Tom Bruce stood on the balcony of the second floor of the Oak Manor. The morning mist enveloped the distant wheat fields like a thin veil. A few hunched-over serfs were already laboring in the fields, their movements as sluggish as wind-up dolls. The eastern sky was turning pale, and the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, gilding the stone walls of the manor with a golden hue.
"How ironic, even after being transported to the Middle Ages, I still have to wake up early," Tom muttered as he rubbed his temples. The memories of this body were still slowly merging with his consciousness. As the younger son of Baron Bruce, he held a noble title but was destined to inherit nothing. In this world where the eldest son inherited everything, the younger sons either became clergy or had to carve their own paths with swords and blood.
From the courtyard below came the sound of clashing metal. Tom leaned over to see several fully armored knights training in the morning light. They were part of Count Perys' private guard, and he—Tom Bruce—was merely one of many knightly squires. For this position, his father had paid an annual stipend equivalent to twenty cows.
"Master Bruce, your breakfast." Old maid Martha entered with a wooden tray, carrying black bread, cured meat, and a small cup of honey wine.
As Tom took the tray, he noticed the calluses on Martha's hands and the dirt embedded under her nails that wouldn't wash away. This was the reality of peasant life in the Middle Ages—a stark contrast to the white bread and wine enjoyed by the nobility.
"Thank you, Martha. Is the training ground ready?"
"Yes, Master. The steward has selected ten men as you requested," Martha hesitated, "but... two of them are the sons of blacksmiths. According to the Earl's decree, the children of craftsmen are exempt from militia service."
Tom sipped the honey wine, its sweetness spreading across his tongue. Such were the rules of a class-based society—even blacksmiths ranked higher than ordinary farmers. "Tell the steward I will speak with the blacksmiths personally. As compensation, their sons may have priority in using newly forged weapons."
After Martha left, Tom set down his cup and silently called out, "System interface."
A translucent light screen appeared before him:
**[Tom Bruce]**
Profession: Squire Level 5 (11/100)
Experience Pool: 0/100
The interface was disappointingly simple, but tests over the past three days had proven it effective. After each swordsmanship training session, experience points accumulated slowly. More importantly, the system could store "overflow" experience from training, functioning like a reservoir that could be freely allocated.
Tom cut the black bread with a dagger, contemplating the system's potential. In this age of cold steel, a well-trained army was the greatest asset. If he could mass-produce elite soldiers…
"Stop daydreaming," he mocked himself, shaking his head, and stuffed the last piece of cured meat into his mouth. The graduation assessment for squires was imminent—training a squad of qualified militiamen. Passing it would grant him formal knighthood under Count Perys and the authority to lead troops.
On the training ground stood ten young men, ranging in age from sixteen to thirty. They wore patched coarse linen clothes and tattered straw shoes. When they saw Tom approaching, they hastily lined up, and a tall, lanky one even tripped over his companion.
"I am Tom Bruce, and I will be your instructor for the next month," Tom said, pulling an oak staff from the weapon rack. "Now, state your names and your fathers' occupations."
"John, my father grows wheat," the first youth mumbled, avoiding eye contact.
"William, my father does too."
"Allen, my father... raises sheep."
...
Tom noticed the two sturdy youths at the end of the line. Their linen shirts were cleaner than the others', and their boots were intact. "And you two?"
"Robert, my father is the estate blacksmith," the taller youth puffed out his chest. "According to the Earl's decree—"
"I know the decree," Tom interrupted. "Stay and train, and you'll get priority in using newly forged spearheads. Or leave now, and I'll find replacements."
The two blacksmiths' sons exchanged glances and eventually nodded.
Training began with the most basic stance. Tom used the wooden staff to correct each person's posture, forcing them to straighten their backs, which had been bent from years of farming. "Imagine your spine is a spear, running straight from your buttocks to the back of your skull!"
During the midday break, serfs brought large pots of oatmeal porridge. Tom opened the system interface and found the militia squad listed under the "Subordinate Units" section. Upon checking the details, everyone's data was pitifully sparse:
**[John]**
Profession: Militiaman Level 0 (1/50)
Experience Pool: 0/50
**[William]**
Profession: Militiaman Level 0 (1/50)
...
Only Robert, the blacksmith's son, stood out slightly:
**[Robert]**
Profession: Militiaman Level 1 (3/100)
Experience Pool: 1/100
Tom tried allocating one point from Robert's experience pool to his level. As Robert ate porridge from a wooden bowl, he suddenly furrowed his brow, looking curiously at his arm.
"What's wrong?" Tom asked casually.
"Nothing, Master," Robert scratched his head. "My arm just feels warm, maybe from the sun."
This subtle reaction made Tom's heart race. The system could indeed affect others directly! Suppressing his excitement, he decided to proceed cautiously. Throughout the afternoon's training, he paid special attention to Robert's performance and noticed the youth learned movements faster than the others.
As the sun set, Tom checked the system again. The ten men's experience pools had collectively accumulated 15 points, which he carefully distributed evenly. He couldn't make it too obvious, or it might arouse suspicion.
"Gather here at the same time tomorrow," Tom announced before dismissing them. "Anyone late won't get lunch."
Back in his room, Tom spread out a piece of parchment and began recording his observations:
1. The system's influence on others is subtle.
2. Profession level increases bring tangible improvements in ability.
3. Individuals with higher initial aptitude benefit more.
Outside, the last ray of sunlight disappeared below the horizon. Tom blew out the candle and smiled in the darkness. In a month, Count Perys would see a group of "extraordinarily talented" militiamen. But this was only the beginning—with this system, he might leave his mark on this brutal yet beautiful world.