Chen Mo's plan had unfolded perfectly—every objective achieved, every move calculated.
First came the greatest prize: two hundred fine warhorses, the resource he needed most.
In this world, Chen Mo had many plans—some grand, some subtle—but he couldn't carry them all out alone. To rule, he needed strength. To expand, he needed an army. That was why he'd chosen to seize this barony—to build a foundation, a power of his own.
And power began with force. Strong, disciplined knights were essential to any lord's ambition.
Second, he had successfully tested Count Valen's intentions—and confirmed them. The count truly meant him harm.
After all, the strength Chen Mo had displayed was too extraordinary, too far beyond human understanding. For a while, that power had inspired fear. But fear never lasted long—it always turned to suspicion, then hostility.
Chen Mo had anticipated that. His show of strength had bought him time—a brief, precious window of peace to grow and prepare. That purpose was served.
Third, by deliberately showing weakness and baiting the knights into attacking, he had set the stage for righteous vengeance, ignited the loyalty of his men, and tested both their discipline and their courage.
Fourth, he had annihilated nearly half of Valen's knightly force in one stroke, crippling his rival's military might.
And finally, with his preparations complete, Chen Mo knew—the time had come to set his plans into motion.
He sheathed the Sword of Kings and walked slowly forward, stepping over shattered armor and broken bodies.
Andrew and the others rushed to meet him, their faces flushed with awe. To them, he wasn't just a man anymore—he was a god of war incarnate.
Chen Mo's expression remained calm, his breathing steady, as though he hadn't just slaughtered an entire knight order single-handedly.
"Andrew."
"Lord!" Andrew straightened, his voice trembling slightly from excitement.
"Clean this up," Chen Mo ordered evenly. "And have the guard mount these horses."
"Yes, my lord!"
Andrew's eyes gleamed as he looked upon the towering, powerful steeds. At last—his own warhorse. At last, he would be a true knight—a knight sworn to his lord, bound by honor and devotion.
The others were no less elated. They had never dared to imagine such fortune—that they too might possess warhorses, the symbol of power and nobility.
"From now on," Chen Mo continued, "the guard will be cavalry. I want them trained into proper knights as soon as possible."
Gasps rippled through the ranks. Soldiers who had once been simple peasants now stared at their lord in disbelief and reverence.
Knights?
It was unthinkable. In all of Europe, even the most powerful lords had barely a hundred. And now their lord promised to make them all knights?
But they believed him. He had slain werewolves, crushed noble knights, reshaped their lives—there was nothing their lord couldn't do. All they needed to do was train, grow stronger, and prove worthy of the title.
Still, Andrew hesitated, frowning slightly.
"My lord… training in horsemanship takes years, sometimes a lifetime. It must start young—learning to balance, to fight from the saddle… to master the horse as an extension of one's own body. To train them all in so short a time—it's nearly impossible."
Chen Mo smiled faintly.
"Clean this up first," he said. "Then bring everyone, with your horses, to the workshop."
Without further explanation, he turned and headed toward the walled compound at the edge of the manor—the mysterious workshop sealed behind its tall stone walls.
When he was gone, Andrew and the others forced themselves to tear their eyes away from the horses and went to work.
They gathered the two hundred warhorses together, then began clearing the battlefield. The bodies of the fallen knights were dragged outside the manor walls to be burned. Their shattered armor and weapons were carefully collected for Chen Mo's inspection.
Once the cleanup was complete, the excitement they'd been suppressing finally erupted. The men swarmed the horses like children, each picking a favorite and clutching the reins as if afraid to wake from a dream.
In this age, a warhorse was like a priceless luxury car—a treasure few men ever even touched, let alone owned.
When all was ready, Andrew led the newly formed cavalry, their gleaming steeds in tow, toward the workshop—the place no soldier had ever entered.
It had been built when Chen Mo first assumed control of the territory—a large complex, heavily guarded, its high walls secured tighter than the lord's own manor. Every craftsman in the barony, along with their families, lived and worked inside.
Smoke often rose from its chimneys, and the clang of metal echoed day and night—but no one knew exactly what was being made there.
What they did know was that the tools the workshop produced—plows, hoes, blades—were far superior to anything they'd had before. Fields yielded twice the harvest they once did.
And Chen Mo had not taxed them at all. He even bought his own food and supplies directly from the farmers. He called it "recovery and rest"—giving the land and people time to heal.
Now, as they stepped through the open gates, the guards and soldiers found themselves surprised.
The interior wasn't some arcane fortress of alchemy as they'd imagined, but a sprawling yard lined with neat, red-brick houses. Two massive furnaces stood at one side, belching gentle plumes of smoke into the air.
Men and women bustled about—craftsmen hammering, children carrying tools, carts moving loads of ore and clay. The clang of iron mixed with the murmur of voices, creating a rhythm of tireless industry.
Yet despite the hard work, every face they saw carried contentment. These people were well-fed, well-housed, and at peace. Chen Mo had kept his word—none under his care suffered.
As Andrew and his men looked around in wonder, Chen Mo emerged from one of the brick buildings, accompanied by an elderly man whose hair was silver, but whose eyes were bright and sharp.
Andrew and the soldiers hurried forward and saluted.
Chen Mo's gaze passed over the group briefly, lingering on the bundles of dented armor strapped to the horses' backs.
"Unload that junk," he said coolly. "Every piece of armor, every sword—pile them together."
Then his eyes fell on Andrew and the others.
"Yours too," he added, frowning slightly.
The men froze.
The armor they wore—the battered but sacred relics of the fallen knights, still scarred by the claws and fangs of werewolves—was the pride of the territory.
But when Chen Mo gave an order, there was no room for hesitation.