtly tricks were useless?” Verut asked, nearly falling from his horse.

“That was battlefield ceremony. This is horsemanship. If I tell you to do it, do it.” Everyone burst out laughing.

After riding came forced marches under heavy packs, followed by night operations. Lessons in basic tactics consumed every spare moment. Within a month, every one of them felt reborn.

Derek granted a week’s leave. Those nearby could visit home; others could wander freely. Several excellent squires were temporarily permitted to join his guard, ostensibly to experience standing watch. In truth, the guard taught protection and anti-assassination methods. Since Derek’s own attack, he had taken that subject seriously. No one wanted the next attempt to be more dangerous.

The Viscount, meanwhile, reclined in his manor and let servants attend him. What was the point of working so hard if not to enjoy the rewards? Derek had no intention of denying himself every comfort only to be remembered as a miser. A soft gray-bear pelt, a long woolen rug beneath his feet, glowing coals in the hearth, hot milk, and a chair made to his measurements—the contrast with camp could hardly have been greater.

Several knights and officials came to report, including his second uncle Andrew. It helped Derek understand his domain more deeply; these officials were his eyes and ears, though eyes and ears could be blocked, so he still needed to travel and discover new ones.

“Lady Tiona has reached Saint Miller Province. When will you invite her to meet?”

“The weather is too cold. Choose a good day; I will visit the Count.”

“The southern legion is nearly here. They seem to have heard certain rumors.”

“Not surprising. The south has developed well these years and must have networks everywhere. Trouble is coming.”

The squires standing nearby heard these not-quite-secret matters. That was the real benefit. Derek did not fear—and even welcomed—them passing some news home.

For the first month, he had trained alongside them almost constantly. Later, he would reduce that frequency. As the southern legion approached, Saint Miller Province grew tense. Before the New Year, the weather finally turned good for a time, and Derek prepared to meet his fiancée.

They had met before, but when Derek had been an insignificant squire in House Perez’s knightly order, she probably had no memory of him. He knew almost nothing of the noble lady either. Still, marriage to a noble with real power was treated with utmost care; her reputation and temperament should not cause trouble. Any scandal could become theater gossip and destroy the relationship between the houses.

Just before he left, however, a visitor arrived.

“Brother-in-law!”

Derek took a moment to recognize the young man: David Palmer, eldest legitimate son of Baron Palmer. The newly raised baronial house had risen from merchants to purchased court nobles, then to landed nobles. Though their origin was despised and they would need generations to enter the core noble circle, they had genuinely crossed a class boundary thanks to the barbarian invasion.

Baron Palmer had sent gifts after receiving his fief, but never his eldest son in person. David leaned close and whispered, “Brother-in-law, Father feared you were waiting anxiously, so he sent my second and third sisters first. My eldest sister is still on the road.”

Derek nearly choked. He had treated the Baron’s earlier hint as a joke. But Palmer understood men’s eyes. Compared to three daughters, Derek was more important, and Derek’s later achievements had convinced him to make a heavy investment. His daughters could not become the Viscount’s wife, but they could become his lovers. Noble lovers were common.

Derek had spent two years in this world without such pleasures; survival had kept him too tense. Yet he could not quite say no. David did not care about embarrassment. Born to merchants rather than traditional nobles, he did not need face now. His sons or grandsons could claim face later.