The Hound was down?
And it had been that clean?
The whole thing hadn't lasted ten seconds.
Nobody in the training yard could believe what they'd just seen.
Truth was, Leo had been wearing the full Seventh Legion plate the entire time—transmogged to look like plain clothes. With the armor's stat boost, his Strength sat at a rock-solid 14.8.
One more detail: over the last half-month of grinding with Barristan, his EXP bar had been creeping upward. That last hundred points had just ticked in. After clearing the bandit camp he'd been sitting at 2,300/2,400—exactly one hundred short of level five. Now he'd hit it and unlocked a new skill—[Precise Block].
[Precise Block]: Raise your weapon or sazhield and block every frontal attack coming at you with a very high success rate. Lasts six seconds.
The level-up washed every trace of fatigue from his body and topped his stamina back to full. That was why he'd jumped at the chance to spar the Hound—test how far his training had come and shut down Joffrey's smug little power play at the same time.
He'd opened with the Warrior PVP combo that never failed: [Charge] straight into [Hamstring]. The Hound never saw it coming. Then Leo chained the sword forms Barristan had drilled into him, leaning hard on his ridiculous strength advantage, and finished with [Slam]. One final crushing blow sent the Hound's blunted sword flying and dropped the big man flat on his back.
The impact had been so brutal that even the Hound thought he heard his own shoulder blade crack. His left arm went numb for a heartbeat, then flooded with white-hot pain.
The Hound's scarred face twisted in rage. He tried to push himself up, but the lingering slow from [Hamstring] kept him down. He snarled and strained, yet couldn't get his feet under him.
"Useless!" Joffrey screamed, face purple. "Hound, you can't even beat some foreigner who's only been swinging a sword for half a month? Pathetic!"
The Hound stayed silent, jaw clenched. He knew he'd been caught flat-footed. One mistake had snowballed. Still, he shot Leo a murderous glare that promised payback.
Robert, on the other hand, looked stunned and delighted. "Neo—you won? How the hell did you do that? One second I blinked and you were slamming into him like a damn bull!"
Jaime's smile had vanished. He replayed that opening Charge in his head, brow furrowed. His expression turned dead serious. Looks like I underestimated the boy.
"Just luck," Leo said, rubbing the back of his neck with a modest grin. "Ser Sandor let his guard down and I caught the opening—that's all."
He stepped forward and offered the Hound a hand.
Sandor glared, slapped the hand away, and forced himself up through gritted teeth, left shoulder screaming.
Leo didn't take it personally. He knew the Hound better than anyone here. Early on the man was bloodthirsty and brutal, but later he showed the decency and strange honor hidden under all that scar tissue and rage. The cruelty was half armor, half fuel for the revenge he wanted against his monster of a brother, the Mountain. Or maybe he'd just been walking the wrong road for a while and life was slowly dragging him back toward something human.
Same went for Jaime. The "Kingslayer" label made everyone see him as a villain, but both men were products of this brutal world—doing whatever it took to survive, protect their own, or settle old scores. Different sides of the board, that was all.
Robert didn't give a damn about the sour faces on Cersei, Jaime, or Joffrey. He clapped Leo on the back hard enough to rattle armor and bellowed, "Drinks! Now! You're coming with me, boy!"
Leo's strength and legendary tolerance for wine were right up Robert's alley. The king had taken a real shine to him.
Leo could only smile and roll with it. When the king says drink, you drink.
Inside, though, Leo was grinning wider than Robert. The system had just dropped five thousand EXP for beating the Hound—five thousand for a spar, not even a kill.
A named character. An "elite." That was the only explanation. Regular sparring with Red Keep guards had never given bonus EXP, but this? Jackpot.
He filed the discovery away: named players in this world were worth a fortune in experience. And the upcoming tourney was basically an EXP buffet with lances.
The five thousand points slammed him straight to level six.
New character panel:
Character Name: Leo (Neo Presto)
Level: lv6
Class: Warrior
Four Attributes: Strength 15, Agility 12.3, Stamina 15.5, Magic Power 0
Health: 100/100
Mana: 0/0
Skills: [Slam] lv2, [Charge] lv1, [Hamstring] lv1, [Precise Block] lv1, [Victory Rush] lv1, [Shield Bash] lv1
EXP: 200/9,600 (previous level needed 4,800—another two hundred left over).
Two brand-new skills came with the level.
[Victory Rush]: After landing a damaging hit on an enemy, recover a portion of your stamina and minor wounds. Can be used again after killing an enemy.
[Shield Bash]: Slam your shield into an opponent. Chance to inflict stun damage that disorients them. Chance scales with your Strength.
The moment Leo read [Victory Rush] his grin widened. In the game this was the Warrior's god-tier sustain skill—hit, heal, keep swinging. Here it restored stamina too? On a real battlefield he'd be an immortal meat grinder.
Too bad Westeros wasn't exactly at war yet. Four years until the War of the Five Kings. Until then he'd keep training, keep stacking levels, and turn Joffrey's nameday tourney into the biggest EXP farm of his life.
Robert was already dragging him toward the nearest flagon, roaring with laughter. Leo let himself be pulled along, mind already drifting to the lists and all the named knights he'd get to "test" himself against.
One month left.
He couldn't wait.