Derek stood on the manor's second-floor balcony, watching the peasants already at work in the fields.

The golden morning sun was so dazzling that Derek had to narrow his eyes.

"A pity... a beautiful day like this isn't mine to enjoy."

Derek felt a pang of regret. He had arrived in this world only a few days ago, but had already begun to settle into his new identity.

This world was ruled by nobles. Life for everyone else was backward enough to feel medieval, but the nobility still lived in comfort.

As the son of a baron's line, Derek counted as a noble himself.

Unfortunately, as the family's second son, none of it was his to inherit.

The manor before him had nothing to do with his family at all.

For his second son's future—even for the faintest chance at advancement—Derek's father had sent him to the local Count Perez's household as a squire.

As a count who held real power in the region, Perez could easily maintain a knightly order armed to the teeth.

The independent nobles nearby and Count Perez's vassals often sent their second sons to him as squires.

Partly to keep up relations between houses, and partly to seek a future for the boys.

After completing the knightly course, a squire could join Count Perez's knights or use the credential to pursue another livelihood. Either way, the prospects were excellent.

Even a son who returned home to assist his brother would be capable. A knight trained in a count's household was never useless.

For the original Derek, the natural first choice had been to join Count Perez's knightly order, watch for a chance to earn merit, and become a landed noble.

For the Derek of today, that still looked like a perfect choice.

Provided... he didn't have a cheat.

Derek withdrew his gaze. His assignment here had only just begun.

The final lesson of knightly training was to drill a militia squad on his own.

For a knight, polished skill at arms was enough to make a living.

But he couldn't afford to be completely ignorant of everything else.

Otherwise, he would spend his life as nothing more than a competent hired fist.

"Panel!"

At his thought, a light screen visible only to him appeared before his eyes.

Derek von Ferreira

Class: Knight, Level 5 (11/100)

Experience Pool: 0/100

That was all. Crude beyond belief.

If this thin layer of game-like data was all it could do, Derek might as well go home and farm.

In fact, after several days of poking at it, he had worked out roughly what this cheat of his could do.

First, it gave real-time feedback on improvement.

Training raised his Knight experience, while each day also produced overflow experience that could be used to advance his level.

The most direct effect of leveling up was a boost to personal ability.

And... it didn't work only on him.

After a quick wash and the breakfast brought up by the manor servants, Derek headed for the training yard.

This was one of Count Perez's many estates.

The entire estate was worked by some four or five hundred serfs.

With bandits roaming the land and dangers of every kind in this era, the manor naturally kept a standing guard.

Yet the entire manor had only five full-time professional soldiers. Everyone else was temporarily levied militia or peasants armed with pitchforks.

Derek's assignment was to complete one cycle of militia training.

One month. A single squad of ten men.

By the time Derek arrived, the militiamen finally scrambled up from where they sat, standing in a crooked row.

Even several days of better food could not put muscle on their bones overnight.

As for their fighting spirit... that was another question.

Fortunately Derek had patience to spare. He walked the line with a short baton, rapping them one by one—anyone standing crooked got a whack.

"Stand up straight! Form a single rank!"

Derek's program was simple: form ranks, tell left from right and front from back, thrust a spear on command, then build their endurance.

Anything more would be wasted effort. It was one squad of militia. It didn't need to be complicated, and there was no point making it so.

The drills were dull and monotonous. By any honest measure, Derek's methods were merely adequate—nothing beyond the reach of anyone who had completed proper knightly training.

The difficult part was having a feel for the men and finding a more effective rhythm for the drills. That was a talent in itself.

However...

Derek quietly opened his Panel. The front page was as bare as ever.

But the second page now bore a new heading: Army.

Peasant Squad One → Militia Squad One.

Days of drilling had finally made the Panel recognize them.

He could even expand the entry: the militiamen's portraits appeared one by one, lifelike, with names and basic stats.

And of course, the thing that mattered most—the Experience Pool.

At first, the word "Militia" had been blurry. It sharpened as their training continued.

Until at last, the class locked in.

Derek focused on the militiaman who trained the hardest, and a bare-bones panel unfolded before his eyes.

Pitchfork

Class: Militia, Level 1 (2/100)

Experience Pool: 1/100

Normal training earned 2 points of experience; the 1 point of overflow was banked in the Experience Pool.

He tried adding the overflow point to the man's level progress, and the Panel changed in an instant.

Pitchfork

Class: Militia, Level 1 (3/100)

Experience Pool: 0/100

He watched Pitchfork closely. There was hardly any visible change, and none of the sensation Derek himself felt when he allocated points.

"So without the Panel, there's no special reaction."

Derek filed that observation away. Of course... if he poured in a large amount at once, perhaps the change would become visible.

But Derek was cautious. He would proceed one step at a time and never give anyone an opening to notice.

As for using the Experience Pool to play miracle-worker?

In this all-but-medieval world, religion was a double-edged sword. It could very easily cut back at him.

After all, the Panel could not make him invincible. Better to keep his head down and grow stronger.

The militia didn't train long each day—just the morning.

At noon they got a meal of coarse wheat. No oil, no meat, but it filled the belly.

With Derek's discreet interference, they could bank ten to twenty experience points a day.

With a supernatural power tipping the scales, training progressed at a startling pace.

Gaining experience became harder as they advanced, but a single month still brought the whole squad to Levels 3 through 5.

By Derek's estimate, they now matched militia who had trained full-time for half a year.

In truth, the guard details of many villages weren't even the equal of this one squad.

They could barely advance and retreat as one, and their skills and stamina met the standard. Give them a battle or two and several more months of training, and they might rival veterans with three to five years of experience.

The Panel's numbers had limits. A Level 5 militiaman specialized in spear thrusts; in a one-on-one brawl, he might still be killed by a farmer with a pitchfork.

And becoming militia didn't mean a man forgot how to farm the moment he set down his spear.

So the stats were a reference. Nothing more.

Honestly, Derek already found the Panel's power outrageous enough.

Leaving aside combat experience and willpower, it had increased training efficiency four- or fivefold.

Ordinary men tire, after all. Doubling the training load never doubles the gains—and no one else could recycle overflow experience the way the Panel did.

In short, Derek decided he was ready to take a chance.

...

On this day the sun climbed high, but there was no drilling on the training yard.

Even the manor's own militiamen and stewards had turned out.

The training had happened right under their noses, yet truth be told, no one had paid Derek's efforts any real attention.

"Training the militia" sounded important; in practice, it was only a token examination.

No one had ever failed at this stage.

A candidate without ability usually had connections. Failing that, he could gather a few peasants with basic training and muddle through.

Nobody made trouble over it. Graduation brought nothing but the title of knight, and the examinees were all children of nobility who would carry the title of honorary knight upon coming of age regardless.

Derek understood this perfectly well, which made him calmer still.

When the sun stood three poles high, hoofbeats finally sounded, and the stewards seated in the corner of the yard rose as one.

Knight Croya—banner captain, and the examiner for this assessment.

A banner captain in a knightly order nominally commanded fifty to a hundred knights. On paper, that made him a minor officer.

In practice, the knightly order was Count Perez's core fighting force, and a banner captain ranked above an ordinary commander of five hundred.

A man of that station was exactly suited to examine a knight's graduation.

Derek smiled. There would be no trouble either way, but a familiar face at his graduation assessment was welcome.

That's right—this man was an old friend of his father, Leandro Ferreira.

Strictly speaking, his current identity's full name was Derek von Ferreira.

Here, von marked noble status, while Ferreira was his birth family name. Derek was the knightly name he had accepted for himself.

Taking Derek as his knightly name signaled that he had no designs on the family inheritance—otherwise, he would never have called himself Derek von Ferreira so early.

Close as the two of them were, none of it showed on the surface.

After declining the stewards' pleasantries, Banner Captain Croya began the assessment by the book.

Militia skills, stamina, advancing in formation, withdrawing and wheeling to drum and horn.

All fundamentals—and the squad performed them cleanly.

If Croya had not known Derek had no reason to put on a show here, he might have suspected cheating.

He dismissed the thought at once. Derek had already submitted his discharge papers; there was nothing for him to gain from theatrics.

"So... he truly has talent."

Banner Captain Croya finished scoring quickly and announced on the spot: "Congratulations, Derek. Your grade is... highest distinction."

Derek smiled and dismissed the militia. Only when he reached Knight Croya did he relax.

"Uncle Croya. I didn't expect you to be my examiner."

"I had to make the trip anyway, so I might as well come see you." Croya gave his explanation, then asked, "Once you're discharged from the order, will you be heading home?"

He asked because that was what most noble knights chose.

Leaving the cutthroat competition of a knightly order to take up family affairs at home was a perfectly good way forward.

To his surprise, Derek shook his head. "No. You know how things are at my house—too many brothers. They won't miss one of me.

"I mean to become a wandering knight."

Wandering knight—officially, the term was free knight.

They waited for noble employment and enfeoffment, roaming the world in the meantime. It sounded rather glorious.

In reality, they were mercenaries, nothing more. No noble casually took in an outsider knight-errant.

Even a great lord like Count Perez had knights to spare from his own family and his order. If land were ever granted, would it be an outsider's turn?

And a baronial house like the Ferreiras found its fief too small for its own sons—with brothers enough to field a banner company, what room was left for outsiders to rise?

Except for a fortunate few, there was no real opportunity in it.

A wandering knight assembled a small band of mercenaries and took work—armed escort, bandit clearing—drifting from place to place.

When war came, they too would stake everything on a single gamble. Perhaps a fief waited on the other side.

Unstable. Dangerous. The drawbacks were endless.

Croya was taken aback. Derek was one of the more outstanding young men he knew, and today he had seen the boy's gift for training troops. Why choose the road of a wandering knight?

After a moment's thought, he made his pitch. "You might come lend a hand on my land. If you mean to gamble for a title someday, I could sponsor you a squad of soldiers."

Generous terms. Exceedingly generous.

A sponsored squad of soldiers, in particular—that was no small cost.

To be honest, Derek was tempted.

But one glance at the Panel steadied his resolve. "Thank you for the regard, Uncle, but I already have a plan."

Croya took no offense. Young men had their own ideas; that was normal.

"If you change your mind, come find me."

The badge of knighthood changed hands. In truth, Derek already had everything: the knight's title, surname, heraldic mark, and triangular pennant. He lacked nothing.

So what Count Perez could bestow was a knight's badge, proof that he had once served as a knight.

Even that was somewhat inflated. Strictly speaking, he had served as a squire, but this looked better on paper and helped unselected knights find decent positions elsewhere.

Had he joined the order, the handover would not have been so plain; there would have been an audience with the count himself, at the investiture ceremony.

That was also why Derek refused to try for the order: at the investiture, one swore loyalty to Count Perez.

The bond between liege and vassal was iron. Betrayal—or striking out on one's own—was nearly impossible for a man who wanted to keep living decently.

Without overwhelming strength of his own, Derek wanted no part of that path.

Better to use his freedom while he had it, and make his way alone.

After seeing Knight Croya off, Derek packed his bags and said his farewells to the manor steward and to the militia he had trained with his own hands.

"Goodbye... my life as a squire."

In the sunlight, Derek felt not a shred of reluctance. He knew a perfect future was waiting for him.