Chapter 392: “The Great Army”

Leslie Domain, Tansan Town.

Tall and lean, Viscount Andrew Leslie climbed up onto the city wall and gazed toward the docks from the lookout point.

The newly built dock tower stood proudly by the Whitewater River, its elegant spire shimmering dreamily in the sunlight. Below the tower, countless sails dotted the river like busy ants, with vessels of all sizes coming and going in a constant flurry. The entire waterway was alive with activity.

This bustling, lively scene had only begun last year.

A cold breeze swept by, and Andrew’s throat, made sensitive from overuse of magical potions, suddenly felt raw and uncomfortable. He couldn’t help but cough violently a few times. The steward standing nearby immediately stepped forward and draped a warm, long fur coat over his master’s shoulders.

The steward, newly recruited less than a year ago, looked worried. “My lord Viscount, you should go back and rest.”

“Cold air helps clear the mind,” Andrew replied casually, his gaze pulling away from the docks to sweep over the newly built warehouses, mills, and the western district. Suddenly, he sighed, “It’s all happening so fast.”

The steward didn’t catch the last part. “What was that?”

Though reliable and reasonably sharp, the steward was still new and lacked the tacit understanding Andrew had with others. Andrew gave a faint sigh at this and then shook his head, brushing away some unpleasant memories. “Nothing. Is the messenger still waiting at the castle?”

“Yes,” the steward nodded. “Count Hosman awaits your reply.”

Andrew fell silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, “Tell me, who do you think will win this war?”

“…Duke Gawain Cecil’s situation looks grim,” the steward hesitated, lowering his voice. He knew his master was close to Duke Gawain, but loyalty demanded honesty now. “Even though the duke himself is a legend, he commands only a few thousand men. Meanwhile, Count Hosman has already gathered tens of thousands…”

Andrew said nothing, only murmuring, “A ‘great army’ of tens of thousands…”

Given the era’s limited mobilization capacity and the Southlands’ own desolate, declining state, raising tens of thousands of troops was indeed impressive. After all, the highest noble rank here was count, and the number of private soldiers any noble could maintain was ultimately capped.

After a few seconds of thought, Andrew glanced at his steward. “Sounds like, according to you, I should quickly answer Count Hosman’s call and side with the winner.”

The steward bowed his head deeply. “My advice is of little consequence. I am but a steward, lacking the capacity to grasp your grand affairs.”

Andrew felt a twinge of boredom and smirked slightly out of the steward’s sight. Then he looked toward the catapult platforms on the wall—these ancient siege engines faced the Whitewater River. A century ago, Andrew’s ancestors had relied on this stretch of wall to fend off riverborne raiders and deserters, shortly after the Ansu Rebellion ended, when the Southlands were far less secure than today. Now, a hundred years later, the catapults had been replaced several times due to rot and fragility, but they hadn’t been used in ages.

Another cold gust swept over the wall, the wind always seeming to sting the lungs here. The viscount wrapped his coat tighter and coughed softly twice. “Let’s go back. Count Hosman’s messenger has been waiting a long time.”

The steward immediately followed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Also, find me several copies of those ‘newspapers’ published in the Cecil Domain, along with materials on their proposed ‘Noble Reform Act’ and ‘Land Redistribution Law.’ I need to get up to speed.”

Far to the north, a great army was gathering.

Aside from the twenty thousand troops sent to Earl Peibo, the main force of fifty thousand had mostly assembled after over ten days of maneuvering and mustering. Rows upon rows of tents and banners stretched across the plains southwest of the Carol region, bustling like an enormous, unprecedented marketplace.

Here, armies from dozens of local nobles across the Southlands had converged—from barons to counts, all proud and legitimate bloodlines united. Each noble brought anywhere from under a hundred to over a thousand soldiers, setting up camp according to their size. They first divided the area by noble rank, then further subdivided it based on arrival order, resulting in a chaotic, interwoven patchwork of encampments.

Dozens of different banners fluttered above the sprawling camp. Winding, maze-like roads twisted between the camps, where messengers clad in various colors and armor, carrying all manner of flags and speaking in diverse accents, ran back and forth shouting orders only their own could understand—or sometimes not even they. Confusion and brawls broke out occasionally due to miscommunication, but knights quickly charged in to restore order by force.

The soldiers’ equipment was as mixed as the camp itself—a lively exhibition ranging from the simplest half-leather armor to the finest full plate mail. Identification methods varied wildly: some wore tabards emblazoned with crests, others tied colored cloth strips around their heads, some bore shield insignias, and others had no markings at all, relying on fellow villagers to recognize faces. It was easy to worry that when the army disbanded, some might mistakenly follow the wrong unit and end up in a foreign territory—and in fact, such mix-ups had happened.

Bards often told a vivid tale of a soldier named Tom—perhaps a Highlander or a Kansco man—who fought in a grand war but, upon returning home, mistook his commander’s face and followed the wrong army far from home. He married and had children in a strange land for eight years, then in another war again followed the wrong unit and somehow ended up back in his homeland. This story was widely known in the Southlands and even romanticized by many knights as emblematic of the “romantic life on the battlefield.”

Count Karlof Hosman, dressed in a golden-red count’s cloak, rode his favorite chestnut warhorse through the vast camp, accompanied by several viscounts and barons. Beside him rode Viscount Carol, clad in a sharp black coat.

A relaxed, pleased smile graced Count Hosman’s face. This massive camp and the fifty thousand troops gathered here were all assembled under his supreme authority. This grand spectacle was proof that the Hosman family still shone brilliantly under his leadership—a reward beyond measure for a scion of the Hosman line.

“Look at this,” Hosman said, flicking his whip forward, his tone rising with excitement. “Such a force—who knows what our so-called ancient hero will do to stand against it? Honestly, I almost regret it now. Maybe I didn’t need to call up so many. Every banner here deserves a fair share of the spoils.”

“That only proves your generosity, my lord,” a baron said with a respectful, admiring smile. “You not only stand to uphold Ansu’s laws and traditions but also generously care for every soul on this land.”

Others nearby nodded in agreement. Suddenly, a commotion arose nearby.

Hosman looked up to see a group of soldiers clad in chainmail and partial plate armor brawling noisily near the tents, apparently fighting over who had priority to fetch water. Before long, a knight in gleaming armor stepped out and swiftly knocked all the fighters to the ground.

“See? The dutiful knights maintaining order—that’s the very essence and purpose of nobility,” Hosman said with satisfaction, marveling. “I can’t imagine how chaotic it would be without such forces… which makes me all the more wary of what that ancient hero intends by stripping knights of their privileges and destroying the nobles’ role in keeping order.”

“What he wants, only the gods know,” Viscount Carol said, shaking his head with a sigh. “But he’s already felt the consequences. Humiliated knights and mages destroyed his ‘alchemy factory’ and blew up his warehouses. He broke the order, and now order has vanished from his lands. He’s reaping what he sowed.”

Carol’s face showed genuine regret—of course he felt regretful. Since last winter, selling potions on the Holy Spirit Plains and taxing the Cecil merchants entering the city had been a major source of his income. Now that the Cecil alchemy factory was destroyed and potion supplies sharply reduced, how could he not feel sorrow?

What frustrated Carol even more was that when he tried to find alchemists in his domain to temporarily ease the shortage with traditional potions, he couldn’t find a single one…

If not for this blow, the otherwise neutral Viscount Carol wouldn’t have so quickly thrown in his lot with Count Hosman, even offering vast plains on the edge of his domain for the army to camp.

“I wonder how things are with Earl Peibo,” a viscount in the group suddenly said. “That Andrew Leslie is close to the Cecils and hasn’t answered your call. Maybe he’ll just ignore your letter.”

“I personally wrote to him, telling him to stay in his castle and not block Earl Peibo’s path. That’s the greatest courtesy and tolerance I can offer,” Hosman snorted lightly. “If he deliberately ignores it, so be it. Peibo has twenty thousand men; taking the small town of Tansan won’t take two days. Even if that sickly Leslie runs to the Cecils for reinforcements, it’ll be too late to put out the fire in his castle… So long as his mind isn’t completely ruined by potions, he’ll know what to do.”

Those nearby nodded in agreement at this clear analysis.

Hosman then looked up toward the distance, where a messenger was galloping toward him.

A smile spread across his face. “It seems we’ve received a reply from the ‘ancient hero.’”

When the messenger handed him a familiar lacquered tube, Hosman raised an eyebrow. Upon unrolling the parchment inside—the very letter he had written himself—his expression shifted from confusion to a flicker of anger at being mocked.

That anger peaked when he read the final word of the letter, then suddenly burst into laughter.

Someone nearby looked puzzled. “My lord, is the letter a rebuttal?”

Count Hosman stopped laughing, letting out a soft hum. The parchment in his hand suddenly burst into flames and quickly turned to ash. “No,” he said, “it’s ‘the beginning of war.’”

(Damn, burning through my stockpile of drafts hurts so much.)

(End of chapter)