Suleiman feared that the grain and copper coins given to the peasant woman would be robbed, so he had Simon and Lenn escort her back to her home.
He also instructed them to convey his law to every one of his liege men: from then on, anyone who dared to bully a family that had served the House Droppings would be punished!
Suleiman felt a wave of fatigue, but even more, an unprecedented clarity!
He knew he could no longer lie idle like this; his physical weakness restricted all his actions.
On the continent of Westeros, martial prowess was also indispensable, and there were far too many monsters and demons in this world.
He returned to the tower, where Old Nick was busy inventorying all the House Droppings's supplies.
Suleiman picked up a rusty longsword from them; it was one of the few decent-looking weapons left in the territory.
The blade was full of nicks, heavily rusted, and the hilt was wrapped in tattered cloth, appearing rough and crude.
Its history could perhaps be traced back to his ancestor, the first Stinkfort Knight.
Suleiman walked out of the tower and came to the open muddy ground outside.
This could barely be considered the castle courtyard, but it had no walls, not even a proper ground, only wet mud and weeds.
"How is this a castle courtyard? It doesn't even have walls. When I get rich, I must build walls," Suleiman couldn't help but grumble inwardly, "It's truly impoverished. This isn't a castle; it's probably not even as sturdy as a farm house."
He swung the sword, feeling it was a bit heavy, but without the sluggishness he had imagined.
Taking a deep breath of the rich air, he began to swing the longsword.
His movements were wide, attempting to fully awaken this weak body.
He didn't know any sword techniques, just hacked and slashed wildly; the original owner also didn't know any sword techniques.
From his memories, he saw that their entire family consisted of brutes.
When his old father taught them swordsmanship, he would only say:
"Swing hard! Hack hard! Cleave hard! Not hard enough! Give me more! Give me more! How is it that I never knew my children were all women!"
Suleiman and his brothers' shouts echoed around them, and when his second brother fell face-first due to swinging the sword too hard.
His eldest brother and Suleiman giggled foolishly, waving their arms and legs.
He could almost anticipate his father's usual roar;
"What are you doing? Get back to training!"
But that roar did not come; instead, it was.
His father's mouth twitched, ever so slightly, and then, incredibly, the corners of his mouth turned up, a smile, which then quickly vanished.
And above, at the second-floor window of the castle, his mother stood quietly.
Her hand rested gently on the stone railing, her tender gaze directed towards Suleiman and them, full of warmth.
That memory, so vivid, so warm.
It made Li Qing feel it deeply; he had no family, he was all alone, and a sharp pain in his chest pulled Li Qing back to reality.
He could feel that when his father and brothers died, Suleiman still held onto that last breath.
It was for his mother; he knew if he also died, his mother would not survive.
But when he learned that his mother had jumped from the tower out of despair, he, like his mother, chose the same path.
"Alas," Suleiman sighed, and continued to practice his sword.
Strangely, although his body had just recovered, his movements were unusually smooth, without any sense of obstruction.
Every swing of the sword, every turn, every leap, he felt his body incredibly light, as if freed from the shackles of gravity.
Not only that, but he could also feel that his five senses had become exceptionally acute.
He could clearly hear the croaking of frogs in the distant reed beds, smell the earth and decaying leaves, and even feel the subtle touch of the breeze on his cheeks.
"This… what is going on?" Suleiman stopped his movements, feeling the changes in his body with surprise and uncertainty.
This feeling was too peculiar, a sense of complete control over his body, even beyond that.
Suleiman didn't know how to describe this feeling, "Thorough comprehension?" It didn't feel quite right either.
A thought flashed through his mind: Could this be the effect of his transmigration?
In his previous life, he was hit by a meteorite, and his soul transmigrated into this body. Did his soul get some kind of enhancement during the process, which then nourished this body?
Or perhaps it was actually the fusion of two souls within the body, strengthening his mental power, making his body lighter, more coordinated, and his five senses more acute?
This sounded a bit mystical, but in this world full of magic and even gods, nothing was impossible.
Just as he was absorbed in his thoughts, his peripheral vision caught sight of two figures.
Simon and Lenn, these two newly appointed guards, had returned to the castle, staring at him intently, with an indescribable complex expression in their eyes.
Suleiman waved to them: "Come here."
The two exchanged glances, looking somewhat uneasy, but immediately trotted over.
"Lord Suleiman," they respectfully bowed.
Suleiman put away his longsword and looked at them: "You've been standing here, you must have seen me practicing my sword just now."
The two nodded, not daring to speak.
"Tell me, what do you think of my practice?" Suleiman asked.
Hearing this, Simon and Lenn both stiffened simultaneously.
Asking a peasant to evaluate the Lord's sword practice? How, how could they dare? Their faces were filled with difficulty and unease.
"Lord Suleiman, we, we don't understand these things," Lenn stammered.
"You must speak even if you don't understand," Suleiman's tone was calm but carried an undeniable command, "If I tell you to speak, then speak. Tell the truth, if you dare to deceive me."
He didn't finish his sentence, but his stern gaze was enough to make the two of them shudder.
Simon and Lenn exchanged glances again, their eyes full of tension.
Finally, Simon plucked up his courage and stammered, "Lord Suleiman, you, you practiced, very, very, elegantly!"
By the Seven, if we say Lord Suleiman practices beautifully, he'll surely chop off our heads and kick them like balls!
"Elegantly?" Suleiman raised an eyebrow.
Simon quickly added: "Yes! Like, like dancing, very, very fluid, and very, very elegant, yes, yes, yes, exactly elegant!"
"Like dancing?" Suleiman chewed on the word.
Lenn also tremblingly echoed: "Yes, yes, my Lord, it's like, like a woman dancing, it looks very elegant."
"A woman?" Suleiman's expression became strange.
Simon cautiously glanced at Suleiman's face, seeing that he didn't seem angry.
Only then did he dare to continue: "But, but I don't feel, I don't feel, any threat, no sense of power."
"Exactly, exactly," Lenn nodded repeatedly, "It's like, it's like it's not meant for fighting, it's just, just, for show."
After speaking, the two immediately fell silent, lowering their heads uneasily, awaiting Suleiman's reaction.
They were deeply afraid of offending their Lord and incurring punishment.
However, Suleiman was not angry. Instead, he fell into contemplation. Like dancing? Like a woman? Very elegant but no sense of threat?
He thought about it, and perhaps this was precisely because his movements were too fluid, without any unnecessary stiffness or force, which made people feel there was no "sense of threat."
But that lightness and speed were something he had never possessed before.
This might be a good thing. The people of Westeros judge a swordsman's strength by the power of his sword swings. Perhaps he could play the pig to eat the tiger.
"How interesting," Suleiman muttered to himself. Then he looked at Simon and Lenn: "Simon, come up. Spar with me."
Simon suddenly looked up, his face full of astonishment: "Lord Droppings, you mean, let me, spar with you?"
"That's right!" Suleiman replied affirmatively.
Simon became even more uneasy, waving his hands repeatedly: "This, this won't do, Lord Suleiman! How can I fight with you! What if I injure you?"
Suleiman said, "Come up! Let me see your swordsmanship! Hurry! Don't make me say it a second time!"
Simon and Lenn exchanged glances again. Finally, under Suleiman's undeniable gaze, Simon braced himself and stepped forward.
He took another rusty longsword from Lenn's hand, carefully stood firm, and assumed an awkward-looking stance.
"Lord Suleiman, I! I an coming!" Simon said nervously.
"Come on! Stop talking nonsense! You!" Suleiman shouted loudly!
Simon took a deep breath and suddenly swung his sword, cutting towards Suleiman.
His movements were full of the stiffness and force of a farmer at work, completely devoid of any skill. The sword in his hand seemed like a hoe.
In Suleiman's eyes, Simon's movements were like watching a video at 0.7x speed, or 0.5x speed.
He didn't even need to think; his body and consciousness seemed to react instinctively!
He sidestepped Simon's heavy chop, his body turning lightly, like an elegant dance step, instantly moving behind Simon.
Suleiman merely used the hilt of his sword to gently push Simon's back!
Simon had not expected Suleiman to be so fast, to get behind him so easily.
He only felt a small force from his back, but his body seemed to lose its support, and his center of gravity instantly became unbalanced.
He stumbled forward, falling flat on his face with a thud, his sword also dropping to the ground.
Simon lay on the muddy ground, unable to react for a moment. He looked up at Suleiman in horror, his face full of disbelief.
Although he hadn't used much strength, he had clearly moved very quickly just now. How did Lord Suleiman just flash past him, get behind him, and easily push him down?
Moreover, Lord Suleiman's movements were like dancing, too elegant to be a fight.
Suleiman himself was also very surprised. He hadn't expected his body's reactions to be so quick, and his control of strength so precise.
This feeling was as if the sword and person were integrated, becoming one, wielding the sword like extending an arm.
He really hadn't used much force just now; he just followed Simon's movements, found the right angle, and lightly tapped with the sword hilt, and Simon fell.
"Simon, get up." Suleiman walked over to Simon and offered his hand.
Simon dared not grab Lord Suleiman's hand. He could only struggle to get up from the ground, patting off the mud, still looking at Suleiman with a shocked expression.
From his perspective, Lord Suleiman's movements were like dancing, too elegant to be a fight.
There was no sense of power, yet it could directly disarm him and make him collapse to the ground.
Suleiman looked at Lenn: "Lenn! You come up too! Both of you! Come at me together! Hurry!"
Lenn was startled, his face turning pale, and he waved his hands repeatedly: "Lord Suleiman, Lord Suleiman, you, you are too formidable! We won't go! We won't go!"
"Less talk! Get on with it!" "Otherwise!" Suleiman's tone carried an irresistible command.
Simon and Lenn were helpless. They exchanged glances and could only brace themselves and stand together.
"Hurry up! Hurry!" Suleiman said sternly, then stood firm with his sword.
Simon and Lenn gritted their teeth, swinging their rusty longswords, attacking Suleiman from left and right. Their movements were slow and clumsy, full of flaws.
In Suleiman's eyes, the attacks of these two were truly like watching at 0.5x speed, or 0.7x speed, full of flaws.
He just didn't know how he would fare against the top swordsmen of Westeros; these two were, after all, just farmers.
He lightly swayed his body, avoiding Simon's longsword, then took a side step, dodging Lenn's chop.
His figure moved like a ghost between the two, making no sound, encountering no obstruction.
He thus "danced" between the two guards, dodging left, avoiding right, moving in left, moving out right. Like a phantom!
The entire process lasted less than half a minute.
Finally, Simon and Lenn fell to the muddy ground one after another, like two sponges squeezed dry of water.
Their longswords once again slipped from their hands, and panting heavily, both looked at the still effortlessly standing Suleiman with faces full of horror.
Earlier, they might have been worried about injuring Suleiman, but later, swinging the sword was hard work, and they were too tired to think, no longer considering whether to hold back.
They had never imagined that a fight could be like this.
There was no clash of strength, no clang of weapons, only one person moving like the wind, and then they themselves fell. How was this a fight?
'The Seven above, Lord Suleiman must be the Seven Kingdoms' greatest swordsman!'
'He was exactly like the legendary figures of Westeros described by the bards!'
Suleiman put away his longsword, also somewhat out of breath, but this was more due to a lack of physical exercise over time, rather than the fight itself consuming much stamina.
He lowered his head to look at his hands, and then felt the light and coordinated sensation within his body.
He finally confirmed that the transmigration of his soul had not only brought his memories but also caused some incredible enhancement to this body.
'My goodness, could this be my golden finger!'