"Bang!" With a resounding crash, the closed door burst open.
A figure wrapped in wind and snow stormed in.
It was a young man, about 17 or 18 years old. He had long, jet-black hair that was slightly unkempt, with a few stray leaves or tiny grains of sand trapped in it. His face was delicate, yet his brows bore a determination and defiance that far surpassed his age.
He was clad in a somewhat worn yet still meticulously clean suit of armor, covered with scars. A longsword hung at his waist, its sheath plain and unadorned, with the hilt wrapped in old fabric strips.
At this moment, his body faintly glimmered with a silver radiance—this young man was clearly a knight!
Lynch stared at the young man's face in confusion for a moment. He couldn't quite explain why, but this youth seemed somehow familiar, as though they had met before—though exactly where, he couldn't recall.
The raucous hall fell suddenly silent, and all eyes turned collectively to the young man.
"Tap, tap, tap!"
