Chapter 94: On the Army

When it came to the armies he’d seen so far in this world, Gawain’s verdict boiled down to just two words: utterly bizarre.

At least within the borders of Ansu, that was the case.

A combination of factors—severe cultural regression, low productivity, feudal fragmentation, and the absolute dominance of high-ranking martial professions—had warped the military system of the Ansu Kingdom. Though nominally unified, the kingdom was effectively a patchwork of independent realms, each ruled by a noble lord. The so-called king was merely the most ostentatious among these lords—and not necessarily the most authoritative. There was no standing professional army under centralized command. Instead, each noble maintained their own private forces, supplemented by the royal knightly order stationed in the capital, Saint Sunir. Authority was fragmented and decentralized; the classic medieval European problem of “my vassal’s vassal is not my vassal” was even more pronounced here. Even the southern noble families, who were officially direct vassals of the king, owed him little more than certain limited duties—monitoring the southern borders, providing intelligence, and sending troops in wartime. They did not answer to the king’s other commands.

Their soldiers were theirs alone.

Even a mere viscount’s handful of soldiers belonged solely to him.

So, if a great noble wanted to wage war, how did he muster a large army?

Simple. If his prestige was sufficient, if he found a good pretext for war, and if he promised enough spoils to be divided afterward, then the lesser lords under his banner were obliged to bring their private troops to fight. These private forces formed a motley collection of units, each led by their own lord or by a powerful martial professional hired by the lord—usually the latter, since many nobles of this era had degenerated to the point where they couldn’t even ride or fight themselves, relying instead on mercenaries to command their forces. On the battlefield, this chaotic “mixed army” surged forward en masse, with each contingent deciding for itself how much effort to expend—some would shirk, some would feign death—depending on the enemy’s strength and their own expected gains. After the battle, the commanders would rush to the great lord or the king to haggle over the division of spoils.

The consequences were obvious: the kingdom had no professional army, no unified command structure, no standardized training. Nobles cobbled together their private troops in all sorts of haphazard ways. Weapons were inconsistent, military systems were disjointed, logistics were uncoordinated, and even the armies trained by a noble father and his son might differ—if their relationship was strained.

Beyond the soldiers’ diversity, this chaotic military system bred a host of serious problems: it took ages to form effective fighting units, training was inefficient, recruitment was haphazard, desertion rates were alarmingly high, and if a leading warrior fell in battle, entire units would collapse—because these troops lacked discipline and knowledge, their only skill being to charge alongside their knightly leader.

The Cecil family was somewhat better off in this regard. As the “Guardians of the Southern Border” who had long defended against monster incursions, even in decline they preserved a tradition of relatively scientific militia organization.

Besides their formal soldiers—the family warriors—the Cecils drew heavily on trained militias. Family knights trained these conscripts from the free population to a standard below that of full soldiers. They drilled during downtime and farmed during busy seasons, supplementing the formal forces and providing a large reserve of trained men. This meant that in emergencies, the Cecils could more easily reinforce their professional soldiers than other nobles.

Rebecca’s expansion of militia conscription and promotion to include serfs was a natural evolution of this system.

But Gawain intended to take it further.

Looking ahead, he needed a professional, specialized army with a stable recruitment base. So he abolished the separation between militia and family warriors, unifying all soldiers into “combat corps.” He mandated systematic, standardized training for all troops and announced that they would receive regular pay.

Previously, noble private soldiers received no salary. They had to provide their own weapons or buy them from their lord, and even bring their own food on campaigns. Their motivation to fight came from the right of “private plunder”: soldiers could loot the battlefield and conquered towns, keeping half the spoils as their reward.

The Cecils were a bit different. Generations of lords had rented out weapons and supplied food rations to their soldiers as compensation for lost farming time during training and service. But beyond that, no salaries were paid, and the rations barely covered basic needs.

Naturally, Gawain decided to pay his professional soldiers a salary and simultaneously banned all private plundering within the Cecil forces.

If soldiers wanted promotion or extra rewards, it would be straightforward: Gawain promised to establish clear criteria for advancement based on merit and contributions. Compared to the previous chaotic and brutal looting, soldiers who fought bravely or followed orders well would earn more wealth.

This wasn’t a problem for the Cecils, who had historically only fought monsters and, at most, barbarian tribes beyond the borders. Their soldiers had no tradition of plundering. Their loyalty was maintained by food subsidies and benevolent policies toward military families. Gawain was simply codifying the ban on plunder into law, which was widely welcomed. After all, he also promised that even serfs who joined the army could rise through the ranks—a privilege previously reserved for family warriors.

But then came a change that raised some eyebrows: as a continuation and expansion of the militia system, Gawain decreed that all adult men in the territory were required to undergo basic military training during the off-season. What had been a selective conscription became universal and mandatory.

This didn’t mean everyone would be sent to war, but it ensured that the population had a basic military foundation, making it easier to convert civilians into professional soldiers when needed.

At another time, this might have sparked discontent. But barely a day had passed since the monster attacks, Gawain Cecil’s prestige was at an all-time high, and his personal defense of the camp had inspired the people. So the policy was announced smoothly.

People were pragmatic: they reasoned that since they already owed labor to the lord, spending some off-season time training was just another form of service. As long as they had enough to eat, it was acceptable.

Besides, if they were lucky enough to be selected as formal soldiers, donning armor and wielding a sword would make them “half respectable.” For many lifelong poor peasants, this was a rare chance to improve their status. Training during the off-season was a small price to pay.

Military reform wasn’t something that could be completed overnight. The details were complex and couldn’t be fully explained in a single speech. Considering the audience’s capacity and the intricacies involved, Gawain only outlined the unification of all soldiers into combat corps and the basics of military training before stepping down from the platform. The finer points would be worked out later with the two knights and Hetty.

Moreover, what he announced today was just a foundation. Given the current state of the territory, his plans were actually quite ahead of their time. The entire frontier settlement had barely over eight hundred people, and only about a hundred had been trained as soldiers. That hundred was the entire “army” of the Cecil domain—a far cry from the professional force Gawain envisioned.

And don’t be fooled by the small number: the soldier-to-civilian ratio was shockingly high—one in eight. In Gawain’s experience, a peaceful kingdom typically had a ratio of forty to seventy civilians per soldier, sometimes even higher. Even in wartime, the ratio rarely dropped below ten civilians per soldier—unless it was a desperate, all-out war or a nomadic society like the northern barbarians, where everyone was a warrior.

Here, one-eighth of the population were soldiers!

If all were full-time soldiers, nearly all the settlement’s resources would go to supporting this fighting population, halting development and destabilizing society. So, none of the soldiers were full-time. They trained and guarded but also worked the fields and helped build the camp to keep the labor force sufficient.

This made them more like a construction corps, and thankfully, the soldiers accepted this without complaint.

Partly because over half were militia, who were never full-time soldiers, and the rest were loyal veterans. The Cecil family’s strict military discipline ensured their warriors didn’t become lazy aristocratic soldiers. This was why the current situation was sustainable.

Still, the one-in-eight ratio wasn’t a long-term solution. Gawain’s next step was to find ways to bring in more people and address the settlement’s biggest weakness: its population.

Without increasing the population, all talk of building a professional, specialized modern army was just fantasy. Planning such a force for a settlement of only eight hundred people and a hundred soldiers was beyond even Gawain’s wildest dreams when he first awoke in this world.

But he had to set the framework early. Once a large influx of outsiders arrived, it would be too late to make fundamental changes. Without a mature, stable structure in place, all his efforts would be diluted by the chaotic mix of new arrivals.

After the assembly dispersed, Gawain immediately gathered the camp’s management team, including the two knights. This time, he also invited Norris, who had been adapting to his role as “Agricultural Supervisor” for over ten days, and Hammer, the blacksmith who had begun overseeing the ironworks.

(Mama mia, transitional chapters are tough.)

(End of chapter)