The Next Day.

The weekends were over, and now the classes were back to their routine, many attending while others just going out and doing what they wanted.

The classes, however, went on whether there were just two students in the class or sixty.

One such class, class B of the knight course, was the same.

The classroom was unusually quiet, save for the scratch of chalk against the board and the occasional scrape of a chair against the stone floor. Alan Nightshade, with his long black hair cascading down his back and piercing black eyes, stood at the front. His voice was deep, carrying a commanding tone that demanded attention, even as his slightly arrogant smirk irritated half the class.

“For knights,” Alan began, pacing slowly, “the path to strength is clear but brutal. There are no shortcuts, no magical incantations, no secret potions. You push your body to the absolute limit—through sweat, pain, and perseverance. Your body grows stronger as you exercise and absorb mana. That’s the essence of knight cultivation. And yes, it’s harder than what those pampered mages do.”

Alan scoffed at the end, making murmurs run through the class, only to be silenced by his sharp glance.

“However,” he continued, leaning casually against his desk, “this difficulty is also our strength. Anyone—yes, anyone—can become a knight. You don’t need to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth or a rare magical affinity. All you need is willpower, hard work, and the determination to never stop pushing forward. Unlike mages, who need talent, knights require sincerity and effort. That’s why the knight’s path is the people’s path.”

Just as Alan was about to continue his lecture, a hand shot up from the middle of the class. It belonged to a girl with sharp eyes and a curious expression.

“Sir,” she interrupted, her tone firm but respectful. “Are you saying that the rank of exercising techniques doesn’t matter?”

Alan blinked, momentarily stunned, before throwing his head back with a hearty laugh that echoed through the room. It wasn’t a warm laugh, though. It was the kind of laugh that made the girl’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Of course it matters,” Alan said, smirking. “What kind of nonsense question is that? Higher-ranked techniques are like better tools—they make the job faster and easier. But!” He raised a finger dramatically. “They are not what defines your limit. They’re just the horses you ride on the path to strength. The destination remains the same. If you have a high-ranked technique, you’re the hare. If you don’t, you’re the tortoise. But both can reach the finish line if they keep moving.”

The class nodded in agreement, though some students exchanged skeptical glances.

Another hand went up. This time, it was a burly boy sitting near the back. “So, are you saying talent means nothing for knights?”

Alan froze for a second, his smirk faltering. His black eyes seemed to grow distant, as if a memory had surfaced. For a brief moment, his hand twitched, and a shiver ran through him. He muttered something under his breath—a name, perhaps—but it was too faint to hear.

Then he snapped back, his usual arrogant demeanor returning. “Talent?” he said, almost sneering. “Of course, talent matters. Talent always matters. It determines how far you can go. Without talent, you’ll hit a wall. Most untalented knights can only dream of reaching the 3- to 4-star formation. If they’re desperate enough to destroy their bodies and teeter on the edge of death, they might—might—reach the 5-star formation. But after that?” He shrugged dramatically. “Without talent, you’re done. Finished. Kaput.”

The boy frowned, clearly dissatisfied. “But, Sir Alan, didn’t you just say that talent doesn’t matter for knights?”

Alan’s smirk vanished, replaced by a deep frown. He turned his gaze to the boy, his black eyes narrowing. “What’s your name?” he asked coldly.

The boy stiffened. “Uh, it’s—”

“Never mind,” Alan interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t care. I wouldn’t remember it anyway.”

The class stifled laughter as the boy flushed red. Alan straightened, brushing his hair back with a flourish.

“What I said,” Alan began, his tone dripping with condescension, “was that becoming a knight doesn’t require talent. When did I ever say that being a knight meant crossing the 3-, 4-, and 5-star formation realm? Even a one-star knight is called a knight. They have the strength to protect themselves against the ones who can’t even use mana, to do whatever they want with them. That’s the beauty of the knight’s path—it’s open to everyone.”

He spread his arms theatrically as if presenting some grand revelation. “So, my dear students, don’t twist my words. If you want to argue, do it properly. Otherwise, save your breath.”

The room fell silent. Alan gave a self-satisfied nod, clearly pleased with himself, and returned to the board. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes—the importance of discipline in training…”

As the lecture continued, the class exchanged knowing glances, their thoughts unanimous: Sir Alan was as obnoxious as ever.

But there was a certain someone in the class who wasn’t even listening to all that going on. He was simply fiddling with his pen as he absentmindedly stared at the seat where his friend—one who had been recently kicked out of the academy—used to sit.

‘How could you lie to me?’ The boy thought as he clenched the pen in his hands.

The boy was Ben Dover, the protagonist of the novel, thinking about the girl who was the main instigator of the Zyrrak incident. He could still remember how the girl, before leaving the academy, didn’t even meet him and simply left a note saying that she was sorry.

‘Sorry?? That was all?’ He gritted his teeth as he thought of how he had gone against Alex and tried to defend the girl in front of everyone. Ben could still hear the words of the crowd at that time. He could hear how they jeered at him and made fun of him.

‘After all I did for you, this is how you treat me?’ He lowered his head, breathing out as he recalled how he had been feeling a bit hollow in his heart. It was as if he had been losing many things—things that should’ve been his.

‘I thought we were friends…’ His thoughts grew low as he recalled how she had been crying the time he had met her. ‘I could’ve fought them all if you just said that it was all a lie.’

Snap

The pen in his hand snapped into two as he clenched his fist. He was ready to believe that all those lie detectors were lying if she had told him that she wasn’t anything like what she was being called, but all she gave him was a look of guilt, which was the same as telling him that he had been lied to.

Since then, Ben had been living like he was right now, absentmindedly roaming around, and for some reason, training harder than before. He had known that he was weak, but that day, when Alex had revealed his strength and he was crushed under Alex’s pressure just like the audience in the Colosseum, he realized that he was too weak.

He was still unsure whether Alex was a good or a bad guy, but he knew that in order to know the truth, the first thing he needed was strength. Only when he stands above Alex would he be able to make the guy tell him the truth—this was something Ben was told by Keryu when he had questioned the guy about it.

But before he could think deeply about it, a strange chill ran down his spine, and not just his, the whole class felt the same as all eyes turned to Alan, who had stopped speaking and was now staring at his communication device.

His expression was as cold as it could be, his brows frowning. He kept staring at the communication device—one that was special for teachers of the academy—before his fists clenched hard enough to shatter the device. ‘You are dead,’ he muttered inwardly as the face of a certain someone flashed past his head.

The next instant, Alan’s head raised, his gaze moving away from the device.

“Who is Ben?” His words reverberated through the now silent classroom, making all eyes turn to Ben, who, with a frown, kept staring at Alan.

“Must be you.” Alan nodded, waving his hand dismissively as he added, “Come with me.”

With those words, he left the classroom, not caring that he was leaving the class twenty minutes before the bell.

Something way more important has come up—something he couldn’t, or more like he wouldn’t ignore.

Slam

The door of the classroom was slammed closed as he walked out, not even caring whether Ben was following or not, leaving Ben on his seat, frowning in confusion.

He didn’t know what was going on. But the look he saw in Alan’s eyes was dangerous. That was the look of someone who was ready to kill someone. Being called out by a guy like that wasn’t something Ben was really fond of, but his gut told him to follow Alan.

After not being able to decide what to do, he growled in frustration, “Argh. Whatever!”

Then, with a slap on the desk, he got up from his desk and walked out of the classroom under the curious and questioning eyes of the students, deciding to believe in his gut that had made him reach this point in life.

In the worst case, he could just summon his master for help. So, he didn’t care, and to be honest, he was a bit curious about what it could be as well.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep