Thud, thud, thud…
Lucas's boots struck the wooden platform with measured, deliberate steps, each one echoing in the tense silence of the morning air. Mina trailed closely behind him, her cat-like ears twitching faintly as she clutched the folded military banner. The soldiers' gazes converged on their lord, a mixture of anticipation and curiosity flickering in their eyes. Some couldn't help but steal glances at Mina, quietly admiring the striking beauty of the cat-eared maid, though they quickly refocused on Lucas, awaiting the words of their city lord.
Lucas ascended the platform and stood at its center, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembled soldiers. He said nothing, his silence heavy and commanding. He simply watched them, his gaze piercing, as if peering into their very souls. The weight of his stare pressed down on the ranks, and the soldiers stood rigid, unsure of what to expect.
One minute passed. Then two. By the fifth minute, the tension was palpable. Some recruits' eyes began to wander, unable to hold Lucas's unrelenting gaze. Their eyelids drooped, and their postures slackened slightly, betraying their discomfort. They didn't know what their lord was planning, and the uncertainty gnawed at them.
"You disappoint me," Lucas finally said, his voice steady but laced with a quiet, forceful authority that cut through the morning chill. "Last night's assembly, your barracks—everything about your performance disappointed me."
A wave of shame rippled through the ranks. More soldiers lowered their eyes, unable to meet their lord's gaze. Only the veterans stood tall, their bodies straight as iron, their sharp eyes locked on Lucas. The camp had few veterans left—many had been reassigned to other duties—but those who remained had faced the inspection last night and performed admirably, their discipline a stark contrast to the recruits' sloppiness.
"And now," Lucas continued, his dark eyes narrowing as his brow furrowed, "You disappoint me even more." He took a deliberate step forward, his voice rising with controlled intensity. "What's this? You don't even have the courage to look me in the eye? My soldiers shouldn't be this timid. You're worse than schoolchildren!"
His words stung, sharp and deliberate, striking at their pride. Lucas's mind briefly wandered to an idea: in a few weeks, he would implement military training at the local school. A week-long program would suffice—just enough to instill a taste of discipline in the students, to prepare them for the realities of service. But for now, his focus was on the soldiers before him.
Whoosh!
As if jolted by an electric current, the soldiers snapped their heads up, their eyes locking onto Lucas. Fists clenched at their sides, their faces flushed with a mix of shame and defiance.
"Angry?" Lucas said, his hands clasped behind his back as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a hawk. His voice was cold, almost mocking. "I ensure you're fed well—better than anyone else in Sedona City. Your meals are hearty, your provisions ample. And this is how you repay me?"
He began to pace across the platform, his boots thudding against the wood. "How fast can you don your armor? Faster than you scramble for food at mealtime? The way you fumble with your gear, you'd be a disgrace on the battlefield. You'd be nothing but fodder for the enemy's blades."
Lucas's piercing gaze raked over the soldiers, his voice growing colder, more biting. "Disgrace is one thing—you wouldn't even know you're a disgrace because you'd already be dead. The shame would fall on your families, your parents, your children."
The words hit like a hammer. The soldiers' jaws tightened, their teeth grinding as they imagined the scenes Lucas described: their loved ones bearing the stigma of their failure, their names whispered as those of cowards who couldn't even manage their armor properly.
"When people speak of you," Lucas continued, his voice rising to a thunderous roar, "They'll say you were cannon fodder, a rabble of useless soldiers. If you can't even put on your armor properly, what else are you but rabble? Tell me—" He bellowed, his voice echoing across the field—"Are you rabble?"
"NO!" The soldiers' response was a deafening, guttural roar, their voices raw with emotion as they shouted in unison.
"No?" Lucas's lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile, his tone dripping with disdain. "Let me tell you something: rabble are the ones who only shout 'no' with their mouths."
The soldiers' faces flushed crimson, their eyes burning with frustration and determination. They glared at their lord, their fists trembling as they yearned to prove him wrong, to show they were more than the rabble he accused them of being.
"You want to prove you're not rabble?" Lucas's voice was icy, unrelenting. "You had your chance last night, and you failed. Your performance convinced me you're nothing but rabble."
The words were a dagger to their pride. Some soldiers clenched their teeth so tightly it seemed they might shatter. Was last night's failure to become their eternal shame, a mark they could never erase?
In Lucas's mind, a true army didn't need praise. Glory was earned through action, not words. A proud army, bloated with compliments, was destined to fall. Even if the soldiers performed flawlessly, he would never lavish them with praise—especially not the recruits. His role was to push them, to find their flaws and demand better.
"Let me tell you what makes a soldier more than rabble," Lucas said, his dark eyes blazing with intensity, his face stern and resolute. "In my heart, a true soldier is defined by iron discipline and fearless courage in battle. A strong army outlasts the enemy, no matter the odds. If the enemy holds for an hour, a strong army holds for two, three, or more. Even if it's down to one man, that man will raise his spear, grip his sword, and charge the enemy without hesitation."
The soldiers below stood frozen, their mouths agape, stunned by the vision Lucas painted. Was this what it meant to be a strong army? By that standard, they were indeed rabble, untested and unproven.
"Do you want to remain rabble forever?" Lucas's voice boomed, his eyes scanning the ranks, challenging each soldier individually.
"NO!" The soldiers roared again, their voices shaking with passion. The thought of becoming the kind of army Lucas described set their blood ablaze—a lone soldier standing against an enemy horde, fearless and unyielding.
"Death is not to be feared," Lucas said, his voice solemn and resolute. "Those who die as heroes in battle, I will take responsibility for them." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd. "From this day forward, any soldier who falls fighting for Sedona City, I will ensure your parents are cared for until their final days. Your children, I will raise and educate to become capable men and women. I will build monuments to honor your sacrifice, and your families will stand before them to witness your glory."
Huff, huff, huff…
The soldiers' breaths grew heavy, their chests heaving as tears welled in their eyes. Lucas's promise struck deep, weaving visions of honor and security in their minds. Many of them were commoners, some former slaves or beastkins, for whom such a pledge was unimaginable. To know their families would be cared for, that their deaths would mean something, filled them with a fervor that made them want to fight for their lord right then and there.
Aiden stood below, his jaw slack, staring at Lucas in disbelief. Such a promise was unheard of. In this era, a knight's death might earn a few silver coins as compensation, and their families were left to fend for themselves. Lucas's vow was a burden of immense weight, one that no lord would lightly undertake.
For the soldiers, most of whom came from humble or oppressed backgrounds, this promise was a lifeline. It erased their fears for their loved ones' futures, giving them the freedom to fight without reservation.
"Bring it here," Lucas said, extending his hand toward Mina, his voice calm but commanding.
"Yes, Master," Mina replied, her own heart pounding with the intensity of the moment. She handed him the folded military banner, her hands trembling slightly with awe.
Whoosh!
Lucas unfurled the banner with a sharp snap, raising it high with his right hand. "This," He declared, his voice ringing out, "Represents me. It represents you. It represents Sedona City."
Clang!
With a swift motion, Lucas drew the sword from his waist. In a single, fluid movement, he bit the hilt between his teeth, freeing his left hand. Without hesitation, he dragged his palm across the blade, blood welling instantly and dripping onto the ground. He pressed his bleeding hand against the white banner, leaving a vivid, crimson handprint—a stark, half-formed mark that sent a shockwave of astonishment through the soldiers.
"Master!" Mina gasped, her eyes widening. She quickly pulled a strip of white cloth from her pocket and rushed to wrap Lucas's bleeding hand, her movements swift and practiced.
No one had expected such a dramatic gesture. Aiden stood frozen for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, before his expression shifted to one of profound respect. He stepped forward, ascending the platform and approaching Lucas. With reverence, he took the sword from Lucas's mouth, holding it carefully.
"Cut your thumb," Lucas said calmly, one hand still raised with the banner, the other being bandaged by Mina. "Don't hinder your training."
"Yes, my lord," Aiden replied, his voice steady with resolve. He drew the blade across his thumb, letting a drop of blood fall, then pressed it onto the banner, leaving a distinct red thumbprint beside Lucas's handprint.
Suddenly, a soldier from the ranks stepped forward, his boots thudding against the dirt as he approached the platform. The others hesitated, then followed, their lips set in determined lines. One by one, they saluted Lucas, drew blood from their thumbs with the sword, and pressed their marks onto the banner, each print a testament to their commitment.
This was the ceremony Lucas had envisioned—a ritual to forge the soul of the army. He didn't just want soldiers; he wanted a force with a shared spirit, a collective resolve that would carry them through the fires of war. This was only the beginning, the planting of the seed of that spirit. It would need to be tempered by the trials of battle, watered with blood and sacrifice. But the foundation was set, and the soldiers' hearts were now bound to the banner they had marked with their own blood.
.
.
.
.
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.