After listening to the 42 people who had signed up, Clay hadn't remembered many, but that wasn't the point. Strengthening this sense of belonging was.
I say, you listen, and then you do. But the premise was that he had to make them feel like their efforts were worthwhile.
Clay listened to their names, without bothering with their family backgrounds. The signal he was sending was, I don't care what you did before. Now you're all the same, and I remember you. Do well.
Sir Marlon, standing to the side, looked at Clay with some surprise. He had thought Clay wouldn't know how to speak in front of so many people. It seemed the two years of traveling in Essos had indeed trained him.
Walking back from the last person who had spoken, Clay returned to Sir Marlon's side and asked quietly, "Sir, did you see anyone you liked? Can you recommend someone to me?"
Clay knew these people had been selected one by one by Sir Marlon. Clay had to thank him, but he didn't know if there was anyone Sir Marlon wanted him to choose, hence the question.
"No. Who you choose, and how many, is entirely up to you." Sir Marlon's words were as hard as stone.
Slightly shrugging his shoulders, since he said so, Clay didn't mind.
Today, he had intended to demonstrate his Witcher abilities to his grandfather, but now, someone had already provided him with candidates.
That being the case, he didn't need to rush into assessing their skills and character.
"Sir Marlon, could I trouble you to fetch my grandfather?"
"It's just to test them. The Count will personally review them later."
Sir Marlon thought Clay wasn't confident, so he wanted Count Wyman to supervise.
Clay waved his hand, smiling. "No, it has little to do with them."
He didn't say more. Sir Marlon nodded and didn't argue, turning and leaving.
Only Clay was left in the arena. Forty-two pairs of eyes were fixed on him. For some reason, Clay was reminded of his military training. He probably looked a lot like the instructors back then.
The group of people was a mix of tall and short, strong and thin. While waiting for Count Wyman, Clay decided to use the time to test his swordsmanship on them.
"Who among you is the best swordsman?"
He asked, and the Manderly men lined up in formation exchanged glances, but no one moved.
It was a bit unexpected. Clay had thought someone would step forward, but everyone within his line of sight avoided his gaze.
It was a bit awkward, but Clay didn't mind. He knew their psychology very well; in fact, each of them was eager to show off.
"Let me be clear, I won't be able to choose all of you."
"Furthermore, what I'm looking for is a Personal Guard that can charge on horseback and kill enemies with their swords. If you don't even have the courage to draw your swords, then you shouldn't be here. Leave New Castle as soon as possible."
As soon as he said this, the expressions of these people changed slightly. They had initially been told there would be a selection process, but they didn't know the specifics.
Sir Marlon Manderly hadn't told them anything, but you couldn't blame the knight; he didn't know Clay's standards either.
But now, Clay's two sentences gave them a hint, which was like defining the scope of the exam. These people suddenly had motivation.
Clay didn't have to wait long. Just as he was counting the number of scales on the mermaid flag tails around him, a voice came.
"My lord, I can use a sword!" ... After hearing Sir Marlon's report, Count Wyman Manderly swirled the goblet of Dorne Summer Red in his hand. He wasn't sure what Clay wanted from him.
He'd been somewhat wary of Clay, but after the trip to Winterfell, he was determined to cultivate Clay. In his own words, even if Clay didn't drink, he would use all the good wine in White Harbor to make him an alcoholic.
Anyway, there was nothing to do. Count Wyman sat on a soft chair and was carried towards the training ground by several servants.
When he arrived at the training ground, he saw this scene: Clay was only wearing half-armor and was clashing swords with a fully armored warrior. Their swords met, and they were locked in a contest of strength.
The opponent of his grandson looked taller and more robust. His thick arms, encased in armor, resembled two stone pillars, which caused the Count to worry about his grandson.
However, Count Wyman, who had once fought on the battlefield himself, soon realized that the two were evenly matched in strength. Clay even seemed more relaxed.
In the next second, Clay suddenly used force to push his opponent's sword aside, using this opportunity to execute a "Coiling Sword," and before anyone could react, he brought the sword's tip to the opponent's throat.
Clean and efficient!
This was Count Wyman's immediate feeling. From the clash of weapons to Clay's victory, it was only a few breaths. Whether it was the steady sword stance or the lightning-fast attack, it was all done without any hesitation.
Count Wyman noticed that several Manderly side-branch descendants were standing there dejectedly. He, being old and experienced, immediately recognized them as the previous losers.
Noticing Count Wyman's presence, these side branches hurriedly saluted and shouted: "My Lord Count!"
Reminded by the voices, Clay, wiping the sweat from his forehead, turned around, smiled at his grandfather, and said: "Grandpa, you're here."
This wasn't a formal occasion; at home, he didn't need to give his old man so many formalities. These side branches, however, did.
Seeing the clan leader approach, the gazes of the side branches on Clay's back became even more fervent. Clay, with just one sword, had knocked down ten of them in a short time, without letting any of their swords touch him.
Although some of them had truly poor swordsmanship, those who had at least practiced with a sword knew very well that among those ten, there were some who actually knew how to use a sword.
However, their results were no different from those who didn't know how to fight. They were all defeated by young master Clay within three moves, either disarmed or directly hit in a vital spot, just like the one earlier.
Clay waved his hand at these people, signaling them to leave. The sensible ones quickly pulled the stunned ones away, disappearing from sight. Seeing this, Count Wyman didn't mind. He pulled over a wooden stool, sat down, stroked his white-flecked beard, and asked with a smile, "What's up, Clay? What did you call me over for?"
Although Clay's face was filled with the joy of victory, he was actually very nervous at this moment because he was about to confess his biggest trump card, albeit only a superficial part of it, to his grandfather.
But before that, he planned to talk about something else.
I will try my best to write about swordsmanship, but if it's not quite what you're expecting, it's possible our reference materials differ. After all, I haven't actually wielded a sword myself (laughs). As for that famous (bainian) swordsmanship, I will definitely write about it, but... emm, not now. Also, I want to say that the flu was the worst, but now I feel very weak, like after a positive test. My head feels foggy, so please support me. I will do my best to ensure the quality of the chapters, hehehe.
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