Nascent Soul Rebirth: Starting as a Wizard

The brass reflected a heavy, cold luster in the dim light, blending seamlessly with his serene figure.

He seemed to isolate himself in another dimension, surrounded by deliberately suppressed discussions and occasional bursts of sneer.

Those gazes, whether curious, disdainful, or indifferent, all became insignificant background noise.

Within the inner circle, several young men, who were the center of attention, were talking about something when their voices suddenly rose, bursting into a knowing, unspoken chuckle.

All eyes turned to the corner where Solo was, making no attempt to hide their sarcasm and superiority.

Among the collateral group, there was a young man who was noticeably taller and more robust than his peers, with fiery red hair.

Surrounded by several companions, he wore a smile that was a mixture of eager performance and frivolous mockery.

His companions whispered encouragement, their fingers subtly pointing at Solo.

The red-haired youth licked his lips, seemingly having made up his mind, and led the others over with deliberately powerful strides.

"Hey everyone! Come and see! Look what kind of 'big shot' has emerged from our Fran family!"

The red-haired youth suddenly raised his voice, and the loud sound instantly attracted the attention of many people nearby.

He deliberately emphasized the words "big shot," which was full of irony.

"Isn't this our 'erudite' young master Solo? What's wrong? Instead of playing with your muddy friends this season, you're holding this hard lump and pretending to be something you're not?"

He walked up to Solo, tilted his head, and exaggeratedly examined the thick book in Solo's hands, then sneered:

"Do you recognize these scribbled symbols on here? You haven't been holding the book upside down, have you? Want me to teach you, hmm?"

A suppressed, agreeing chuckle immediately rose from the surroundings, and many eyes turned to look, waiting to see a good show.

On the inner circle, a young man dressed in a formal suit embroidered with silver sea patterns seemed to find it quite amusing, and even shouted:

"Hey! Nader! Did you just sleep through your knight combat class? You can't even handle a Mudblood?"

Let this unruly brat know how to "stand" and "speak" properly on the Fran family's territory!

The red-haired youth called Nader's face turned red and white in an instant.

He had clearly mispronounced the name; the red-haired youth's real name was "Nelter".

But in the eyes of this direct descendant, the name of a collateral descendant might not even be worth remembering accurately.

When Nailter was mistakenly called "Nader," his face flushed bright red, like a boiled shrimp.

The shame of being called by the wrong name in public by a direct descendant, and the impulse to display force and prove one's "worth" in front of more clansmen.

Coupled with the increasingly enthusiastic encouragement from his companions, it was like a spark thrown into a hot oil pan, instantly igniting his not-so-complex mind and excess energy.

"Did you hear me, you mudblood!" Nelter retorted, a glint of malice flashing in his eyes.

"Today, I'll take pity on you and personally teach you what noble 'manners' really mean! So you won't embarrass the Fran family when you go out in the future!"

He let out a low growl, said no more, took a half step forward with his left foot, pulled his right fist back, leaned his body slightly forward, and twisted his waist and hips to generate power—this was the "Straight Punch" from the basic knight fighting techniques.

Although his movements were somewhat stiff and his power delivery was not smooth.

But the sound of that punch cutting through the air showed that the training of the past two years had not been entirely in vain, and its power should not be underestimated.

The fist whistled through the air as it slammed into Solo's drooping, slightly pale and thin face.

Solo seemed completely absorbed in his book world, oblivious to the approaching threat, not even lifting an eyelid.

However, his right hand, which was gripping the heavy spine of the book, rotated inward by a tiny, almost imperceptible angle.

With this movement, the top corner of the sturdy book, "Detailed Explanation of the Geography of the Fjord Islands," covered in brass, was touched.

It quietly aimed itself at the direction from which Nelson was charging, like a silent, miniature ram waiting in the wings.

Meanwhile, beneath Nelter's feet, in the relatively smooth cracks of the stone slabs worn smooth by countless boots.

A round pebble, about the size of a pea, which may have been left over from construction or came off a shoe sole.

As if gently touched by an invisible hand, it rolled right under the ball of his right foot, which was about to land.

With a soft "plop," the contact between my foot and the pebble brought a deadly slip.

Nielt's forward momentum suddenly stalled, his balance was instantly broken, and his body involuntarily staggered forward.

And because of the inertia of his body leaning forward when he threw the punch, this lunge was even more violent.

His cheek, especially the area around his right eye, slammed straight and rapidly into the cold, sharp brass corner of the thick book!

In that instant, a rapidly expanding, cold, bronze light was reflected in Nalt's eyes, and horror froze his expression.

Just as the copper horn was about to touch his eyelashes at the critical moment, a hand, slightly pale and wrinkled with age, yet unusually steady and strong, appeared.

Like an iron clamp reaching out from the void, it precisely gripped Nelson's already out-of-control right wrist.

The ferocious force of the lunge came to an abrupt halt under this hand, as if it had crashed into an invisible wall.

To his astonishment, Nailter found himself being lifted upwards by an absolutely irresistible force, his feet instantly leaving the ground, the feeling of weightlessness causing him to panic.

His gaze was forced to rise, level with a pair of deep, calm, ancient, still gray eyes.

The owner of the eyes was an elderly man dressed in a sharp black suit, with every silver button fastened meticulously.

His silver-white hair was neatly combed and lay close to his scalp. His face was serious, and his wrinkles were like knife cuts, recording the long years and hardships.

He was extremely tall, nearly 1.9 meters, and even in his seventies, his back remained as straight as a pine tree.

Standing there, one naturally exudes an undeniable majesty, weathered by time and experience, like a javelin that has withstood countless battles yet still retains its sharpness.

Nailter, sixteen years old and still growing, felt as light as a fledgling in his hands.

"Young Master Nalt."

The old man's voice was steady and not loud, yet it clearly reached the ears of everyone present.

It has a peculiar rhythm that seems to soothe restlessness and makes people involuntarily concentrate and listen carefully.

"If my memory serves me correctly, you should be the second son of the Orona family."

His gaze swept over Nelson's still-shaken face, then over his slightly comical posture caused by being mentioned.

His tone remained calm, yet every word was clear.

"The foundation of this knight's fighting style is far too weak and loose; his footwork is unsteady, his center of gravity is unstable, and his power generation is stiff..."

It seems that, looking back after so many years, the decision by Viscount Ende, who overruled public opinion to marry his fourth daughter to Sir Orona, does indeed have many aspects that are open to discussion.

The words themselves were harsh enough, but what was even more frightening was the denial of the Nailter family, father and son, implied beneath the calm tone.

Like a whip soaked in ice water, it struck Nailter's face silently and sharply, more embarrassing than any angry curse.

The old man was Sebastian Franl, the chief butler of the Franlite Viscount's mansion.

An old man who has served the Fran family for over fifty years and is himself a seasoned and powerful knight.