Chapter 62: From Lazybones to Sword-Practice Fanatic

Over that vast expanse of land, the blazing sun baked the earth while distant mountain peaks loomed indistinctly.

Lesarite stood at the edge of the training ground, his brow tightly furrowed, his gaze exuding both authority and dissatisfaction as he watched the retreating figure of Luke Griffith.

As soon as Luke completely vanished from sight, he wheeled around abruptly to face Carlo. The veins on his forehead twitched slightly as he roared:

"Carlo, you should understand this now! The world is far vaster than you can possibly imagine. A master swordsman like Luke Griffith is merely a drop in the ocean; experts surpassing him are as countless as the stars in the sky."

As he spoke, Lesarite took heavy, powerful strides forward, closing in on Carlo step by step. Every footfall felt as though it were treading directly upon Carlo's heart, unsettling him deeply.

"Did you really think a little bit of swordsmanship made you hot stuff? I’ve seen right through your lazy habits. More than once, I’ve caught you sleeping soundly in the grass like some sluggard, snoring away with drool at the corner of your mouth, just like a heartless little piglet. With an attitude like that, you still dream of becoming a legendary knight? Pure delusion!"

Lesarite finally came to a halt right in front of Carlo, his finger nearly poking the boy's forehead. Carlo instinctively shrank his neck back.

Hanging his head, Carlo’s face flushed red and turned pale by turns, shame written all over him. His eyes darted away, refusing to meet Lesarite's gaze, while his lips quivered slightly as he stammered in response:

"Lord Lesarite, I truly know I was wrong. I have deeply reflected upon my behavior and swear I will never do it again. Your scolding was just like a bolt of lightning striking straight into my heart, jolting me awake. I swear, if I ever slack off again, I will run ten reverse laps around the training ground while shouting at the top of my lungs, 'I am a lazybones!' I will practice my swordsmanship diligently; if I fail to become a legendary knight, I am not worthy of the name Carlo!"

In truth, a trace of gratification had already blossomed in Lesarite's heart. From Carlo's eyes and tone, he could tell that the kid had truly resolved himself this time.

Yet, he maintained an angry expression on his face—even intensifying it—his tone as stern as a winter wind:

"Carlo, don't just speak pretty words. Pick up your sword. If you don't practice until sundown, don't even think about taking a single moment of rest."

Carlo had no real comprehension of Luke Griffith's true strength; he only knew that someone so young could be so formidable. To Carlo, this was undoubtedly a heavy blow, weighing upon his heart like a massive boulder.

Gritting his teeth in secret, he made a fierce vow to himself:

He had to make himself strong. Personal strength was the fundamental basis for survival in these troubled times.

At this thought, he drew a deep breath, as if inhaling every ounce of determination into his lungs. He gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles turning slightly pale against the hilt.

Striking a full-out combat posture, his eyes burned with a do-or-die determination:

"Lord Lesarite, just watch me. If I utter a single word of complaint about fatigue today, I'm a dog."

Following that, Carlo, Lesarite, and Roberto stepped onto the training ground.

By now, the fierce sun was casting its light unreservedly upon them, illuminating their vigorous and vibrant postures.

Carlo struck first, his blade slicing through the air with a flash of cold light and a sharp whistle. Every swing seemed charged with all his lingering unwillingness and determination; fine beads of sweat instantly broke out on his forehead and rolled down his cheeks.

Lesarite stood firm as a towering mountain, his feet seemingly rooted to the earth, effortlessly parrying Carlo's attacks. His sharp eyes constantly scanned for openings in Carlo's stance, and he pointed them out from time to time:

"Carlo, your footwork is unsteady. Your lower body is like a tree without roots—how do you expect to hold your ground in a real fight?"

Nearby, Roberto practiced with absolute absorption, his focus so intense that it seemed as though the entire surrounding world had ceased to exist. His sword spun in a blur of motion, sweat continuously pouring from his brow to drench his clothes. Yet, this did not disrupt his rhythm in the slightest; his breathing remained steady and regular, akin to the relentless motion of an untiring hammer.

As time slowly drifted by, the sun gradually dipped toward the west, dyeing the sky in brilliant hues of orange and red like a magnificent painting.

Carlo's garments were long since drenched with sweat, clinging tightly to his lean and sturdy physique. His breathing had grown ragged, sounding like a bellows, yet the speed of his sword showed no signs of slowing down. Instead, he exerted even more force, every strike carrying his final ounce of stubborn defiance.

Watching Carlo, Lesarite felt a flicker of approval inadvertently cross his mind, though it vanished instantly:

"Carlo, just like that. Hold your ground. Make the sword an extension of your own body."

At last, the sun sank completely beneath the horizon, and nightfall draped over the earth like a shroud of black silk.

On the training ground, bathed in moonlight, the three figures appeared exceptionally resolute, standing like unyielding statues. They slowly lowered their blades. Fatigue washed over their bodies like a tide, yet their hearts were filled with a profound sense of satisfaction.

Lesarite raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, gazing firmly at Carlo and Roberto:

"Carlo, Roberto, the moment the sun rises tomorrow, we resume right here. Not a single moment of slackness will be tolerated."

Exhausted to the bone, Carlo felt as though all his strength had been drained away, and his legs trembled slightly, yet his eyes still shone as bright as stars:

"Understood, Lord Lesarite. I will not fail to appear."

Roberto chuckled broadly, a humorous glint in his eye:

"My lord, let's hurry up and get some food. Any longer and I might just end up eating my own sword."

The group dragged their weary bodies back to the lord's quarters. Upon stepping inside, they found the table set with black bread, ale, and meat soup prepared by the Nicholas family.

The black bread was pitch-black and hard as a brick—you could practically use it for masonry. The ale looked murky and turbid, resembling water freshly scooped from a muddy puddle. The meat soup was dark in color, brimming with meat chunks of unidentifiable origin.

Yet, famished as they were, their stomachs rumbling incessantly, they had no mind to care about such details.

As for Luke Griffith, he was not seriously injured; he had merely taken a blow to the tendon during the sparring match, causing a temporary loss of strength. Following the application of herbal poultices and a day's rest, he had fully recovered.

Seated at the dining table, he watched as Carlo took a single bite of the bread. The boy's facial expression transformed instantly into a masterpiece of comical agony. Unable to voice his grievances, his features scrunched together, his eye rims turned red, and tears began to well up and roll uncontrollably down his cheeks.

Luke Griffith furrowed his brow, filled with contempt as he thought to himself:

"Is this brat really that fragile? He can't even handle a tiny setback like this? What a thin-skinned kid."

With a trace of teasing mockery curling the corner of his lips, he spoke up:

"Carlo, what's wrong with you? Did getting beaten by me once make you cry like this? You're hilarious. Are you part onion or something? So easy to tears."

Pausing for a moment, he continued:

"Carlo, so you lost to me—is there any shame in that? Starting tomorrow, I'll join you in your sword practice and teach you a few more techniques, lest you remain such a good-for-nothing."

Hearing Luke Griffith's words, Carlo snapped out of his emotional haze as if startled from a dream. He hurriedly wiped away his tears with his sleeve, wearing a slightly embarrassed expression as he stammered in explanation:

"Who... who said I was crying? I'm just... I'm just moved. I'm... I'm moved by this food. In times of war like these, to still have food to fill our bellies—how fortunate we are."

Luke Griffith gave Carlo a suspicious look, pondering internally:

"This kid is full of nonsense, but looking at him, it doesn't entirely seem like a lie."

He picked up his wooden mug, took a large gulp of the ale, and then fished out a piece of meat from the soup with his utensils, chewing it slowly:

"Well, what you say makes some sense. This meat might not compare to the delicacies of Boulogne, but here and now, it's quite a treat. After all, army rations don't taste anything like this."

Inwardly, Carlo was screaming in agony. He had just bitten down on a massive clump of salt. The taste was so intensely briny that it felt as though someone had forcefully shoved a handful of salt straight into his mouth, nearly shocking his soul right out of his body.

He mused to himself:

"I've got to find a way to improve this wretched food, or I'm going to lose my life to these meals. I need to produce some refined salt so these guys can experience what truly delicious food tastes like."

At that moment, Roberto laughed heartily from the side:

"Regardless, let's just fill our stomachs first. We've got grueling training again tomorrow."

Hearing this, everyone burst into laughter and continued partaking in their uniquely "delightful" meal.