The piercing, resonant shouts echoed through the air, one after another, cutting through the early morning stillness.
The familiar clamor stirred Lucas from his slumber. His eyes fluttered open slowly, and he gazed up at the wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling of the barracks. For a moment, he was lost in thought, his mind drifting in the haze of half-sleep. It had been a late night—after conducting the camp inspection at two in the morning, he had decided to stay overnight in the military encampment. Now, the boisterous voices of the soldiers had rudely awakened him at this early hour, shattering any hope of lingering in rest.
Lucas's thoughts wandered to the previous night's inspection. The soldiers' performance had left him deeply dissatisfied. The new recruits, in particular, seemed to treat their service like a casual stint, as if they were here merely to pass the time—or worse, to live comfortably. Their lack of discipline and commitment gnawed at him. It wasn't just that they were green; it was as though they had come to the army expecting an easy life, lured by tales of the camp's decent provisions and meals.
The reputation of the military's treatment and hearty food had spread far and wide, thanks to the loose tongues of the veteran soldiers. These stories had enticed many to enlist, but the reality of daily training was far less glamorous. To Lucas, it felt like herding ducks onto a shelf—pushing reluctant recruits through the motions without any real drive or purpose. The contrast with the seasoned veterans was stark. The new recruits lacked the sharp edge, the tempered resolve that only comes from the crucible of battle. The veterans, hardened by the brutal clash at Sakura City, had seen blood spilled and bodies strewn across the battlefield. They understood the merciless reality of war, a lesson the recruits had yet to learn.
What makes a strong army? Lucas had mulled over this question late into the night, his mind restless even as exhaustion tugged at his body. He had come to a conclusion: the recruits needed something to anchor them, a symbol to rally around, a purpose to ignite their spirits. It wasn't enough to drill them or feed them well. They lacked a ritual, a unifying moment to forge their identity as soldiers. Today, he resolved, he would provide that ritual. He would give them a goal to hold in their hearts, something to strive for beyond mere survival.
Creak!
The door swung open with a groan, and Mina stepped into the room, carrying a wooden basin filled with water. She placed it carefully on the nearby table, then turned to glance at the bed. Her sharp eyes caught Lucas's dark gaze, already open and alert.
"Master, you're awake," Mina said, her lips curving into a gentle, radiant smile. Her cat-like ears twitched playfully, and her fluffy tail swayed back and forth with a lively rhythm, betraying her cheerful mood.
"Mmm," Lucas replied, a lazy grin spreading across his face. He yawned, stretching his arms as he sat up in bed. His voice carried a teasing warmth as he added, "Where's the thing I asked you to prepare last night?"
"It's ready," Mina replied promptly, nodding with enthusiasm. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of white cloth. Her brow furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she asked, "Master, are you planning to make clothes with this?"
Lucas rolled his eyes, suppressing a chuckle. "Clothes? Do I look like I need to stitch my own garments?" He shook his head, his tone light but firm. "No, this is for a military banner."
The idea had crystallized in his mind during the long, sleepless hours of the night. The soldiers—especially the recruits—lacked a unifying belief, a tangible symbol to fight for. A military banner would give them that. It would embody the honor, courage, and unity of the army, serving as a rallying point for their ideals. A banner wasn't just fabric; it was a sacred emblem of the army's spirit, a representation of their collective strength and purpose. With a banner, the soldiers' vague aspirations would gain weight, rooted in a shared responsibility to uphold its honor.
"Master, you should wash up first," Mina said, her tone practical but affectionate. She retrieved a set of clean clothes and approached the bed, ready to assist him with dressing and washing, as was her custom.
Once Lucas had washed his face and changed into fresh attire, he spread the white cloth across the table, smoothing it out with care. Turning to Mina, he asked, "Where's the ink and brush?"
"Right here," Mina replied, scurrying to a corner of the room. She returned with a small wooden box, placing it on the table and opening it to reveal a brush and a bottle of ink. "I had these brought from the castle this morning," She added, her voice tinged with pride at her foresight.
"Excellent," Lucas said, picking up the brush and dipping it into the ink. He began to draw, his hand moving with deliberate precision as he sketched the image of a black dragon against a red background—at least, that was the vision in his mind. For now, the cloth remained white, but he intended for it to be dyed red with blood in time, a true crimson-and-black dragon banner.
"Master, what's that?" Mina asked, leaning closer, her eyes wide with curiosity as she studied the dark, sinuous shape taking form on the cloth.
"It's a dragon," Lucas said earnestly, his focus unwavering as he traced the creature's form with careful strokes. "A black dragon."
"A dragon?" Mina blinked, her cat-like ears twitching as she tilted her head. "Is that what a dragon looks like? Doesn't it have big wings?"
"No wings," Lucas said with a faint smile, amused by her innocence. "This dragon rides the clouds and commands the winds, cloaked in mist and storm."
"Oh, like that?" Mina nodded slowly, her expression a mix of wonder and confusion. She had no clear image of a dragon in her mind, so she accepted Lucas's description without question. To her, his words were truth.
"Done," Lucas announced, setting down the brush and lifting the cloth to let the ink dry. The design was simple, perhaps even stark, but it was exactly what he wanted—a symbol that would resonate with the soldiers and inspire them.
He glanced at Mina, who was still staring at the banner with curiosity. "Does this world have military banners?" He mused aloud. Of course it did, though they might be called something else—noble banners, family crests, or clan flags. They represented lineage, power, and pride, much like the banner he had just created.
"Master, are there dragons in your homeland?" Mina asked, her blue eyes sparkling with intrigue as she fixed her gaze on him, waiting eagerly for his response.
Lucas paused, caught off guard by the question. A chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head. "Haven't seen one myself," He said playfully, then added with a mischievous glint in his eye, "But who knows? Maybe I've got a bit of dragon's blood in me."
"Really?" Mina's eyes lit up, and she leaned closer, scrutinizing him as if she might spot scales or claws hidden beneath his human exterior.
"Enough of that," Lucas said, laughing as he gave her a light, teasing pat on her rear. "Fold up the banner and let's get moving. We've got a ceremony to hold."
"Yes, Master," Mina replied, pouting slightly but complying. She carefully folded the banner, her eyes still darting to Lucas, searching for any hint of those elusive dragon traits.
"Let's go. They're probably waiting already," Lucas said, striding toward the door. He had instructed Aiden the previous night to assemble the entire army this morning. Today, he would teach them a lesson—one they wouldn't soon forget.
"Yes," Mina said, clutching the folded banner and hurrying after him.
Creak!
Lucas pushed the door open and stepped outside, his boots crunching against the dirt as he made his way toward the open field of the encampment. From a distance, he could see the soldiers gathered in orderly rows, with Aiden standing at the ready nearby.
Thud, thud, thud…
The only sound was the steady rhythm of Lucas's footsteps. The previous night's inspection had left the recruits in awe—and perhaps a touch of fear—of their commander. The air was thick with anticipation.
"My lord, everyone is present," Aiden reported respectfully, bowing his head.
"Good," Lucas said, standing beside Aiden. He didn't immediately ascend the wooden platform at the front of the assembly. Instead, he turned to his trusted subordinate, his voice calm but probing. "Aiden, what makes a strong army?"
Aiden blinked, caught off guard by the question. He lowered his head, deep in thought, recognizing the weight of the inquiry. After a moment, he answered, "An army that wins its battles is a strong army."
"Too simplistic," Lucas replied, his tone even but firm. "What if the enemy outnumbers us ten to one? What then?"
Aiden fell silent, his brow furrowing as he grappled with the question. The weight of it pressed on him, and he found no easy answer.
Lucas didn't press him further. In truth, he was still wrestling with the question himself. What defined a strong army? How strong was strong enough?
After a long pause, Aiden spoke again, his voice steady. "My lord, if the enemy outnumbers us tenfold, the rational choice is to retreat."
"And if retreat isn't an option?" Lucas countered, his gaze unwavering. "If behind you lies a thousand-meter cliff?"
"Then we fight to the death," Aiden replied without hesitation.
Lucas nodded slightly but pressed further. "If I gave you five hundred soldiers, how many do you think would surrender in that scenario?"
Aiden opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss. It wasn't that no one would surrender—some surely would—but predicting how many was impossible. The question exposed the uncertainty of human resolve.
Lucas let the silence hang, his own thoughts churning. "In a fair fight, with both sides having paths of retreat, even a weaker army—sick, underfed, low on supplies—can still fight on. Even if it's down to the last soldier, if that soldier charges the enemy without hesitation, that's a strong army." His voice was low, resonant, carrying the weight of conviction.
Aiden's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across his face. "My lord, no such army exists," He blurted out. His father had taught him that in knightly combat, the defeated often surrendered, awaiting ransom or enslavement rather than fighting to the bitter end.
"No," Lucas said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, heavy with certainty. "There are such armies."
He turned and strode toward the wooden platform, his steps purposeful. In his mind, he saw the history of another world—Earth. Battles where soldiers fought to their last breath, refusing to yield. Soldiers who shed every drop of blood to delay the enemy for one more second. That was the essence of a strong army, the ideal he held in his heart.
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
300 Power Stones for 1 extra chapter.
5 New reviews for 1 extra chapter.