"Is this the kind of people you recruited?" Roland stared at the ragged civilians before him, a sudden urge to turn and flee rising in his gut.
"Your Highness," Carter counted on his fingers, "this is exactly what you requested—men, non-criminals, aged eighteen to forty, physically unscathed... I've scrutinized every detail." He knew better than to expect too much. After all, productivity here was so low that even basic sustenance was a struggle, let alone decent clothing. The Prince's privileged status made him overlook this harsh reality. Outside the castle, beggars and the naked were everywhere. Even in Graycastle, the kingdom's capital, there were scavengers who dragged and cremated the starving corpses that littered the streets daily.
What, then, is the nature of warfare in this world? Roland closed his eyes and recalled carefully. Hmm... It was probably a bit more sophisticated than a brawl. Typically, when the Lord decided to wage war (or engage in combat—Roland had no connection between such fighting and war), he would summon the feudal Nobles under his jurisdiction. These Nobles would then summon their subordinates, such as the Duke summoning the Earl, the Earl summoning the Viscount, the Baron, and so forth.
Most Nobles field a contingent of Knights and mercenaries as their core combat force, equipped with full armor and advanced weaponry. They also recruit local civilians and farmers to support their campaigns—essentially providing logistical support for the troops, who charge into battle as the first line of defense when needed. These 'cannon fodder' bear the brunt of casualties. In Noble conflicts, those who survive the battlefield are typically captured and subjected to harsh treatment in exchange for ransom.
Roland naturally wouldn't expect the nobles from Border Town to assist him in battle. In fact, they had no ties to Border Town at all—most were barons granted by Lord of the Long Song Fortress, with their territories falling within the fortress's jurisdiction.
In this age, a force composed entirely of civilians would be a highly imaginative concept. How could they—ignorant, unable to read documents, incapable of understanding orders, and lacking professional combat training—compete with a Knight who has trained in swordsmanship since the age of ten?
Carter leaned in close to Roland and whispered, "Your Highness, this is fundamentally impractical. Just observe them—none can wield weapons properly. When facing the demonic beasts, they'd scatter in panic, destabilizing our defenses. I recommend hiring professional mercenaries from Willow Leaf Town or elsewhere to guard the walls. They could handle the menial tasks." "No, I'll use them," Roland refused. He had no sympathy for mercenaries driven by profit. After all, his army wasn't just for fighting the beasts. History had proven time and again that a truly strong and resilient force must draw from the people—this truth was validated by feudal, modern, and contemporary armies alike.
"Fine, you call the shots," Knight shrugged. "Then I'll start training them in sword grips tomorrow. Though it might not be very useful..." "Sword grips? No, you should first have them form up and run—" Roland suddenly realized these drills might not even Chief Knight had experienced, so he changed his tune. "Call the hunter we found last time. Let's watch me demonstrate it together."
What Vanne is going through today is probably more incredible than the previous 20 years combined.
He actually got to see the Fourth Prince of the United Kingdom—His Royal Highness Prince Roland Wimbledon—up close. He walked past him and even smiled at him. Goodness, is the Prince really drunk?
Three days ago, when the Fourth Prince addressed the crowd in the square, he had foreseen this winter would be unlike any before. Instead of retreating to the Long Song Fortress, they would endure the harsh winter here. Though he didn't fully grasp the Prince's reasoning, he wholeheartedly supported the decision. Two years earlier, Vanna's younger brother had perished in the fortress's slums after a month without food. He had scraped together a few copper coins from unloading cargo at the dock to buy black bread for his brother. But the winter was too bitter—wind seeped through the shabby shelters, and the meager rations barely kept him warm. His brother fell ill and lost consciousness, never to wake again.
In Border Town, he had at least one adobe house built with bricks, safe from days of heavy snowfall. He also saw the wharf piled high with wheat shipped from elsewhere, being loaded into the castle in batches. That's why when Fanna heard the Fourth Prince was recruiting militiamen, he rushed over immediately.
Of course, the real reason to tempt him to quit his gravel work and enlist immediately was the monthly salary of ten Silver Wolves. That was already on par with a seasoned mason! He was already quite old, and by next spring, he planned to marry the tavern maid Cheryl. How could he not save up some money now?
As for what the militia was supposed to do as stated in the notice, he paid no attention. After all, it wasn't about carrying loads for those Noble lords or assisting the patrol troops. They certainly wouldn't let them scale the city walls to confront the frenzied evil beasts.
The screening process was quite rigorous. The gleaming armor of the Knight made Fan Na feel a bit intimidated. Fortunately, the Knight's sturdy build passed the test, while many emaciated candidates were removed from the group. In the end, only about a hundred applicants remained.
Fan Na never imagined that the one training them would be His Royal Highness himself!
The passersby were led to the grassland west of Border Town, with the under-construction city wall behind them and the endless maze of forests stretching before them.
Prince ordered everyone to form a line and then stepped aside to rest. The ground was still damp from the recent rain, with water seeping through his shoes and soaking into his feet, making him feel uncomfortable all over. To make matters worse, Prince's stance requirements were unusual—he demanded his hands be pressed vertically against his thighs and his back held perfectly straight.
After just fifteen minutes, Fan Nacai was utterly exhausted—this was far grueling than hammering stones with a sledgehammer. Yet he gritted his teeth and persevered. As His Highness had decreed, anyone who disobeyed would forfeit an egg for lunch. Good heavens, he hadn't tasted an egg in ages. The crowd seemed to share his resolve, though most staggered, most still clung to their positions.
It was not until Prince announced a break that Vanna realized he had sweated profusely, despite the brief standing period of no more than two quarters. Those who did not persevere until the end were filled with frustration, as if watching a plump egg gradually recede from their sight.
Fan Na just couldn't figure it out. What was the point of their training? Would they actually carry a few more dry rations just by standing there?
If it weren't for the esteemed Your Royal Highness training them, he would have been shouting by now.
To everyone's surprise, after a brief pause, Your Highness issued an even more peculiar second order. He commanded everyone to maintain their formation, and this time, if no one moved, they would all receive an extra egg at lunch. If even one person refused, the entire group would forfeit the bonus egg.
Vanne heard a sound of swallowing.
Damn it, is this some noble trick from the royal court? Using a carrot as a lever to pull everyone into a tightrope walk—he's no fool!
But what if, if everyone could do it, we'd have two eggs to eat later?
It was pure devilish temptation. Fan Na wiped the drool from his lips—this was for the eggs, he was going all out!