The sun sits high and clear over the clover field, casting a warm, pale yellow glare across the endless expanse of green. Puffy white clouds drift lazily through the blue sky, their shadows sweeping slowly across the three company commanders gathered in the center of the field. Surrounding them in precise, sprawling formations, the slave soldiers of the 203rd, 204th, and 205th Companies stand side by side, the quiet rustle of their movements blending with the hum of insects in the grass.
Adelberd lets out a slow, tired breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as his cool blue eyes scan the mismatched ranks. He raises a gloved hand, sweeping it toward the assembled men.
"Well, well, look at this," Adelberd says, his deep voice carrying a crisp, methodical cadence. "My company uses a Matchlock, a crossbow, and a long sword; Aldo's uses a Flintlock with a throwing knife and a short sword, and some carry a crossbow or a complex bow; and Comtois's uses a mix of both, and even an axe. What a mismatch! I thought the PCA only issued us basic Matchlocks and crossbows."
Comtois lets out a low, booming rumble of a laugh, his heavy chest expanding under his lacquered armor as he shifts his grip on his belt. His broad, sun-darkened face cracks into a wide grin.
"Well, the Professional Central Army doesn't forbid company commanders from modifying their weapons," Comtois chuckles, his deep voice vibrating in the open air, "as long as they can perform their duties."
Adelberd turns his head sharply toward Aldo, his posture snapping back into a rigid, military straightness.
"Now that the weapons are different, is there anything we can share?" Adelberd asks, his eyes searching Aldo's calm, impassive face.
Aldo doesn't hesitate. He reaches down, unbuckling a small leather pouch at his waist, his gloved fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he gestures to the supplies laid out on a wooden crate near his feet.
"Palm Oil for Hydrophobic barrier applied daily to all steel blades and joints to repel humidity," Aldo begins, his tone flat and structured as he counts off on his fingers. "Beeswax and Tallow Paste for Rubbed onto leather, wood, and rivets to block rot, mold, and water absorption. Vinegar Rags for Abrasive kit for scrubbing flash-rust off steel blades and plates. Oil Bluing for Applied during downtime to seal bare metal with a dark, waterproof oxidation layer. Smoked Racks for Off-duty armor is hung on wooden racks above camp fires; creosote smoke acts as a natural rust inhibitor."
Adelberd listens, his sharp gaze tracking each item as Aldo lists them. A subtle look of quiet approval settles over his fair face.
"How are you preparing?" Adelberd asks, his voice measured.
Aldo gives a single, firm nod of his head. "Yes, for all three hundred men in three companies."
Adelberd nods slowly, his shoulders shifting as he clasps his hands behind his back. "Very thoughtful."
Adelberd turns his body completely, his bright blue eyes scanning the distinct silhouettes of the three commanders standing before their respective ranks.
Comtois stands tall, his massive frame encased in a dark, formidable outfit built for shock tactics and forward assault. Over his chest hangs a full Urushi-lacquered Plated Mail vest, its small overlapping steel plates tightly woven into mail links, shining with a dark, waterproof lacquer designed to repel tropical rot while absorbing heavy slashes. On his head rests a steel kettle hat lined with raw silk padding, paired with a lacquered mail aventail that drapes heavily over his neck to shed core heat. His limbs are bound in hardened leather cuirbouilli greaves and bamboo splint vambraces along his forearms. Slung over his shoulder is a large, tightly woven rattan targe shield reinforced with a solid central iron boss. Beneath the heavy armor, a loose raw silk tunic sits over a paper-thin linen sub-garment, slick with a light layer of sweat.
Aldo stands beside him, built entirely for speed, agility, and quick repositioning. His torso is covered in an oil-treated woven rattan and bamboo vest, reinforced at the vital chest and spine with small steel scales in a lightweight lamellar pattern. On his head sits a conical rattan helmet with a thin steel crown plate hidden inside, its wide brim casting a sharp shadow over his eyes to shed rain and glare. His legs are exposed from the thigh down, wrapped tightly in high linen gaiters to ward off mud, leeches, and brush, while hardened leather guards protect his forearms. He holds a medium oval rattan buckler on his left arm, light enough for instant parrying. Beneath the vest, a sleeveless raw silk tunic leaves his shoulders free to vent heat.
Adelberd himself stands as a line tactical commander, balanced for mid-tier defense and stamina. He wears a side-vented open brigandine, its small overlapping steel plates riveted inside a heavy canvas jacket, the sides laced loosely so they can be unbuckled on marches to vent body heat. His steel kettle hat is draped with a white linen surcoat that hangs over his shoulders, reflecting the blazing sun off the steel plate. Lacquered wooden shin guards protect his legs, while leather forearm splints cover his wrists. A teardrop-shaped wooden shield coated in glossy, water-resistant resin rests against his leg, worn over a thin, loosely woven linen gambeson with minimal padding.
Adelberd looks between the three distinct sets of armor, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Why don't we share one set of armor?" Adelberd asks, turning back to Aldo.
"It's tactical," Aldo replies simply, his hands resting on his hip. "Comtois is on the front line, you're in the center, and I'll support the flank."
Adelberd's eyes narrow in calculation as he tilts his head. "Wouldn't each unit have to carry its own spare armor? Who will carry it? And who will carry the food and medicine?"
Aldo turns his head slightly, raising a gloved hand to point toward a small detachment standing apart from the main formation.
"Ah, that's why I hired these people," Aldo says.
Beside the three hundred slave soldiers stands a platoon of twenty heavily armed individuals, their bodies clad in full chainmail and dark leather armor, their faces completely obscured beneath pulled-up cowls and lowered visor grates. Among them, Lourdes stands tall, her posture stiff and vigilant under the heavy iron rings.
Adelberd steps forward, his eyes squinting as he examines the mysterious group. "Are they mercenaries?"
"Yes, very experienced," Aldo answers smoothly, his expression completely blank.
Standing right behind Aldo, Comtois turns his face away, his jaw trembling violently as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying with all his strength to suppress a massive burst of laughter. His chest heaves silently as he bites the inside of his cheek. [Aldo is really exaggerating,] Comtois thinks to himself, his stomach churning with suppressed amusement. [They're escaped earthling slaves.]
Adelberd nods thoughtfully, accepting the explanation without suspicion. "Then they'll carry our supplies. What else would they do?"
"There are reserves too; they'll handle scouting and medical support," Aldo continues, gesturing back toward his own ranks. "But the main part will still be my Platoon 3. They'll handle medical care—twenty men, and the remaining five will do the paperwork."
Adelberd takes a deep breath, stepping into the center of the three commanders. He looks at Aldo, then at Comtois.
"So who among the three of us will take the highest command?" Adelberd asks, his tone formal. He turns his bright blue eyes directly onto Aldo. "I nominate you, considering your many successes."
Aldo immediately steps back, waving his gloved hand in a swift, sharp refusal.
"Uh, no, I refuse," Aldo says quickly, a slight crease appearing between his brows. "What would you do? I'm not very used to it."
Comtois lets out a snort, leaning over toward Aldo with a wide, mocking grin stretching across his sweaty face.
"Isn't it that you're actually very shy and don't like speaking loudly?" Comtois teases, his loud voice vibrating with mirth. "Speaking too loudly will give you a sore throat."
Aldo looks down, giving a slight, reluctant nod of his head. "Yes, that's right. So I nominate Adelberd."
Comtois's smile instantly vanishes. His jaw drops, and he crosses his heavy arms over his chest, his broad face twisting into a dramatic, sulky pout.
"And me?" Comtois grumbles, glaring at Aldo.
"You'll be the frontline," Aldo says flatly, without even looking at him.
Adelberd takes a firm step forward, his chin lifting as he accepts the responsibility. "Then I'll do it."
He turns his entire body toward the assembled mass of three hundred and twenty armored men, his posture going stiff as an iron rail. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs to capacity.
"ALL, ATTENTION!" Adelberd roars, his voice ringing out across the wide clover field like a brass horn.
Instantly, three hundred and twenty pairs of boots slam into the dirt with a single, thunderous crash. Swords clatter against leather scabbards, wooden shield rims slap against chainmail, and every soldier stands frozen at absolute attention.
Adelberd raises his right arm, pointing sharply toward the southern horizon.
"ADVANCE TO OFFIRAN!" Adelberd shouts, his voice vibrating with absolute command.
The formation instantly breaks into movement, heavy boots marching in synchronized rhythm across the crushed green clover. Adelberd takes three confident strides forward before Aldo suddenly steps into his path, raising a hand to halt him.
Adelberd stops, blinking in confusion as he lowers his arm. "What's wrong?"
Aldo turns his body, gesturing with his arm toward the edge of the field near the timber pens. There, lined up in neat, sweeping rows under the care of several stable boys, stand four hundred sturdy, well-fed warhorses, their coats gleaming in the gentle sunshine as they toss their heads and chew on the grass.
Adelberd's mouth opens slightly. His blue eyes widen in sheer disbelief as he looks from the massive herd of horses back to Aldo's completely calm, unbothered face.
"You're very rich, sir," Adelberd stammers out, his usual stiff composure breaking for a brief moment as he stares at the magnificent caravan. "May I ask if you're the richest company commander among all the earthling slave-soldier company commanders?"
The massive caravan of three hundred and twenty men and four hundred horses moves steadily along the wide, stone-paved highway cutting through Central Heilop.
All around them, the landscape opens up into vast, rolling fields of wheat, barley, and oats, stretching as far as the eye can see under the clear blue sky. A bright, dazzling golden hue adorns the earth, the heavy heads of grain swaying softly in the warm summer breeze like a rippling sea of gold. Ancient stone dikes, built hundreds of years ago and covered in patches of dark green moss, still stand firm along the irrigation canals, holding back the clear water.
In the fields, local farmers in worn linen tunics bend over diligently, their sickles flashing in the bright sunlight as they cut the dry stalks. Small children, carrying woven baskets to gather the fallen ears, walk behind their parents. Their sun-browned faces are anything but pleasant—their lips are pouted, their brows furrowed in boredom as they drag their feet through the dirt, casting longing glances toward the open dirt tracks where they would rather be playing.
As the heavy clatter of four hundred horse hooves and the rhythmic march of armored boots echo across the road, the children's bored expressions instantly vanish. Bright, wide smiles break across their dirty faces. They drop their baskets, their eyes wide with wonder as they watch the gleaming procession of slave soldiers pass by. A few of the bolder boys abandon their work entirely, laughing aloud as they leap over the low stone dikes and run along the edge of the road, trying to match the marching pace of the heavy cavalry.
Suddenly, Adelberd raises his gloved hand, cutting the air with a sharp downward motion.
"HALT!" Adelberd commands, turning his horse around. He points his sword toward a small timber-roofed village tucked away beside a cluster of ancient oak trees off the main road. "Direct the column into the village!"
The entire formation comes to an abrupt stop, horses snorting and stamping their hooves on the pavement. The earthling teen slave soldiers, clad in their heavy, sweat-soaked armor, look around in complete bewilderment. Muffled whispers break out through the ranks as boots shift on the stone path.
"What's wrong?" one young soldier asks, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Why have we stopped?"
Adelberd sits tall in his saddle, his clear voice carrying back over the crowded road. "Aldo told everyone to go into the village to buy whole wheat!"
Lourdes, her face hidden beneath her dark mail cowl, urges her horse forward through the ranks until she reaches Aldo's side. Her dark brown eyes glare at him with intense suspicion.
"What are you doing?" Lourdes snaps, her raspy voice tight with annoyance. "What is your plan?"
Aldo turns his head calmly toward her, his expression entirely unbothered by her sharp tone. "Well, I bought it so we'd have food."
Lourdes's brow furrows deeply, her jaw tightening. "But didn't you make my French brothers and sisters prepare compressed flour and dried meat last night?"
Aldo looks down at his gloved hand resting on the reins. "Sometimes you have to give the soldiers good food to boost their morale."
Aldo holds his hand up between them. He extends three fingers, holding them still in the warm air. Then he opens his hand fully, showing ten fingers, before quickly pulling back to leave only two fingers extended.
"We bought three tons of wheat," Aldo calculates out loud, his tone completely flat. He turns his head toward Adelberd. "Have the twenty escorts carry an additional thirty pounds of whole wheat, and each of the three hundred men needs eight pounds of wheat."
Lourdes turns her face away, her lips pressing into a thin, angry line as she mutters bitterly under her breath, her voice barely audible over the stomping hooves.
"Aldo is exploiting us..."
Ignoring her bitter grumbling, Aldo dismounts from his horse, tossing the reins to Onaga, and walks with calm, deliberate steps into the center of the village square.
A group of local peasants is gathered around a wide wooden threshing floor, rhythmic wooden thuds echoing through the air as they beat the dry wheat stalks with heavy wooden flails to separate the grain. Chaff drifts through the warm breeze like golden dust, settling over their bare, sweat-glistened shoulders.
Aldo stops at the edge of the threshing floor, watching them for a moment before stepping forward.
"What does your bushel look like?" Aldo asks smoothly.
The head farmer, a weathered man with deep sun-wrinkles around his eyes, stops his swinging flail. He wipes his dusty brow with his sleeve, wiping away sweat, and points toward a sturdy, iron-hooped oak bucket standing beside a pile of clean grain.
Aldo turns his head and calls out over his shoulder. "Adelberd, come do the calculations."
Adelberd walks over quickly, his boots clicking on the dry earth. He kneels beside the oak bucket, reaching down to scoop up a handful of the heavy golden grain, feeling its density before lifting the bucket slightly off the ground to gauge its weight.
Adelberd stands up, turning to Aldo with a firm nod. "Their bushel weighs thirty kilograms."
Aldo turns back to the head farmer, his posture calm and relaxed. "I want to buy one hundred bushels."
The farmer's eyes widen in surprise. He clears his throat nervously, shifting his feet in the chaff. "The standard price per bushel is six copper coins, sir. How much do you want to pay?"
Adelberd steps beside Aldo, leaning in slightly to whisper in a low, sharp tone. "Offer five coins."
Aldo completely ignores Adelberd's suggestion. He looks the farmer straight in the eye, his voice smooth and unwavering.
"I'll buy it for eight coins, no need to negotiate," Aldo says plainly. "Oh, and make me a chest sealed with molten wax for preservation; I'll pay ten coins for that."
Without waiting for a response, Aldo reaches into his heavy leather belt pouch and pulls out a thick, heavy purse. He counts out thirty bright silver coins, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet square, and drops them directly into the farmer's trembling, calloused hands.
The farmer stares down at the glittering silver—thirty silver coins, equal to a staggering three thousand copper coins. His jaw hangs open in utter shock.
"Right away, sir! At once!" the farmer stammers, his voice cracking with excitement.
He turns and screams at the other peasants, who instantly drop their flails and burst into frantic action. Within minutes, large wooden storage chests are dragged out, hot molten wax is poured along the inner seams to seal out air and moisture, and the golden wheat is shoveled inside with lightning speed.
Once the chests are shut and sealed tight, Aldo turns toward the resting ranks of the 205th Company.
"Comtois, send your men," Aldo calls out.
A squad of Comtois's soldiers steps forward—every single one of them nearly 1.8 meters tall, with massive, muscular shoulders and thick arms hardened by years of swinging heavy battleaxes. They lift the heavy, wax-sealed wooden chests onto their shoulders as if they weigh nothing at all, securing them firmly onto the pack horses.
With the cargo fully loaded, the column turns and begins its march out of the village.
The entire population of the village—men, women, and children—line the dirt tracks, waving their arms enthusiastically, their faces beaming with joy as they call out blessings to the three hundred and twenty men marching away into the bright afternoon sun.
By August 15th, the sweeping golden wheat fields of Central Heilop give way to the rugged, rolling terrain of the southern Palantine region, known as Dravensk.
The flat, peaceful landscape of the northern outskirts vanishes, replaced by steep hills dotted with grand, sprawling stone villas built into the hillsides.
Comtois rides his horse near the front of the column, his massive hand gesturing lazily toward the massive stone arches and painted tiled roofs visible through the trees.
"Look at those," Comtois grunts, pointing his thick finger toward a large estate with marble pillars overlooking a river valley. "That's the only villa we were forced to build during the eastern campaign. Must have built about a dozen of those damn things for the local governors."
He sweeps his arm across the horizon, where the open fields completely give way to endless, dense thickets of dark green pine trees stretching over the sharp ridges.
"Most of Dravensk is just Pine Forest," Comtois explains, his voice turning rough as he scans the dark treeline.
Aldo shifts in his saddle, looking at the towering pines swaying in the mountain wind. "Ah, I remember Comtois and I passed through here after our mission in Pirus."
Comtois nods, his broad face turning unusually grim. "Pirus is in the Crown of Samekh. Pirus and Dravensk are connected, and both are covered in these same thick pine forests."
Comtois slows his horse down, leaning over his saddle horn as he looks at Aldo and Adelberd.
"Last time, I guided you on a route without ambushes," Comtois says, his tone dropping into a heavy, serious register. "This time we have to go through Dravensk to reach Ovontha in the Queendom of Alfonsia. We have to take a completely different route through the deep forest. Let's set up camp here today."
Aldo nods once in agreement. "Dismount and set up camp."
The command ripples through the ranks, and the three hundred and twenty men begin dismounting, leading their horses off the main road into a wide clearing sheltered by towering pine trees. The sharp, pungent scent of pine resin fills the cool evening air, mixed with the crunch of dry pine needles beneath hundreds of heavy boots.
Adelberd walks over to Comtois, his hand resting on the pommel of his long sword, his eyes searching the dark, shadowed depths of the forest surrounding them.
"Is there any danger in this Dravensk region?" Adelberd asks, his posture tense.
"There's a lot," Comtois replies flatly, his dark eyes fixed on the dense treeline where the wind howls through the pine needles. "Everyone remember to be careful. Check your weapons, double the perimeter guards, and keep your boots on."
A short distance away, Hano is unrolling a heavy canvas tent, hammering a wooden stake into the needle-covered ground with the flat side of a hand-axe. He pauses mid-swing, turning his head to look at Comtois's unusually grim, vigilant face.
Hano lets out a soft, amused grunt, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he speaks under his breath to Onaga.
"This carefree guy is suddenly being so cautious," Hano murmurs, shaking his head before driving the stake deep into the soil. "Something must be wrong."