The afternoon wind grew colder, carrying the scent of wet soil and freshly cut wood across the open field.
Rows of dull-colored tents had been raised in the middle of the clearing, their fabric shivering softly whenever the wind slipped between them. They were temporary shelters, nothing more, but for people who had been sleeping under rotten roofs, wagons, or the open sky, they should have been enough to bring a little relief.
Yet, as I had expected, gathering two groups that had lived too long under broken hierarchies was not as simple as pitching tents.
Near the stacked supplies, the atmosphere had begun to turn ugly.
Several Rank E mercenaries had started showing their old habits again. Their eyes swept over the former slaves with the same contempt they had probably used for years, as if weakness was a crime and poverty was proof of worthlessness. A few of them stood too close to the supplies, arms crossed, blocking the way with their bodies while pretending it was nothing.
The former slaves, on the other hand, kept their heads lowered.
Some were still wrapped in thin, worn-out cloth. Others had bruises that had not fully faded, and their hands trembled when they reached for their rations. They had been told that the supplies would be distributed fairly, but fear did not vanish just because someone gave an order. Their bodies remembered too much.
At the front of the group stood the thin man with the rusty sword—the same man who had mocked me before.
Now he was blocking two former slaves from taking their share of firewood and thick blankets. His rusty blade hung at his waist more like a threat than a weapon, and his lips curled with a sneer as he looked down on them.
A few blankets had already been pulled away from the proper pile. Some bundles of firewood had been dragged behind the mercenaries, claimed without permission. The weaker newcomers could only stand aside, shifting their feet in the mud, too afraid to protest even when their hands clenched in frustration.
"A burden like you doesn't deserve this," the thin mercenary scoffed. "We're the ones keeping watch tonight. We need the warmer blankets more."
He kicked the edge of the blanket pile toward the former slave, not hard enough to injure, but enough to humiliate.
The man flinched.
That small movement was enough to make the mercenaries laugh.
My gaze darkened.
Before the thin man could kick the blankets farther away, a large shadow fell over his back. The laughter around him died so suddenly that the silence felt heavier than a shout. Even the wind seemed to lower its voice for a moment, leaving only the faint rustle of tent cloth and the distant clack of wood shifting in the supply pile.
The thin mercenary froze.
At first, he did not turn around. He only looked at his companions, probably expecting them to keep laughing with him. But their expressions had changed. One by one, their smirks stiffened, and their eyes dropped toward the ground.
Only then did he slowly turn his head.
I stood right behind him.
The instant his eyes met mine, his face lost color. The memory of the pressure I had shown earlier must have still been fresh in his mind, because his shoulders shrank before I even spoke. The other mercenaries lowered their heads as well, the arrogance from a few moments ago draining out of them like water from cracked jars.
The two former slaves stepped back in fear, unsure whether they should stay or run.
I did not look at them yet. My eyes remained on the thin man.
"Arad," I said, my voice low.
Arad, who had been standing not far behind me, straightened at once. His posture was firm, and his right hand was already curling into a fist, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.
I narrowed my eyes at the mercenaries before me. "It seems there are people here who still need to be taught how things work."
The thin man swallowed. His throat bobbed, but no words came out.
I folded my arms, letting a cold smile touch the edge of my lips. It was not amusement. Not truly. It was the kind of smile that came when anger had gone quiet enough to become judgment.
"I'll leave it to you, Arad."
"Yes, my lord," Arad answered.
His reply was sharp and steady.
The thin mercenary's eyes widened. "W-Wait, I didn't—"
Arad moved before he could finish.
Thud!
A fist slammed into the man's stomach, folding him forward with a choking gasp. The rusty sword at his waist rattled uselessly as his knees buckled. One of his companions tried to step away, but Arad caught him by the collar and dragged him back with one hand.
Dust burst from the ground as the first man fell.
Another mercenary raised both hands in panic. "We understand! We understand already!"
"You understood nothing," Arad said.
His voice carried no anger, which made it more frightening. He struck with blunt efficiency, not like a thug throwing a tantrum, but like a man enforcing an order he believed in. A kick swept one mercenary's legs from under him. Another received a punch to the shoulder that sent him spinning into the dirt.
The former slaves stared in stunned silence. Some covered their mouths. Others looked away, not out of pity, but because they were not used to seeing the strong punished for abusing the weak.
The dust thickened around Arad and the mercenaries, turning their figures into blurred shapes for a few moments.
I stood where I was, arms still folded, watching the scene unfold.
To be honest, even I felt a little awkward.
I told him to teach them, not grind them into the soil.
Still, I did not stop him immediately. A soft warning would have solved nothing. These men understood strength. They had lived by it, relied on it, and used it to trample others when no one stronger was watching. If I wanted discipline to take root here, they needed to understand that the old rules no longer belonged in this place.
After a few more heavy impacts, the dust began to settle.
The thin mercenary lay on the ground, curled on his side, groaning with one hand pressed against his stomach. His friends were not much better. One sat in the dirt with a swollen cheek, another clutched his arm while avoiding my gaze completely. None of them looked permanently harmed, but they looked miserable enough to remember the lesson.
I glanced at Arad, who stood with his fist lowered and his breathing steady.
A faint, helpless smile tugged at my mouth. "It seems recruiting you wasn't a waste after all."
Arad dipped his head. "I only carried out your will, my lord."
His seriousness made the awkwardness worse, but I let it pass.
The other mercenaries who had been watching from a distance stood stiffly now. Some had been leaning against crates before, pretending not to notice the commotion. Now their backs were straight, their expressions tense. They had seen enough to understand that obedience here was not optional.
Good.
I stepped forward and clapped my hands once.
Clap!
The sound cut through the field.
"All right, that's enough."
Arad stepped back without hesitation.
I drew in a slow breath, letting my gaze sweep across everyone gathered near the supplies—the mercenaries, the former slaves, the workers carrying wood, and the frightened newcomers who still did not know where they belonged. The cold wind pressed against my coat, and somewhere behind me, a tent rope creaked under the strain.
"Listen carefully," I said. "Today, I'm going to reorganize all of you into proper groups."
No one spoke.
The thin mercenary on the ground tried to lift his head, then immediately lowered it again when my eyes passed over him.
"Some of you came here as mercenaries," I continued. "But that does not mean all of you will become knights. Do not misunderstand your position. A sword in your hand does not automatically make you worthy of trust."
Several mercenaries stiffened at those words.
I let them feel it for a moment before going on.
"The rule is simple. I will divide everyone into two main groups: the worker group and the military group, which will serve as knights."
A murmur spread through the crowd, quiet but noticeable. The former slaves looked at one another in confusion. Some of the mercenaries frowned, clearly not liking the thought of being judged instead of automatically placed above the rest.
I raised my voice slightly, not shouting, but firm enough to settle them.
"Those with discipline, loyalty, and the dedication to follow orders will be allowed to devote themselves as knights. Those with special skills, practical knowledge, or the ability to contribute through labor will join the workers. Don't worry, both groups are necessary."