Monday morning, 7:15 AM.
The second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins stood by the banks of the Black Lake, faces blank with bewilderment.
To be more precise, their faces were etched with misery.
They had been notified that today’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class had been moved up to 7:30 AM, and the location wasn’t a classroom—it was outdoors.
In Scotland during September, the early morning temperature was barely above ten degrees Celsius.
A thin mist drifted over the lake’s surface, and dew still clung to the grass.
The students shivered, huddled in their school robes, their eyes filled with a singular question: *Why?*
Ron let out a massive yawn.
“I haven’t even finished my breakfast.”
“You ate three slices of toast and two sausages,” Hermione noted.
“That was just the appetizer.”
Harry stood between them, feeling reasonably energetic.
He had likely grown accustomed to early mornings during his years with the Dursleys.
Over on the Slytherin side, Malfoy’s platinum blonde hair wasn’t perfectly styled for once, and his face was ashen.
Crabbe and Goyle stood behind him like two machines that hadn’t been powered on yet.
“Wait until my father hears about this, he’ll surely—”
“Mr.
Malfoy,” Zhang Wen’s voice drifted over from behind them.
“Whatever your father has to say can wait until after class.”
The students turned around.
Zhang Wen was dressed in simple black robes, holding his new wand and looking refreshed.
Artoria stood beside him.
But today, Artoria looked different.
She wasn’t wearing robes.
Instead, she had changed into practical, light attire—a white shirt, a deep blue vest, black trousers, and boots.
Her blonde hair was tied up in a high ponytail.
She looked sharp and disciplined, like a knight preparing for the battlefield.
In fact, she was.
“Starting today, there will be fifteen minutes of physical training before every Monday and Thursday class,” Zhang Wen announced.
“Assistant Pendragon will be in charge of these drills.”
Artoria took a step forward.
“Warm-up.
One lap around the lake.”
The crowd fell silent for two seconds.
Then, an explosion of protest erupted.
“A lap?!” Ron’s voice cracked.
“The Black Lake is at least two miles around!”
“One point five miles,” Artoria corrected him.
“I measured it last night.”
Zhang Wen sighed inwardly—she was telling the truth.
When she said she was “going for a stroll” after dinner yesterday, she had actually been measuring the circumference of the lake.
“This is unreasonable!” Malfoy protested loudly.
“We’re here to learn magic, not to run!
I’m going to report this to the Headmaster—”
“Mr.
Malfoy.” Artoria’s voice wasn’t loud, but everyone fell silent instantly.
She looked at Malfoy with a calm, steady gaze.
“In my homeland, knight apprentices begin running three miles every morning starting from the age of seven.
Regardless of winter or summer, rain or shine.
Those who cannot finish have no right to pick up a sword.”
Malfoy opened his mouth to speak.
“You are twelve years old.
One point five miles,” Artoria said.
“This is already the bare minimum.”
Malfoy opened his mouth again.
Then he shut it.
The aura of the King of Knights was no joke.
Even if her current role was merely an assistant, that innate majesty was not something a twelve-year-old brat could withstand.
“Begin,” Artoria commanded.
No one moved.
Artoria turned and began jogging along the lakeshore.
Her pace wasn’t fast; it was a standard jogging rhythm.
Her gait was even and her breathing steady, as if she were performing the most mundane daily task.
Harry was the first to follow.
Then Hermione.
Then Neville hesitantly started moving his legs.
Ron followed, grumbling under his breath.
Seeing the Gryffindors start, Malfoy grit his teeth and began running as well—he refused to let himself be humiliated in front of them.
Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look and huffed as they followed.
Zhang Wen stood in place, watching the group of twelve-year-olds wobbling as they ran around the lake.
He didn’t run.
While his stamina was better than the average wizard’s, comparing himself to Artoria would be a joke.
Joining in would only lead to self-inflicted humiliation.
Thus, he chose a more dignified role: supervisor.
Ten minutes later.
Harry was the first to complete the lap.
He was panting heavily, but he had persevered.
Hermione was second.
Her face was flushed bright red, and she rested her hands on her knees, though her expression carried a stubborn streak of refusal to lose.
Malfoy was third.
He was gasping for air, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, looking as though he had swallowed a dungbomb.
But he had, indeed, finished.
Zhang Wen was somewhat surprised.
He had expected Malfoy to give up halfway or fake an injury.
It seemed that despite the boy’s foul mouth, he had a shred of pride in his bones.
Neville came in fifth—ahead of Ron.
This also exceeded Zhang Wen’s expectations.
Neville might lack magical talent, but his physical foundation seemed decent.
He just didn’t know it yet.
Ron was third to last.
When he reached the finish line, he collapsed directly onto the grass.
“I’m dying,” he wheezed, staring at the sky.
“Just bury me here.”
“Mr. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Weasley, the fact that you can still speak proves you haven’t reached your limit,” Zhang Wen said, crouching down to look at him.
“Why didn’t you run?” Ron accused.
“I’m the professor.
The professor’s job is to supervise.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Once you become a professor, it will be fair.”
Crabbe and Goyle arrived last.
After one lap, their faces were pale, and they looked ready to vomit at any moment.
Artoria waited for everyone at the finish line.
Her breathing hadn’t even noticeably changed.
“Their baseline is worse than I anticipated,” she murmured to Zhang Wen.
“They’re only twelve.”
“When I was seven—”
“When you were seven, you were already capable of pulling the Sword in the Stone.
That standard doesn’t apply to ordinary humans.”
Artoria thought for a moment, seemingly finding sense in his words, and didn’t press further.
After the physical training, everyone returned to the classroom.
Today’s lesson was on the basics of the Shield Charm.
Zhang Wen stood at the lectern, holding his new wand.
“Last class we practiced the Disarming Charm; today we learn defense,” he said.
“The Shield Charm, *Protego*, is the most fundamental and vital protective magic.
The incantation is *Petrificus Totalus*—no, wait, that’s the Body-Bind Curse.
The Shield Charm’s incantation is *Protego*.”
He raised his wand to demonstrate.
“*Protego*.”
A pale blue, translucent barrier appeared before him.
It was stable, clear, and without a hint of flickering.
It was entirely different from his performance last week with Lockhart’s wand.
The new wand felt like an extension of his body; every wisp of magic could be precisely channeled and released.
The students clearly noticed the difference as well.
“Did you get a new wand, Professor?” Hermione immediately raised her hand.
“Keen observation, Miss Granger.
Five points,” Zhang Wen nodded.
“The one last week didn’t suit me well, so I replaced it over the weekend.
This is an important point of knowledge: the compatibility between a wand and its wizard is crucial.
An ill-suited wand will severely impact the effectiveness of your spellcasting.”
Hermione scribbled furiously in her notes.
“Now, I would like Assistant Pendragon to provide a demonstration,” Zhang Wen turned to Artoria.
“I will attack, and she will defend.”
Artoria walked to the center of the room.
She didn’t take out a wand.
She didn’t have a wand.
The students began whispering to one another.
“How is she going to defend?” Ron whispered to Harry.
Harry shook his head, but his eyes were glued to the center of the room.
Zhang Wen raised his wand.
“*Expelliarmus!*”
A bolt of red light shot toward Artoria.
Artoria stepped to the side, and the red light whipped past her ear, striking the wall behind her.
It was a small movement.
But the timing was precise to the millisecond.
“Again,” she said.
“*Expelliarmus!*”
This time, Zhang Wen increased both power and speed.
Artoria stepped aside again, simultaneously moving forward.
The red light missed once more, and the distance between her and Zhang Wen closed by a meter.
“Again.”
Zhang Wen fired three Disarming Charms in rapid succession.
Artoria’s body moved like flowing water through the three bolts of red light.
There were no wasted motions, no exaggerated dodges; every step was just enough to avoid the attack, and every step closed the distance.
After five spells, she was standing directly in front of Zhang Wen.
She was close enough to reach out and touch his wand.
The classroom was pin-drop silent.
“This is another form of defense,” Zhang Wen turned to the class, trying to keep his voice steady—to be honest, being approached by Artoria like that was somewhat intimidating.
“The Shield Charm is for blocking head-on, but dodging and positioning are also forms of defense.
In many cases, dodging is more effective than blocking.”
“But we can’t possibly have Assistant Pendragon’s reaction speed,” a Slytherin student who had transferred from Ravenclaw said.
“Of course not,” Zhang Wen said.
“That’s why you need to learn the Shield Charm first.
The Shield Charm is the foundation; dodging is advanced.
Combining the two creates a complete defensive system.”
“And physical training,” Artoria’s voice came from behind him, “is the foundation for dodging.”
Realization dawned on the students’ faces.
It turned out that the physical training wasn’t just a whim of torment from this blonde assistant, but a part of the entire pedagogical system.
Zhang Wen gave Artoria a slight nod.
Flawless coordination.
Even though they hadn’t rehearsed this at all—Artoria had improvised.
The King of Knights’ battlefield intuition worked just as well in the realm of teaching.
After class, the students filed out.
Harry was once again the last to leave.
He dawdled while packing his books, waiting for the others to go before speaking.
“Professor Zhang, I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“When Assistant Pendragon was dodging…
how did she judge the flight path of the spells?”
Good question.
Zhang Wen glanced at Artoria.
“Mr.
Potter wants to know how you did it.”
Artoria thought for a moment and walked over to Harry.
“It isn’t about judging the path of the spell,” she said.
“It is about judging the intent of the caster.”
“Intent?” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Before a spell is cast, the caster’s body gives signals—the angle of the shoulders, the direction of the wrist, the shift in center of gravity.
By reading these signals, one can know where the spell will fly before it is even cast.”
Harry’s eyes lit up.
“That’s a bit like Quidditch,” he said.
“Before a Chaser passes the Quaffle, if you watch their shoulders, you can predict the direction of the pass.”
Artoria nodded.
“The essence is the same.
Prediction in combat and prediction in sports follow the same principles.”
Harry looked down in thought for a moment, then looked up at Artoria.
“Assistant Pendragon, what did you do before this?”
The question was direct and innocent.
Artoria fell silent for a second.
“I was a knight,” she said.
Harry waited for her to continue.
She didn’t.
“All right, Mr.
Potter,” Zhang Wen patted Harry on the shoulder.
“We can practice prediction during our next tutoring session.
Go get some lunch.”
Harry nodded, clutching his books as he left.
As he reached the door, he looked back at Artoria, his mouth twitching as if to say something, but he ultimately remained silent.
The door closed.
“He is very clever,” Artoria said.
“He’s more than just clever.” Zhang Wen packed the items on his lectern.
“He has intuition.
Being able to link Quidditch experience to combat prediction isn’t something your average twelve-year-old can do.”
“He needs focused cultivation.”
“I know.”
Zhang Wen stuffed the last stack of homework into his bag, remembering something.
“By the way, regarding today’s training—Neville Longbottom finished fifth.”
“I noticed,” Artoria said.
“His physical condition is not poor, but he lacks confidence.”
“His performance in magic classes is a mess, and he’s been bullied into being terrified by Snape, so he thinks he’s useless at everything.”
“A false perception.” Artoria’s tone was flat, but Zhang Wen heard a trace of disapproval.
“A person’s value should not be measured by a single standard.
He is poor at magic, but his physical capacity is not lacking.
If he knows he is not inferior to others in one aspect, perhaps he will improve in others.”
Zhang Wen looked at her.
Sometimes he forgot that Artoria wasn’t just a powerful warrior.
She had been a King.
She had ruled a nation and led countless knights.
She knew how to read people, and she knew how to lead them.
“You want to give Neville private physical training?” Zhang Wen asked.
“If you agree.”
“Of course I agree,” Zhang Wen said.
“You’re the assistant; you don’t need to ask me about such things.”
Artoria nodded.
“It is time for lunch,” she said.
The conversation shifted naturally from educational philosophy to eating.
Zhang Wen was already used to it.
“What’s on the menu today?”
“Shepherd’s pie and roast chicken legs.”
“You checked ahead again?”
“Understanding logistics and supplies is basic common sense.”
Zhang Wen followed her toward the Great Hall.
In the corridor, they encountered Hermione.
She was carrying a stack of books, and her hair was even bushier than before—likely because she had just come from the library.
Seeing Zhang Wen and Artoria, she hesitated before gathering her courage to speak.
“Professor Zhang, Assistant Pendragon—may I ask a question?”
“Go ahead, Miss Granger.”
“The dodging technique Assistant Pendragon used earlier…
I couldn’t find any mention of it in any of the textbooks.
Which school of magic does it belong to?
I want to do further research.”
Hermione’s eyes burned with the thirst for knowledge.
Artoria looked at her and answered seriously, “It does not belong to any school of magic.
It is a knight’s combat technique.”
“A knight?” Hermione’s quill was already at the ready.
“Which order of knights?
Are there relevant documents from the Knights of the Round Table?
I remember the Hogwarts library has some texts on Arthurian legends—”
“Miss Granger.” Artoria interrupted her, her tone gentle but firm.
“Some knowledge cannot be found in books.”
Hermione blinked.
To her, that sentence was likely equivalent to telling a fish that water didn’t exist.
“Then…
how should I learn?”
“Come to physical training,” Artoria said.
“Start by running.”
Hermione looked down at her books, then back at Artoria.
“I will,” she said, her tone as solemn as if she were swearing a military oath.
She hurried off with her books.
Zhang Wen waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“‘Some knowledge cannot be found in books’—you know how much of a critical hit that is to Hermione Granger.
She’ll definitely go back and search frantically for references, and when she finds nothing, she’ll be even more dedicated to the physical training.”
Artoria’s expression remained unchanged.
“I simply told the truth.”
Zhang Wen stared at her for two seconds.
Well.
The King of Knights always told the truth.
It was just that the truth could sometimes be a strategy.
Perhaps that was how she had managed the Knights of the Round Table in Camelot.
Zhang Wen suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for Gawain and Lancelot.