The two of them held training swords—solid iron swords, just unsharpened.
And no one mentioned protective gear. If they were hit, they would definitely be injured.
If it was serious, even death was not impossible.
The swordsmanship of Northern Lands knights, meanwhile, was mostly designed for practical use.
They discarded flashy sword techniques. From the very beginning, they learned basic moves such as slashing, thrusting, and parrying.
The rest was simply being taught when to attack, when to retreat, when to slash, and when to block.
After training day after day until their muscles developed reflexes, they would go into real combat.
Those who survived, those who were wounded—these would all become the foundation of their strength.
Beyond that came greater strength, faster speed, quicker reactions, and a stronger will.
Virut held his sword and gave a proper sword salute.
But Derek's sword tip viciously stabbed into his wrist.
Virut cried out in pain, his sword nearly slipping from his hand. He looked at Derek in utter confusion, not even understanding why the other man had ambushed him.
"Did those southern bitches squeeze your head between their legs? Did your grandfather ever tell you he gave a knight's salute on the battlefield? Or have you ever heard of a Northern Lands knight lowering his head and waiting for the other side to return the salute?"
Derek abandoned his usual mild temperament, becoming as irritable as a bull.
"Listen up. We are Northern Lands knights. We are dragons. We don't need anyone's recognition. The swords in our hands are all the confidence we need.
"Only southern bitches try to use these rules to bind a knight hand and foot. Next time you meet an idiot like that, aim for his forehead and split it open to see whether it's full of