The campfire was still burning, but the flames had died down to little more than glowing embers.
Every so often, a few sparks drifted into the night before vanishing.
Walter’s corpse had already been dragged aside.
The finely crafted suit of plate armor he had worn had been carefully removed and stacked with the other spoils of war.
No one paid any more attention to his body.
The living had far more pressing matters than the dead.
The recruits sat scattered across the beach, spears resting across their laps and shields propped beside them.
No one spoke.
Cole sat beside Miko, his thick arms draped over his knees, head lowered so far that his chin nearly touched his chest.
Miko wasn’t looking at him.
He was staring at his own hand.
He tried to straighten his fingers, but halfway through, he stopped.
His entire right hand began trembling violently.
Rhoen walked over from the campfire.
Miko immediately looked up and instinctively straightened his back.
Several recruits who had been resting against the ship hurriedly pushed themselves to their feet.
Rhoen stopped in front of Miko.
The fire burned behind him, leaving his face buried in shadow, his expression impossible to make out.
“Miko.
Stand.”
Miko rose to his feet, his right hand still clenched into a fist at his side.
“Your hand.”
Miko extended it.
It was still shaking.
Blood stained his knuckles—the wounds left from driving his spear forward with all his strength.
Rhoen glanced down at it before unbuckling the sword at his waist.
It wasn’t the longsword taken from the bandit camp.
This one was different.
Its scabbard was wrapped in dark brown leather, polished smooth along the edges from years of use.
An unfamiliar crest was engraved on the metal chape.
“Kneel.”
Miko lowered himself onto one knee, his right knee sinking into the sand while his upper body remained perfectly straight.
The sword slid free of its scabbard.
Its edge flashed in the firelight for an instant before coming to rest against Miko’s right shoulder.
His shoulder trembled once, then steadied.
“Miko,” Rhoen’s voice came from above him.
“A man of Velen.
Your father was killed by the Nilfgaardians.
Your mother died in the famine.
You enlisted at the age of twenty-one.
Today was your first battle.
You were the first to engage the enemy.
You slew one foe and assisted in another kill.”
The blade lifted from his right shoulder, passed over his head, and settled upon his left shoulder.
Several strands of Miko’s hair were pressed flat against the back of his neck.
“Before every soldier here, and in the name of the Prince of the Calradic Empire, I hereby invest you as one of my Household Knights.”
The blade left his shoulder.
Rhoen sheathed the sword, then laid the sheathed weapon across both palms and held it out before Miko.
Cole lowered his head.
The other recruits nearby did the same.
Every shoulder was tense.
Miko extended both hands, palms upward, and accepted the sheathed sword.
“Rise,” Rhoen said.
Rhoen looked at him.
“This is more than a reward.
It’s a responsibility.
From today onward, you’re no longer just a soldier who follows orders.
Others will stand behind you, and whether they live or die will depend on you.”
He raised his right hand, tapped Miko lightly on the forehead, then pointed toward the recruits resting against the ship along the beach.
“From today on, your training will be different from theirs.
You’ll study the Common Tongue and writing under Erwin.
Military orders aren’t passed by word of mouth—they’re written down.
If you can’t read them, your men will die in the wrong place.”
His finger shifted toward the castle.
Karl wasn’t here, but everyone knew whom he meant.
“You’ll learn battlefield deployment from Karl.
You’ll learn flag signals and how to read maps.
When I’m here, you obey my commands.
When I’m not, you’ll give them in my place.
If your orders are wrong, your men will die.”
“And you’ll learn everything our veterans know.
The archery of the Battanian Fian Champions, the horsemanship of the Imperial Elite Cataphracts, and the tactics of coordinating cavalry and infantry.”
“You’ll keep learning until you’ve mastered it.”
“You are no longer a soldier.
You’re a future officer.
The army will grow.
More men will join us.
The battles will only become more frequent.
I can’t stand behind every formation.”
Rhoen’s voice grew quieter, but even more solemn.
“So you’ll stand there in my place.
That’s your responsibility.
Do you understand?”
Miko swallowed hard.
His eyes were red, but no tears fell.
“I understand.”
His voice was hoarse, the words scraping their way out of his throat.
Rhoen held his gaze for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
“Your first order.”
Miko’s entire body snapped taut, like a spear planted firmly on the battlefield.
“Count the casualties.
Make stretchers for the seriously wounded.
Treat the lightly wounded.
If you don’t know how, ask Erwin.”
Rhoen turned and took two steps before stopping.
“Squad Leader.”
Miko froze for a moment before realizing Rhoen was addressing him.
“Take your sword.”
Silence settled over the beach once more.
Cole was the first to rise.
He walked over to the recruits still sitting on the sand, crouching beside each one to examine their injuries.
Some tore strips from the hems of their padded jackets to use as bandages.
Others knelt beside the spearman whose leg had been struck by an arrow, gripping his hand.
His name was Pet.
He had enlisted on the same day as Miko.
Leaning against the ship’s hull, he kept his wounded leg stretched out across the sand.
His lips were pale, his forehead drenched with sweat, but he was still conscious.
Miko walked over and crouched beside him.
It was the first question he asked as a squad leader.
Pet looked at him and forced out a smile that looked worse than crying.
“It hurts.”
Miko nodded and squeezed his hand.
“Don’t die,” Miko said.
Pet stiffened for a moment, then blinked.
Something seemed to slide from the corner of his eye.
Only when Cole returned carrying a wooden splint and strips of torn cloth did he turn his head away and wipe at his eyes.
The system interface still glowed in the upper-right corner of Rhoen’s vision.
He ignored it for the moment, watching the recruits as they worked.
No…
He couldn’t call them recruits anymore.
His gaze shifted to the panel.
He expanded the Party Information tab.
Next to Miko’s status, a new line of text had appeared.
His troop type had changed from Recruit to Imperial Infantryman, followed by a designation in parentheses:
Squad Leader.
Cole had changed as well.
His troop type was now Imperial Infantryman too.
Pet’s status bar was highlighted in yellow, marked with a red cross and labeled Recovering.
He was still alive, and his level had increased as well.
Once his wounds healed, he would be able to rejoin the unit.
Further down the list—
Fifteen men.
Ten Imperial Infantrymen.
Five were still recruits, but their progress bars were nearly full, with only a small gap remaining.
Two-thirds complete.
These were the seeds of his army’s future.
Rhoen closed the system panel.
“Erwin.”
“You and Miko are coming aboard with me to take inventory.”
As he spoke, his gaze shifted toward the flat-bottomed cargo ship resting in the shallows.
The sail on its mast had yet to be fully furled.
“Every cargo hold.
Every compartment.
Make a list of anything useful.
Ignore the rest.”
He turned to face the men still busy on the beach.
“Anyone coming aboard leaves their spear on shore.
Bring only your shortsword and shield.”
Cole had just finished wrapping the final layer of Pet’s bandage when he looked up.
“You won’t have room to swing a spear below deck.
If it gets caught, you’re dead.”
Rhoen spoke with the patient tone of an instructor.
“Once you’re inside, shields in front, shortswords behind.
Watch above you.
Watch your flanks.
Don’t fixate on what’s directly ahead.”
Cole nodded and tightened the final knot.
The recruits pulled their spears from the sand, planted them back with the tips buried point-down, and lined them up neatly alongside the ship.
Rhoen took the lead.
As he stepped onto the gangplank, the wooden boards sagged beneath his weight, letting out a dull groan.
Erwin followed behind Miko.
Three more recruits came after them, shortswords drawn, shields raised, advancing forward one careful step at a time.