In Herbert’s past life, there was a very famous joke.
The gist of it is that a famous figure ets soone head-on on a one-person path.
The other person expresses disdain and declares that they never give way to fools.
But the famous figure rely smiles slightly and says the opposite.
If this story were told at school, a teacher might say it reflects the famous person’s grace and humor, cleverly diffusing the awkwardness.
But if you let Herbert tell it... it’s not like that at all.
Herbert had just said that purely to make the young man, who harbors inexplicable hostility toward him, angry.
I’m just being sarcastic.
I’ve confessed, I said it just to provoke you.
And judging from Cyril’s subsequent reaction, Herbert had obviously succeeded.
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
Cyril quickly realized the mockery and jest in Herbert’s words, feeling his cheeks flush with heat.
He was furious, glaring at Herbert’s back, and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
However, although the muscles in his forearm tensed, the blade remained sheathed.
Was it guilt from knowing he was wrong?
Or cautiousness from knowing he was outmatched?
Or perhaps... fear?
Herbert felt the angry but restrained aura from behind him, and the smile on his lips grew wider.
He turned his head slightly, lifted his eyes, and gave Cyril a "friendly" bright smile.
"Heh."
Upon entering the training ground, Herbert had already recognized the young man.
He was quite a notable person.
Even Herbert had heard of his past, a testant to the boy’s fa.
Cyril Anvil.
Just nineteen years old, with ssy short black hair and dark eyes.
Though not particularly tall, he was extrely sturdy, especially with his bronze arms, muscles knotted as if infused with the Power of the Nine Dragons.
Unfortunately, there was no pointy top on his head.
As the youngest son of a blacksmith oppressed by nobles, he almost seed like the standard protagonist mold for a Paladin of common birth.
Cyril was born in the rural countryside of a remote duchy, losing his mother early on, with his father struggling to raise two sons alone.
Life was extrely tough back then, and the greedy noble’s extortion of the vassals had reached its peak.
Harvests dwindled year by year, and taxes climbed higher every year.
In the end, even blacksmiths, who should have enjoyed stable lives, found it hard to make ends et, not to ntion Cyril’s father, who had two teenage sons.
Fortunately, Cyril’s brother picked up the hamr, helping to share the work and increase efficiency.
Otherwise, Cyril would have starved to death at just four years old.
But this good fortune didn’t last long. Under the lord’s unrelenting greed, even this lifestyle beca unsustainable.
Just five years later, Cyril’s father was utterly exhausted by intense labor and frailty.
He died, eting a tragic end after dedicating his life to the lord.
But that wasn’t the end.
On the seventh day after his father’s death, Cyril’s brother similarly collapsed by the furnace.
Overco by exhaustion, he fell headlong into the flas and was burned alive.
So at the age of nine, after both his father and brother died from overwork, Cyril beca an orphan.
And it was when he buried his brother’s remains alone that Cyril finally erupted.
The intense stimulus of losing loved ones awakened in him a special power.
Perhaps it was a throwback to his ancestry, or maybe it was the gods’ rcy, but Cyril acquired the power he had long dread of.
He beca a Professional, gaining strength several tis that of normal people.
Without any other flashy abilities, it was pure power.
The hamr he once barely lifted now felt light as a stick in his hands.
With that power, he could easily smash through plate armor with a warhamr!
Now, here cos the question.
What happens when a tornted, persecuted person suddenly gains extraordinary power?
It’s revenge.
So on the night of the blood moon ten years ago, Cyril single-handedly slaughtered his way through the lord’s manor.
The lord, miserly enough not to spare a single copper coin, had forgotten one crucial thing—he hadn’t treated his people properly.
When Cyril arrived, those supposed to be loyal guards chose to flee for their lives in the face of mortal danger.
With the iron hamr left by his father and brother, Cyril smashed that greedy, evil noble and his offspring into pulp, blow by blow.
Blow after blow, leaving no one alive.
The nobility hadn’t spared his father and brother, so Cyril showed no rcy to the noble’s children and wife.
And just when Cyril was about to bring the wrath of the warhamr upon the innocent, soone finally stopped him.
Just as Cyril was about to slip into madness, turning into a lunatic, he was fortunate to encounter the Knight Order passing by.
No, it wasn’t a re passing. The Knight Order had accepted a plea from a fleeing vassal, coming to wipe out the evil noble.
But they arrived a step too late and couldn’t save Cyril and his family.
The rest of the story beca quite mundane and routine.
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