Chapter Sixty-Two

Sometimes, the disparity in wealth between people is as vast as their difference in strength—if not greater. The title of Earl already places one among the upper nobility, and from the splendor of his estate, one could easily see that even a maid’s daily living expenses in that manor might equal a commoner’s monthly toil.

Yet, not every member of the upper nobility is fabulously rich. Most hold important positions, such as city lord, and have generous salaries. Additionally, many nobles conduct business or invest. Thus, within the upper class, wealth and rank do not always correspond; circumstances vary.

In any case, for Earl Golaide, a thousand gold coins was mere pocket money, but for Kevin, it was enough to relieve his urgent needs.

Anything above a few hundred gold coins is difficult to carry. Gold is heavy; if you fill your pockets, your clothes sag and misshape, and even then, you can barely fit them in. A thousand coins require a special chest for transport. There are crystal cards, but their price is prohibitive, reserved for the elite—not for a mere tutor.

In the end, Kevin accepted a check. Checks are made of special paper, imprinted with intricate magical circuits for high anti-counterfeit protection. Only those with substantial deposits—wealthy magnates, upper nobility, or government officials—can apply for checks.

After a check is issued, if it’s to be cashed elsewhere, the money isn’t available the same day. Gold must be transported to the local treasury, registered to indicate the coins have been allocated to the check. Information is then transmitted via magical teleportation arrays to treasuries nationwide for updates. Only then can the holder cash the check at a treasury.

The check itself holds no value; even if someone stole a blank check and filled in a number at random, without matching information, the treasury would not disburse funds—and might even have the culprit arrested. If a check is lost, one only needs to go to the treasury, provide their name and identification, and state when and by whom the check was issued to them; though the process is cumbersome and met with disdain from the staff, the money can still be claimed.

From receipt of the check to actual cash in hand, the process usually takes about two days—time for the treasuries to synchronize information. If local, it can be done the same day. This seamless financial management, uniting treasuries across the nation, is ultimately thanks to the teleportation arrays, which come in many forms best left undiscussed for now.

Carrying a check is far safer than lugging a chest of gold. Though public order is decent, thieves and rogues abound. Some stubborn folk insist that only gold in hand is truly secure, but in reality, even if you are given a check, you cannot cash it without authorization, while if your gold is robbed, it’s gone for good.

Once the money was obtained, Kevin immediately took leave from the Earl the next day and finally began to repair his catapult. After a month of neglect, the machine was covered in dust. Kevin had had little time to care for his three donkeys; after training, he would hurriedly grab a bundle of hay from the stable, toss it in, and dash off, often feeding them every two or three days. The donkeys were visibly thin from hunger.

The hygiene was abysmal, too. Kevin returned late each day, with little mind for cleaning; he’d sweep out the donkey droppings at best. Even so, the inspectors repeatedly noted his quarters as the filthiest, but since no one else could be found, they simply deducted points. Kevin shrugged it off; deductions meant nothing to him.

Over the month, Kevin had mulled his catapult plans countless times. If possible, he still wanted to modify it so one person could operate it. Of course, to avoid botching the modification, he would keep enough funds to restore the catapult if necessary.

After a month, Kevin had already made his inquiries. Even in Landon City, with countless smithies for swords and blades, only the heavy equipment factory directly overseen by the city lord—or the Royal Academy—could repair or modify catapults.

The city lord of Landon’s son, Orca, was in the same new recruits squad as Kevin, always tagging along behind Sain. Compared to Marinas, Orca was at least somewhat tolerable: a man of few words, average ability, and unremarkable presence.

Training for the new recruits had ended over a month ago. Kevin thought, regardless of past animosity, surely they could speak civilly upon meeting again. So he shamelessly sought out Orca.

Unfortunately, when Kevin found Orca, the three of them happened to be together. Though old “comrades” were reunited, the atmosphere was tense. Kevin tried his best to show goodwill, but it was wasted—he was mocked and squeezed out by all three. Kevin dared not retort; if he truly angered Orca, a letter to his father could see the city lord ignore Kevin entirely, which would be troublesome.

Brushed off by Orca, Kevin had no choice but to go to Landon City himself. But honestly, as a junior officer unknown to anyone, with no official business, he was blocked everywhere. Forget seeing the lord; even trying to visit the 213th Catapult Regiment for experience was met with refusal at the gate.

Unable to proceed, Kevin returned to his post and tried to approach the general for official papers. This time, the general did see him, perhaps curious about Kevin’s recent activities. Kevin explained his current situation: his tavern speech, a chance encounter at Earl Golaide’s estate as a tutor—but did not mention he’d already received payment. He maintained that military funds were lacking and urged the Earl to pay him soon.

The general’s face soured, silent for a long time. Kevin had no idea which remark had offended him and matched his silence.

After a while, the general spoke. “From now on, stay in the camp. Stop running off. Quit your job at Golaide’s estate—if any issues arise, I’ll deal with them.”

Kevin: “…”

“Do you know what kind of person Earl Golaide is?” the general asked.

Kevin shook his head.

“My soldiers are working as hired hands in others’ homes during active service?” the general sneered. “You really are something.”

Kevin, helpless, couldn’t help but silently scorn the general. Was this what they called “saving face”?

“Enough. Go back and wait. The issue of military funds will be resolved soon.” The general waved him off.

But Kevin didn’t leave so easily. “General, how soon is ‘soon’? Please give me a specific, definite number.”

The general was stunned—a mere new recruit dared speak so firmly.

Kevin continued, “How much, exactly, will the funds be? I believe I need to negotiate with the logistics chief. If it’s insufficient, I must fight for more; if it’s too much, I can return the surplus.”

The general’s expression darkened. “These matters are for us to discuss at the top. Wait for notification.”

“General, there’s only one catapult here, and it’s almost always half-disabled. I doubt the logistics staff know how much maintenance and repair cost. Do they know the price of a coat of preservative paint? Do they know the cost per stone shot? Do they know what a fire-oil projectile costs? Do they realize that except for the chassis, my catapult is immobile? Do they know how much repairs would cost? Do they?” Kevin pressed.

The general scoffed. “Is it so hard? Even if usage is rare, just check the records. Or investigate with a brother unit. It’s not as if you’re the only one who knows.”

“Not at all,” Kevin replied. “But as the head of an independent department—even if I’m the only member—I believe I have a duty to fight for the team’s funds. I also have the right to participate in budget discussions.”

A general’s aide finally jumped in, “Insolence! Who do you think you are?”

“General, I recall you saying that my catapult unit is not dispensable. If so, the catapult must perform in combat. If, due to budget constraints, repairs can’t be made, then ultimately, who bears responsibility?” Kevin had grown bolder lately, perhaps from frequent dealings with the upper nobility, and his awe of generals had waned.

“Mind your status and tone!” the general snapped coldly. “I did say the catapult unit is not dispensable, but every phase of military development has its direction. Some weapons will always be phased out, others upgraded. The future is uncertain.”

With those words, Kevin knew the discussion was over. The general would never grant him even a copper coin for the catapult, for him, it was expendable. The general didn’t answer the question of responsibility if the catapult failed. And since the logistics chief was his daughter, and Kevin was the stubborn mule who had once punched his son, it was obvious who would take the blame. There was no arguing—it was a matter of authority.

“Sorry for the disturbance.” Kevin saluted and took his leave.

By the time he left headquarters, dusk had fallen. The conversation had soured; to the general, Kevin was arrogant, and to Kevin, the general was pedantic—even petty. Kevin foresaw a difficult period ahead, having offended his highest superior.

Late at night, Start came by on his rounds, and the two sat and talked. Start was well-informed. “Heard you confronted the general?”

“I don’t consider it a confrontation,” Kevin shook his head.

“You’re done for,” Start concluded. “Better write your will.”

Kevin: “…”

“I’ve said it before—your personality,” Start shook his head. “You know the pitfalls of relationships; your ten years of wandering have taught you more than I know, but you insist on butting heads. You think your rhetoric is unbeatable, that you can oppose anything you dislike, but the consequence is what you’re facing now.”

Kevin paused, then said, “I’ve never thought my rhetoric is unbeatable.”

“That’s not the point,” Start waved him off. “Don’t start with ‘what can I do with just one catapult?’ If you’d taken the stage, let Sain thrash you, he’d be happy, and nothing would have happened. Maybe you’d be a patrolman or a regular knight like me. But you had to show off, promote your novel, and publicly embarrass Sain.”

Kevin shook his head, wanting to say something, but stayed silent.

“Don’t roast me—I can’t argue with you,” Start laughed. “But it’s clear: being a catapult captain is directly linked to fighting Sain.”

Kevin nodded; it was obvious.

“Frankly, so what if you’re demoted to private for failing in December? It’s not unacceptable,” Start said. “We joined to hide from assassins, not for honor. Officer or private—it doesn’t matter.”

Kevin said nothing.

“But now, you might even lose your life,” Start was not trying to scare him. “A general can wipe out a junior officer like you with a snap of his fingers.”

“So what should I do next?” Kevin sometimes felt lost.

“There are three paths. First, give in. Tomorrow, bring the general some money, say nice things, build rapport. It might be late, but it’s better than nothing. Second, do nothing—wait for a miracle. Maybe things turn around unexpectedly. Third, keep resisting. Like a protagonist who picks up a chamber pot and suddenly grows stronger, no matter what the general does, you counter him, until finally, you beat him.”

Kevin smiled, “That plot sounds familiar.”

“All right, I’m off,” Start stood. “Think it over.”

That night, Kevin tossed and turned, barely sleeping. He regretted seeking out the general; after a month as a tutor, he realized another month wouldn’t have mattered. But now the general had forbidden it, and Kevin dared not disobey directly. Fortunately, the thousand gold coins were in hand; things were not too bad.

After much thought, Kevin decided to seek out Lieutenant Colonel House, the third battalion commander, who was known to be helpful.

The next day, Kevin found Lieutenant Colonel House, who was surprised at Kevin’s boldness in confronting the general. “Frankly, I wouldn’t dare speak to the general like that. Only his son and daughter could. Your courage is growing.”

“When you visit other regiments, is there a special protocol? Or must the general approve?” Kevin asked.

“Of course the general must approve,” House replied. “Otherwise, what’s the point of having a general? If we all wandered off, no one would be found when it’s time for battle.”

“Is there any other way?” Kevin sighed.

“Well, not none,” House finally offered hope. “You know we have a forty-something veteran in our corps, a sixth-tier warrior. No one can order him about—not even me. He can’t even retire.”

“I know.” Kevin nodded; he’d heard of the man since joining the Knights of Thunder, though he’d never met him.

“He’s experienced, well-connected, strong, and almost as qualified as me. He works in the logistics repair depot—name’s Treck, but everyone calls him Old Treck,” House explained. “If you can get his help, you’ll have no trouble.”

Kevin thanked House and went straight to the logistics repair depot. The depot, under the logistics department, mainly repairs swords, spears, bows, saddles, hooves, and all sorts of support equipment. In peacetime, with little damage to weapons or gear, they would deliberately break equipment for practice, honing their skills.

Of course, for a forty-five-year-old veteran, such things were meaningless. When Kevin found him, he was idly leaning in a corner, whittling a piece of wood—apparently sculpting a beauty.

He looked familiar. Kevin felt he’d seen him somewhere.

“Oh, Captain Kevin,” Sergeant Treck looked up, merely greeting him without rising.

“May I call you Old Treck?” Kevin smiled, unconcerned by the informality. In fact, even if Kevin were a major, Treck wouldn’t stand.

“Of course,” Old Treck was delighted. “I go to the tavern every night to hear your stories. You probably don’t recognize me.”

Kevin was surprised, then realized why Treck looked so familiar—he was one of his regulars. Such an old soldier, coming and going from the camp, probably unnoticed, blending in with the recruits. Going out for a drink was ordinary. Though the city had many taverns, Kevin’s fame was greatest—he’d once debated twenty-six people alone. Meeting Kevin was inevitable.

Since they were acquainted, things were easier. Kevin explained his situation and offered generous payment.

Old Treck didn’t waste words, immediately rising. “Come! Let’s look at your catapult.”

Kevin was overjoyed by such straightforward help. Old Treck was candid: “With money, I can help; without it, I can’t.”

Kevin didn’t ask “Do you know how to fix catapults?”—if Treck dared to inspect it, he must have confidence. Such a veteran would have skills; otherwise, why would the army keep him? He’d have retired long ago.

They went to the yard and pulled out the catapult. Kevin shared his ideas about modifying it for solo operation.

Old Treck affirmed, “You’ve got good ideas. Your first two options—using pulleys or levers—may not be so easy, and require major modifications. If you want to proceed, best start by modeling.”

“Modeling?” Kevin repeated.

“Build a model—a scaled-down version of the catapult to test feasibility. The Royal Academy does this often,” Old Treck circled the catapult, kicking the wheels. “Your third plan—using donkeys to turn the winch for the counterweight—is doable. It can be an independent mechanism, not too difficult.”

“Right.” Kevin accepted the advice.

“But first, you must modify the chassis!” Old Treck declared.

“How should it be changed?” Kevin asked.

“Five pairs of road wheels!” Old Treck replied.

Kevin: “…”