I activated God Eye's Level 3 and let the transparent status panel appear before my eyes.
I scanned them all without speaking.
Then I raised my hand.
"You, you, and the woman in the back row. Step forward."
Five former slaves froze when my finger pointed at them. One of them looked over his shoulder as if he thought I was speaking to someone behind him. Another swallowed hard, his dry throat bobbing. The woman in the back row hesitated for a breath before taking a careful step out of line.
Through God Eye, their status values were clear. Their bodies were thin, and some of their conditions were poor from long neglect, but beneath that weakness, their raw physical statistics surpassed the average Rank E mercenary standing in this very field. It was rough talent, buried under hunger and fear, but talent all the same.
"From this day onward," I said, letting my voice carry across the field, "your status as slaves is over. You are no longer property. You are candidates for the Knights of Constantia."
For a moment, none of them reacted.
The words seemed too large for them to accept. Too clean. Too far from the lives they had known. One man's lips parted, but no sound came out. The woman in the back row clenched the torn fabric of her sleeve with trembling fingers.
Among them, fear still remained. That was natural. A lifetime of being treated like tools could not be erased by one sentence. Even so, I saw it—the faint spark that began to appear in their eyes.
Hope.
Not loud. Not bright enough to burn. But it was there, struggling to rise from the ashes.
I moved on.
My gaze shifted toward several mercenaries who had been standing with their chins lifted since earlier, as if their battered pride was the only armor they had left. God Eye's panel flickered over them, showing mediocre stats, poor discipline, and talents better suited for other work.
"You, you, and you," I said, pointing at three of them. "Hand your swords to Arad. You will join the labor group under Oderick."
"What?!"
The shout tore through the field.
A mercenary with a scar running down his cheek stepped forward, his face flushing red. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, not enough to draw it, but enough to show his anger.
"I'm a fighter, Lord!" he barked. "I refuse to become a stone-hauling laborer for that old man!"
A few of the other mercenaries stiffened. Some lowered their eyes, pretending not to hear. The former slaves watched in silence, their expressions tense. Oderick, who stood not far away, said nothing. The old man merely looked at the scarred mercenary with a calm face, as if he had heard far worse insults in his life.
I took one step forward.
The movement was small, but it was enough. The scarred man's voice caught in his throat when my eyes locked onto his.
"Who said you would become simple laborers?" I asked.
The field fell quiet.
"If I see that you have talent for careful work, you will help Hans with administration. If your hands are steady, you will learn under Stella or assist Ivan in his workshop." I let the words settle, then continued in a colder tone. "Oderick's group is not a trash pile for the useless. It is where those who cannot serve properly with a sword will prove whether they can still contribute to Constantia."
The mercenary's jaw tightened. His anger had not vanished, but uncertainty had begun to crack through it.
I held his gaze.
"But if you believe you are too great to contribute to this village, then leave. The gates of Constantia are always open to those who wish to return to wandering without wages, without food, and without a place to sleep." My voice sharpened. "I have no need for people with that kind of attitude here."
At the word wages, the man's expression changed.
His mouth opened, then closed again. The pride in his face fought against the reality in his stomach, and reality won. With a stiff, ugly expression, he pulled the sword from his belt and walked toward Arad.
Clink.
The weapon landed in Arad's waiting hand.
The scarred mercenary dragged his feet toward Oderick's line, his shoulders heavy with humiliation. He did not look at the old man when he arrived, but he did not argue again either.
Good.
Pride could be useful if it was sharpened in the right direction. If left alone, it only became a stone tied to the neck.
I continued sorting them.
One by one, I separated the people before me. Some were moved into the military candidates. Others were sent to Oderick's labor group, Hans's administrative work, or other places where their hands and minds would serve Constantia better than a dull blade ever could. A few complained under their breath, but none dared to shout after seeing the scarred mercenary retreat.
Then I stopped in front of Bredt.
He was the thin man Arad had beaten earlier after he tried to monopolize the blankets. His cheeks were hollow, his body looked almost laughably weak, and his posture still carried the rough defiance of someone used to clawing for every scrap he could get.
But the panel above him blinked in a way that caught my attention.
[Potential: A]
[Talent: Willpower]
My eyes narrowed slightly.
So even in a pile of mud, something useful can still be found.
"Hey, you," I called.
Bredt slowly lifted his head. His sunken eyes met mine, and despite the bruises on his face, there was still a stubborn light inside them. Not courage exactly. More like refusal. The kind of man who would bite even while being stepped on.
"You have a miserable physique," I said plainly. "But you will remain in the knight candidates."
His eyes widened.
Several people nearby turned toward him in surprise. Even Bredt himself seemed unable to believe what he had heard.
Before any relief could fully appear on his face, I continued, my voice cold. "Don't be happy yet. Because of your disrespectful behavior earlier, you will receive twice the portion of extra training every day. If you collapse or complain even once, you will be kicked out immediately."
Bredt's expression tightened.
For a moment, hesitation crossed his face. His throat moved as he swallowed. He looked down at his own thin hands, then slowly curled them into fists until his knuckles turned white.
When he raised his head again, the stubborn light in his eyes had become clearer.
"My name is Bredt," he said, his voice rough but steady. "I regret what I did earlier, Lord. I swear I will follow your orders seriously."
I stared at him for another breath before giving a small nod.
"Then prove it."
After the selection ended, only twenty-five people remained in the military line.
It was a small number. If judged by the standards of a proper army, it was barely enough to form a single unit. But these twenty-five were the best I could gather from a mess of Rank E mercenaries and forgotten slaves. They were rough, flawed, malnourished, arrogant, fearful, and undisciplined.
But they had potential.
For now, that was enough.
A familiar translucent message appeared before me.
[Congratulations, you have resolved the conflict and successfully formed your group. You have obtained 100p!]
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
Finally. This is what I've been waiting for.
I turned back toward the newly formed military line. The afternoon wind swept over the field, brushing through my blond hair and carrying the cold scent of earth. The sun had begun to lower, stretching the shadows of the people before me across the ground.
Arad stood beside me, silent and steady. His presence was different from the mercenaries who tried to appear strong by puffing out their chests. He did not need to show off. The scars, the posture, the calm weight in his eyes—those were enough.
"From this day onward," I announced, "I grant full command of this military squad to Arad Youssef."
My voice rang across the field.
"He is your commander. His orders are law, and his training is the path you must walk if you want to earn the gold coin I promised."
At the mention of the gold coin, several people straightened. Even those who had been trying to hide their dissatisfaction could not fully conceal the flicker in their eyes.
I swept my gaze over all twenty-five of them.
"I know some of you still cling to your old arrogance. Some of you may think rank, experience, or pride makes you more suitable than him." I paused, letting the wind fill the silence for a moment. Whoosh... "So I will say this once. If anyone believes Arad is unworthy to lead, or if anyone thinks they are stronger than him, raise your hand now."
No one moved.
"I will allow you to duel him here," I said. "In front of everyone."
The silence deepened.
Some lowered their gazes. Some shifted their feet. The mercenaries who had carried themselves proudly earlier suddenly found the ground very interesting. The former slaves stood stiffly, unsure whether such a challenge was even something they were allowed to consider.
Then, from the middle of the line, a young man with pitch-black hair raised his hand high.
His eyes were sharp, far sharper than the others. He did not tremble like Hans, nor did he hesitate like those who feared punishment. He stepped out of the line with a boldness that almost felt like provocation.
"I refuse!" he shouted.