The platoon returned to the Star Fort at sunset alongside three other units of twenty-five members each. They were exhausted, but they marched with the heavy, rhythmic tread of soldiers who had tasted blood. Not a single soul had been lost during the expedition. Seeing them march—battered but unbroken—ignited a flicker of martial spirit in my chest. It wasn't just tactical satisfaction; it was a surge of pride that caught me off guard. We bypassed the debriefing and headed directly to the Great Hall to eat.
The Great Hall didn't just hold the five hundred; it showed the power of House Hatar.
As we approached the hall, the smell of roasted meat, spilled ale, loud talking, and the blood of drying goblin blood hit my sensitive nose hard. Hundreds of men and women crowded the long trestle tables, their voices a low, rhythmic thunder that seemed to hold up the stonewood rafters.
This evening feast was a living presentation of power and hierarchy, and a little tension was present in the humid air. I sat at the high table, my small chair a deliberate elevation above the recruits. I worked through large chunks of meat and vegetables, my audial skill and optic skill fully engaged.
I wasn't just looking for threats; I was looking for the invisible threads that bound these people together.
The hierarchy was visible in the way the salt was passed. At the center sat our core household military retinue unit called Tusked Bastion—the original military personnel who had marched into the Sanni Forest six years ago. They had grown into a disciplined core of 200, now formally split into two lethal halves: Division A (The Left Tusk) and Division B (The Right Tusk). They were silent, their movements quiet and economical. To their flanks sat the 200 New Veterans. They were the "Calculated Muscle"—men who knew how to kill but were still learning how to kill the Hatar way.
Then, there were the 100 new recruits, which also included children of provisional nobles. They were the loudest, a little energetic, their laughter slightly high, and their heartbeats still erratic from the goblin mission. They were trying to buy their way into the inner circle with stories of their exploits.
I shifted my gaze to Tina. She sat at the very end of Division B with three others—a rare, silent honor for a new recruit. She wasn't laughing. She was methodically breaking down a piece of roast, her knife work as precise as her sword strokes in the forest. A blond recruit from the mission tried to sit near her, but a female veteran from the Bastion gave him a look so cold it practically froze the beer in his mug. Tina had been indexed; the veterans recognized her as one of their own.
"They have been tested and indexed, Olford," I whispered, my audial skill muting the roar of the hall. "The Bastion has accepted the 'Wedge' into their ranks."
Olford gave a microscopic nod, his eyes scanning the three hundred new veterans who sat to our flanks. They were the "Calculated Muscle," but as the month of Ace approached, I could sense the "Friction" in their ranks. I leaned back in my chair, the wood groaning slightly under my seven-year-old frame, and caught Olford's eye. A single, sharp nod was all it took. The "Hidden Eye" of House Hatar moved into the shadows of the Great Hall to initiate the first phase of the plan.
As the music died down, a few members of the Tusked Bastion began to hem in the perimeter to help in the plan. My mind drifted back to the days Olford and I had spent formulating this diagnosis. It had been a fascinating session of intellectual friction. Olford was a master of the "isolated sting"—he understood how to plant a spy, how to break a man's will, and how to bribe a thirsty guard. He possessed fragments of Earth-side logic—the raw, jagged pieces of paranoia and pragmatism that any survivor in a high-stakes world develops. He knew that "honey attracts flies" and that "fear keeps the gate closed."
But as we spoke, I realized the staggering advantage of my Earth-side perspective. Olford had the ideas, but he lacked a proper "system." He understood greed, but he didn't have the Kautilyan methods of secret testing and surveillance. He understood fear, but he hadn't mapped the Machiavellian transition from being feared to being hated. He knew loyalty, but he hadn't conceptualized the Lincolnian "Team of Rivals"—the idea that you don't just kill your critics; you conscript their brilliance to stabilize the state. Nor did he have the Confucian focus on moving from moral integrity to strategic alignment and capability.
To Olford, loyalty was simply a binary: you were either with the House or you were a shadow in the corner. To me, it was a living landscape—a shifting map of hope, fear, and the quiet promises a person makes to themselves when they think no one is watching. It wasn't just about 'if/then' logic; it was about understanding the Heart's gravity—what pulls a man toward his home and what pushes him to die for a cause.
To make my "inner circle," I needed to balance paranoia with pragmatism to create the Complementary Loyalty Framework. I had mapped it into a four-stage vetting process that moved from Confucian to Lincolnian to Kautilyan to Machiavellian logic.
I presented all my ideas to him for review and implementation.
"The test begins with ethics, Olford," I started to explain to him the day I handed him the parchment, watching his eyes widen as I mapped out the plan on it. He listened and read the parchment simultaneously like he always does.
"It consists of the 4-stage filter," I began to explain.
"We start with Phase I: The "Basement" Test. It is about observing the foundation of character. We watch how someone treats people they don't need, like service staff and juniors, and how they talk about their family. If they're ungrateful or lack 'The Way,' they'll at some point see loyalty to us as just a calculation of greed. People who are "too needy" or "too greedy," in my opinion, are likely to flip for a better offer. I want someone for our house who understands that 'The Way' starts with how you treat the person polishing your armor. "I waited to see his reaction.
After a few seconds of deep thinking he just nodded his head.
"I call phase II the Controlled Friction, or the Mirror of Truth. Here, we look for a truth-teller instead of a yes-man. I propose a flawed idea during a private meeting. If they stay silent or mock me, they're out. The winner is the one who respectfully corrects me, protecting our interests even if it risks my ego. I want the person who cares enough about our future to tell me when I am wrong."
"So, you're testing their integrity and courage?" he said, his expression remaining stoic.
"Precisely, moving to Phase III: The Pseudo-Crisis. I tell them about a "grim" setback. It is the psychological pressure point. The Vulture looks for the exit, and the mercenary asks about their payout, but the Inner Circle asks, "How do we fix it?" and starts mobilizing resources. They don't just stay; they build."
"People who are also invested to solve problems. They are highly crucial." He reached the end of the parchment.
Lastly, Phase IV: The "Golden Handcuff" Audit. After passing the crisis, we tie their success to ours. We confer on them authority and rewards. I don't want to trap them; I want to intertwine our lives. Do they build their own sub-circle as a threat, or do they strengthen the organization? A true loyalist's future is so closely linked with ours that betrayal would be self-destructive."
I looked at him to listen to his options as he put down the parchment.
"When did you—? How did you do it?" Olford had stammered, his expression caught between sheer disbelief and a fatherly sort of pride. He leaned in, his shadow stretching over the parchment.
"It's a skilled work, my Lord," he whispered, his voice genuine but strained.
"You've built a cage of logic that would trap any clerk and person in the Sanni mud, but you've forgotten the Weight of the Power to implement and follow it."
He tapped his finger against the lines of the second phase. "Phase II—your 'Truth Teller.' You want a man who protects your interests over your ego. That works for a King who has already won. But these veterans? They are predators. If a seven-year-old boy asks for their 'honest opinion' on a flawed plan, the 'Wise Man' won't correct you. He'll simply realize his leader is a child who makes mistakes, and he'll start to search for a grown man to follow."
Olford's gaze snapped to mine, the candlelight dancing in his pupils. "You're testing for loyalty to the state, but soldiers are loyal to strength. In your 'Mirror of Truth,' you aren't just reflecting their honesty; you're reflecting your own vulnerability. If you show them a crack in your armor—even as a test—they won't try to mend it. They'll shove a dagger through it."
He paused, the "Hidden Eye" in him darkening. "And Phase IV... the 'Golden Handcuffs.' A man who feels he cannot leave eventually feels like a slave. And a slave doesn't build an organization, my Lord. He waits for the house to burn so he can run into the woods."
I met his gaze, my expression unyielding. "I know, Olford. That is why this framework is for my father and mother to use. They have the crown; they have the strength."
My voice dropped to a cold, steady whisper. "For me, the rules are different. I have to start from scratch."
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