Not even they—knights bred on a lifetime of brutal training, the pinnacle of human martial skill—could, by sheer personal strength, fell a single powerful werewolf while wearing the sturdiest armor and wielding the sharpest blade.
Even if this mysterious lord were stronger than any of them, it was impossible for one man to kill dozens of werewolves alone. That simply wasn't something a human could do.
So they concluded the tale was a lie. Those heaps of werewolf corpses could not have been the work of one man. Most likely the invading werewolves and the former baron's troops had slaughtered each other—then this young upstart had opportunistically snatched the spoils and loudly claimed the victory, fooling the naive commoners and stealing the fief for himself.
Yet Count Valen and the other nearby nobles, like everyone else, had been unnerved by the rumor. The piles of corpses—growing, piled like a small hill—were terrifying enough to give anyone pause, and no one dared act rashly.
Then, not long ago, the count had received a letter from this mysterious lord. Hence their arrival now.
For Count Valen, this was a rare chance to probe Chen Mo's true nature. Before they left, the count made their orders clear: carry out the letter's request, yes—but also pry into who this newcomer really was and how strong. If the rumors held true, win him over; if not, at least ensure he did not become an enemy.
Now the fabled lord stood before them. In person, his frame was tall and solid—but not so overwhelmingly powerful as to convince them that he had single-handedly slain fifty werewolves. That only cemented their suspicion: Chen Mo was a fraud.
Knights, by etiquette, dismounted before a lord as a basic sign of respect—whether or not he was their own sovereign. Yet these riders remained in the saddle, looking down at the man on foot. It was insolence bordering on provocation.
Chen Mo watched their haughty faces without a trace of anger. He simply reached into his cloak and tossed something at the lead knight.
The knight caught it with quick reflexes—but his wrist jolted at the weight. He glanced down and found a heavy gold bar in his hands, probably ten kilograms.
"Leave my warhorses," Chen Mo said, his voice cold and commanding. "Then you may go."
Earlier, Chen Mo had written to Count Valen offering to buy a hundred warhorses at a high price. The deal had been arranged—these knights had escorted the horses as payment, their task essentially complete. They should have returned to report.
But when the golden bar landed in their hands, greed, not duty, showed on their faces. They mocked Chen Mo, claiming his wealth proved his weakness—that he had bought his way into the lie, not forged it with strength. Tossing a chunk of gold ten paces was nothing to them; the spectacle, they believed, proved Chen Mo's power was on par with their own.
Count Valen had told them to test this man. If he was merely a braggart, the orders were plain: kill the impudent fraud. That was why Valen had sent nearly half his mounted force—sixty or so knights and squires—to escort the horses and, if needed, to act.
Greed overcame prudence. The lead knight gave the signal. Steel flashed as they drew their longswords and charged in formation toward Chen Mo. Their faces split into feral grins—after all, even a pack of werewolves would likely break under such a shock of armored cavalry. What chance did this unarmored man have?
Andrew and the others behind Chen Mo were stunned. They leapt forward, swords drawn, to shield him. They stood between the charging riders and Chen Mo with no route to flee—only the grim resolve to take as many of the enemy down as they could.
These men had been pulled from the jaws of death by Chen Mo; they had been taught swordcraft and given hope. To abandon him now was unthinkable. If their lives were spent protecting him, then they would gladly give them back.
The territory's militia—hardened through months of disciplined training—held their formation. Seeing the cavalry's approach, they braced with weapons raised, ready to absorb or blunt the charge before it could reach Chen Mo. For them, Chen Mo had eased their burdens, cut taxes, and offered a sliver of peace—protecting that peace for their families was worth any sacrifice.
Chen Mo watched the massed knights surge forward—lances and spears leveled, swords poised. He showed no surprise; only a look that said, I expected as much.
He had predicted the nobles would not remain cowed forever by a mound of corpses. Time would breed suspicion and cunning. Better to be the one to act first than to sit and wait for them to make the first move.
So he had arranged the horse purchase—an elegant pretext to draw the count's men into his yard, to see who they were and what they intended. And now the test had begun.
ChatGPT can make mistakes. Check important info.