I can evolve everything

Raine put down the water pouch, showing no shame or indignation on his face.

He simply looked at Cedric calmly, and even couldn't help but let out a wry smile.

"It probably cost my father two years' salary," Ryan shrugged, casually making it up.

"And the rental fee for that horse is particularly expensive, charged by the minute."

Cedric paused for a moment.

He had anticipated that Ryan would retort angrily or lower his head in shame, but he never expected that the other party would admit it so readily.

This attitude, devoid of any aristocratic dignity, left Cedric feeling utterly powerless, like punching cotton.

"What do you take chivalry for?" Cedric turned around, "A marketplace transaction that can be bought and sold with money?"

"Honor?" Renn murmured the word, his gaze fixed on the flag fluttering high in the stands. "Perhaps. But for someone like me with mediocre talent, just being able to stand here is a luxury in itself."

"Hmph." Cedric snorted coldly, no longer looking directly at Renn. "Pray, pray that Sir Karen is in a good mood today. Although I don't think it will do any good."

He lowered his voice:

"Sir Karen is a true knight; he won't tolerate even a speck of dust in his eyes. You can bribe your way through the first two trials, but this third one... you'll die a horrible death."

"Maybe you're right." Ryan didn't argue, but simply tightened the cap on the water bladder. "I also feel pretty close to disaster."

Cedric gave him one last look as if he were trash, then turned and walked away, as if saying another word to Ryan would tarnish his status.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, feeling not angry at all, but rather a little amused.

The young master is absolutely right.

He was indeed able to cheat his way through the first two rounds thanks to his father's connections. This feeling of being accused of righteous indignation gave him a familiar sense of being scorned by the King of Scoundrels in his previous life at work.

"An interesting person."

Just then, a woman's voice rang out from the shadows behind Renn.

Renn tilted his head slightly.

It's that red-haired girl.

She had somehow gotten into the shadows and was casually peeling a green apple with a gleaming knife.

During the first two tests, Renn learned from the gossip of those around him that her name was Ella and that she was a half-elf.

At this moment, her eyes, hidden under her hood, were peering at Renn with great interest through her falling red hair.

"Most aristocratic bums like you would get furious when exposed," Ella said, taking a bite of her apple and striking up a conversation with Renn. "You're quite frank. Are you just thick-skinned, or do you genuinely not care?"

"Probably both," Renn chuckled. "After all, thick skin is a kind of defense, isn't it?"

"Cedric may be arrogant, but he's right." She swallowed another bite of apple. "I've met Karen; she's quite strict."

She paused for a moment, then casually tossed the fruit pit aside.

"If you don't want to die, just admit defeat as soon as you step onto the field. It's not shameful, at least it's better than wetting your pants."

"Thanks for the suggestion." Ryan looked at the parabola. "I'll consider it."

Just then, a series of orderly footsteps interrupted the conversation.

"Clang—clang—clang—"

Three chimes echoed above Dawn Castle.

The noise among the remaining seven or eight candidates instantly vanished, and all eyes turned to the circular sandy entrance.

A figure slowly emerged from the dark passageway.

He wore a gray robe over his silver plate armor.

The knight's hair was already gray, cut very short, and stood up like steel needles. A hideous scar ran from his left temple to the right corner of his mouth, dividing his face in two.

He was carrying a seemingly ordinary yet exceptionally broad two-handed greatsword.

This is Sir Karen.

He walked quietly to the center of the sand and planted the greatsword in the ground.

Karen didn't say anything, she just looked up and glanced at the eight young people in the preparation area.

In that instant, Renn felt as if he were being watched by a giant dragon.

Difficulty breathing, skin tingling.

Is this the power of a high-ranking knight?

"It's finally here."

Renn whispered to himself.

Now, the real test has begun.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

A few minutes later, the fate of the first few candidates was truly tragic.

The only two who weren't too embarrassed were the young man who was as strong as a bear. He tried to use brute force to fight back, but after only half a minute, Sir Karen seized the opportunity, grabbed the middle of the blade, and stabbed the greatsword's guard into the gap in Grom's knee.

The best record so far belongs to Cedric van Amsel, the genius from the capital who lasted until 55 seconds.

He lost because of a greedy attack—Sir Karen's greatsword seemed to defy the laws of physics, its wrist twisting as it swung down, deflecting Cedric's longsword, and then its broad spine hovered beside the blond youth's neck.

"Next up, Ryan Wilder."

When the name was called, Ryan stood up from the bench.

He silently tightened the straps of his standard plate armor, checked the buckles of his wrist guards, and then strode towards the sandy area.

He walked toward the old man standing in the center of the field.

Sir Karen rested her hands on the two-handed greatsword, her eyelids not even fully open.

Looking at the second son of his old friend, he felt a familiar scent on Rennes—the scent of Linus, but calmer than the old bastard had been in his youth.

Five steps.

Sir Karen suddenly spoke up: "This is the attack range of a two-handed greatsword. Get into position, boy."

Renn didn't waste any words.

He stopped five steps away from the old man.

Inhale – exhale.

Even with his heart pounding in his chest, Renn's body slowly sank down.

Stand with your feet apart, heels slightly raised, spine slightly arched, and core engaged.

The standard longsword in his hand was not held vertically as usual, but pointed diagonally at the ground with the tip slightly drooping and the hilt close to his right waist, forming a closed triangle.

[Iron Wall Stance (Beginner)]

A strange sense of heaviness instantly enveloped my entire body.

At that moment, Renn felt like he had become a rock that refused to move.

"Um?"

Sir Karen's half-closed eyes opened completely.

Although this starting stance looks clumsy and lacks any aesthetic appeal, even sacrificing all offensive angles, it actually constructs an extremely perfect structure.

"That's interesting."

The old man gave a low shout, and the giant sword that had been resting on the ground suddenly shot up without warning.

There was no probing, no feinting.

The broad, massive sword traced an arc through the air, accompanied by a faint whooshing sound, and cleaved down like a mountain!

This is Sir Karen's signature opening move – a high-position straight chop.