After the gunpowder was safely returned, the camp appeared to settle back into calm.
Supply lines were reconnected. Orders resumed their usual rhythm. On the surface, the incident of the missing convoy faded into the countless minor disruptions that war absorbed every day.
Nathan Carter knew better.
Something had changed.
He had been remembered.
Not as the general's son, but as something else—
A troublesome figure who restored things at critical moments.
That kind of person was never popular in an army.
A few days later, Nathan was formally reassigned into the mobile reconnaissance category.
The wording of the document was extremely restrained. No praise. No emphasis. It clarified only one point:
His unit would take priority responsibility for intelligence confirmation, route assessment, and supply security.
Limited authority.Substantial responsibility.
But it was an institutional acknowledgment.
It meant his unit finally had a legitimate reason to exist.
At the same time, another pattern began to emerge.
The quartermaster department started reporting the same issue to Greene with increasing frequency—
Shortages.
Salt.Cloth.Horse tack.Even nails.
In peacetime, these items were trivial. In war, they determined whether a unit could continue operating.
Nathan did not comment when he heard the reports.
He simply began to notice something.
These supplies were not nonexistent.
They were stagnant.
Some merchants were hoarding goods.Some regions had surplus they couldn't move.Other materials were stuck between military districts, with no one willing to release them first.
This was the most common symptom of a wartime economy.
And the most overlooked opportunity.
What finally pushed Nathan to act was an accidental conversation.
One evening, while organizing operational notes at the edge of camp, he overheard two logistics clerks murmuring in frustration.
"If only we knew in advance what was needed where.""Right now it's all luck. Deliver the right thing and you're competent. Deliver the wrong thing and it's waste."
Nathan looked up.
"If you knew the demand," he asked, "what would you do?"
The two men paused.
"What else?" one of them said with a dry laugh. "We'd send supplies to the most urgent places first."
"But that's the problem," the other added. "No one can say clearly ahead of time."
Nathan didn't pursue the conversation.
But the shape of an idea had already formed.
That night, he called Elias Moore and Thomas Reed together.
"I need you to start paying attention to something," he said.
"What?" Thomas asked.
"Demand," Nathan replied. "Not the enemy's—ours."
Elias immediately understood. "Supplies?"
"Yes," Nathan said. "But we're not taking anything. Not hoarding. Not trading."
"We're recording."
He assigned Elias to note what different camps complained about most during each operation, and Thomas to observe surplus held by merchants, farms, and craftsmen along their routes.
"Don't buy. Don't sell," Nathan emphasized. "Just write it down."
It was a slow beginning.
So slow it barely resembled making money at all.
Nathan understood something crucial, though:
In war, the fastest route is rarely the straightest one.
Pressure, meanwhile, began to surface.
The officer responsible for supplies started making pointed remarks in meetings about mobile reconnaissance units interfering beyond their remit.
No names were mentioned.
But the target was obvious.
Greene did not counter him openly.
He redirected the discussion instead.
Nathan knew this kind of friction did not disappear.
It accumulated.
Late one night, Nathan sat alone outside the camp, reviewing several pages of notes.
There were no numbers.
Only short phrases.
"Salt—urgent.""Cloth—three weeks remaining.""Horseshoes—short on the southern flank."
To others, these were complaints.
To him, they were the beginnings of a network.
An information network.
He knew that once it took shape, he would no longer be merely someone who fought well.
He would become someone—
Who allowed war itself to function more smoothly.
And those people were truly irreplaceable.
That night, Nathanael Greene stepped out of his tent and stood beside him.
"You've been doing things outside your assigned duties," Greene said.
Nathan didn't deny it.
"You're laying groundwork," Greene continued.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was a judgment.
"Yes," Nathan replied.
Greene was silent for a moment.
"Then remember this," he said. "Once a road is built, others will want to walk ahead of you."
Nathan nodded.
"I know."
"Are you prepared?" Greene asked.
Nathan looked toward the scattered campfires in the distance.
"I don't intend to let them walk too fast," he said.
The wind moved through the camp, carrying the lingering scent of gunpowder.
Nathan understood clearly—
The real battlefield was not confined to maps.
It was forming in ledgers, supply lists, and unspoken grievances.
And he was already standing at the entrance.