Chapter Sixty-Five: On a Mission with the General

Uneventful days always seem to pass especially quickly. In the blink of an eye, another month had gone by. It was now early November, the weather was growing colder, leaves drifted from the trees, and a great harvest was underway. This year the winds and rains had been favorable, resulting in an abundant yield, and thus a season of busyness had arrived once more.

Kevin had spent almost every day of the past month in training, growing thoroughly skilled in operating the catapult. Truth be told, the machine did not require much technical expertise—once one understood the parameters and marked the measurements on the frame, there was little room for error. As for maintenance, Kevin had overseen the entire assembly process and was familiar with its basic construction. A month’s time sufficed for anyone, except the hopelessly inept or the chronically lazy, to master the catapult’s workings.

With the catapult training complete, daily drills became routine. Kevin also began practicing swordplay, honing his combat aura, and occasionally seeking out the camp’s mages for conversation and exchange. In his spare moments, he continued to work on his novel—though for now, these were only drafts in reserve.

Kevin still maintained his speeches at the tavern, though no longer every night—now, he went every other day. It was not for lack of time, but rather that sometimes he simply had nothing new to say. After nearly two months of speaking nightly to the same crowds, it was impossible to avoid repetition, and even the most prolific storyteller eventually runs out of tales. Recognizing his dwindling supply of anecdotes, Kevin found himself needing to skip days between appearances.

What does a bard do when faced with such a predicament? Clearly, it is time to move on—which is why they are called wandering bards and not tavern poets.

During this period, little of note occurred across the continent, though signs of unrest began to surface within the borders of Lybocir. Though that nation had never been a paragon of order, the chaos had noticeably intensified. Mercenary bands within the country launched repeated attacks on the garrison, sometimes two or three times in a single day.

Why? Because the mercenaries were bored. The kingdom of Lowbauer had sealed off its mercenary contracts, issuing strict orders to limit missions available to foreign mercenary groups. Previously, Lybocir’s mercenaries, though rough and ready, offered lower fees, attracting merchants and clients seeking a bargain. But now, with Lowbauer’s decree in place, there was nothing to be done.

For Lowbauer, this merely meant that clients had to pay a bit more, but for Lybocir, it was a catastrophe: overnight, a vast number of mercenaries found themselves out of work. Only now did they realize that half their assignments had come from Lowbauer.

The job boards were empty; throngs of idle mercenaries loitered without purpose. Lybocir’s officials hurried to reassure the mercenaries, insisting this was a temporary blip and that negotiations with Lowbauer were underway. For the time being, no one would starve, but with so few assignments, fierce competition ensued, and the unsuccessful became volatile, often venting their frustration on the regular army.

Idleness breeds trouble—that was the state of Lybocir. For now, the unrest was small-scale and still manageable, since the mercenaries had a bit of coin left. But should the situation persist and their pockets empty, things would likely turn desperate.

The authorities considered various solutions, such as urging the nobility to post more contracts, but Lybocir was a small country—how many jobs could they possibly offer? One couldn’t very well hire a mercenary to stand guard while making a midnight trip to the privy.

They also called on mercenaries to change professions; a few did, but the majority ignored the suggestion. Some even threatened to turn to banditry if there were no jobs—after all, they had numbers on their side.

Lybocir tried arranging assignments with other countries, but progress was slow. The balance of mercenary labor had always been delicately maintained; if suddenly half of Lybocir’s mercenaries came seeking work elsewhere, what would become of the local mercenaries?

Meanwhile, Lybocir’s bards, oblivious to the worsening crisis, continued to boast of their nation’s mercenary prowess. As for Lowbauer’s mercenary ban, they interpreted it as, “Our mercenaries are simply too strong—if this continues, the other side’s mercenaries will starve.”

When asked how the matter would resolve, the bards replied, “It’s nothing to worry about. Everything is relative. There are only so many assignments. If half our mercenaries are idle, that means their mercenaries are running themselves ragged. Sooner or later, they’ll beg for our help, and then we’ll set any price we wish. Once we get through this patch, victory will be ours!” With these rousing words, laughter and cheer echoed in the taverns, and toasts were raised all around.

Yet they did not know that Lowbauer had special protocols: the army could step in for emergency relief. There was a long-standing tradition that if a contract went unclaimed for three months, the army would fulfill it. If there was ever a glut of assignments, they could simply shorten the waiting period from three months to one, or even a single week.

In Lowbauer, the military could be tasked with anything. During times of famine, entire corps would lay down their arms to till the fields. In the face of floods, troops were dispatched for relief. If mercenaries were in short supply, the army would fill the gap. If workers were needed for construction, soldiers would be sent to build. Even during outbreaks of plague, military chaplains would be mobilized for medical aid. Farming, pig-rearing, muck-hauling, irrigation, healing, construction—the soldiers excelled at them all, outpacing even slaves in diligence, to the shame of the latter.

Many abroad found this incomprehensible and opinions were divided, but within the country, only the slaves complained. For after the soldiers left, the nobles measured their labor by military standards, making the slaves’ lives all the more miserable.

On a certain day in early November, General Ode convened another meeting of all independent departments, with Kevin in attendance.

December meant the enlistment of new recruits, the discharge of veterans, annual evaluations—year’s end was always a busy time. Each battalion had to tally up its retirees, calculate vacancies, assess needs, note who had passed or failed evaluations, who had been promoted, and so forth.

Little of this concerned Kevin, though he did request new recruits, as his catapult crew was short by eleven. For now, his request was simply noted, with no guarantee it would be granted.

The good news was that the funding issue had finally eased a little. Director Bell of the administrative office had agreed to grant Kevin a monthly subsidy of twenty gold coins. It was little enough, but better than nothing.

At last, the general made an announcement: “There’s a backlog of mercenary contracts in Saka City. From today, the Order of the Thunder Knights will be responsible for clearing them. As in previous years, start with those unclaimed for over three months. If none, negotiate with the Mercenary Guild for those unclaimed over two.”

“This year, there may be more contracts than usual,” the general continued, issuing his quota. “By the end of the month, every department must complete eight assignments.”

“Yes, sir!” came the response.

Kevin said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes: General, could you be any more obvious in setting me up?

The general caught Kevin’s look and relented a little. “Kevin, since you’re on your own, I’ll lower your quota—just complete two contracts for me.”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin replied. Truthfully, eight contracts for battalions of hundreds, and two for a lone individual—how fair was that?

“You may keep the contract rewards,” the general added as a small compensation. “You choose the assignments, but they must be backlogged contracts, and you mustn’t compete with the mercenaries. We’re here to help, not take their livelihood. Understood?”

“Understood!” came the chorus.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll be leading by example and taking on assignments myself,” General Ode declared, rising to his feet. “Dismissed!”

Everyone stood, saluted, and departed.

Returning to his own yard, Kevin recalled the struggles of his recruit days and could not help but feel that completing a three-month-backlogged contract alone would be a challenge. He considered recruiting some help and went straight to Stat for assistance.

He was promptly refused. “I didn’t join the army for glory or money. Why should I bother? Even my own patrol isn’t signing up. Let those who’d risk their lives for coin go do it.”

Undeterred, Kevin approached Gray, who, still haunted by their last rookie assignment, shook his head vigorously at the mere mention of another.

He thought of Old Te, who said, “I’ll help you fix the catapult, but count me out for this sort of thing. These old bones have no desire to run about.”

Among the people he knew well in camp, only his fellow recruits—Sain, Marinas, and Orca—came to mind, but they obviously wouldn’t join him. Then there was Major House, but as a major, he was in a different league entirely.

With no other choice, the next day Kevin decided to visit the Saka City branch of the Mercenary Guild alone. He arrived just after morning drills, earlier than almost anyone else.

Upon entering, he found the hall already crowded with merchants, who had apparently received word the day before that the army would be coming to clear the backlog. They had arrived early, waiting eagerly. The moment Kevin appeared, they swarmed him.

“Sir! Sir!” they clamored, hands thrust forward. “Our caravan hasn’t been able to travel for four months; our goods are piling up!” “Sir, please help us—it’s just an escort down a road, and it’s not even that dangerous, but for some reason, no mercenaries want to go.” “Sir, are you alone?” …

Bombarded by questions, Kevin maintained his composure and replied to one, “I’m here to take a look by myself first.”

Suddenly, a voice shouted from behind, “General? Is that a general?”

Everyone turned to see General Ode himself entering the branch, a guard at his side. The merchants surged toward him as if he were their own father, nearly falling to their knees, leaving Kevin’s side deserted.

Kevin saluted. “General.”

The general glanced at him and nodded curtly, then seized a merchant by the arm. “You. Tell me about your assignment.”

The merchant was nearly faint with joy. To be personally escorted by the general of the Thunder Knights was a rare honor, believed among merchants to bring luck and fortune for the year to come.

“Ahem,” the general coughed, snapping the merchant out of his reverie. The others, seeing their chance gone, shuffled away, sighing.

“General,” the merchant composed himself. “Our caravan needs to pass through the Karudia Hills, where bandits are said to be lurking. Lately, no mercenaries have been willing to take the job. But with you here, all is well!”

“When do you depart?” the general asked briskly.

“Immediately.” The merchant hurried to the door. “General, wait just a moment—I’ll gather the caravan!”

At that, Kevin had an idea. “Are any of you traveling the same route? I can escort you.”

The merchants murmured among themselves, hesitant.

“We could just travel with the general, couldn’t we? With his Swordmaster skills, surely a few bandits are no problem,” Kevin prompted further.

“Exactly!” a few merchants exclaimed. “But then, what do we need you for?”

Kevin was left speechless.

“General! General! Take me as well! Let me join, too!” Several merchants waved their hands in the general’s face.

“That’s not proper,” the general replied. “And too large a convoy increases the risk of mishaps.”

After some deliberation, a few merchants turned to Kevin. “Sir, all right… we’ll go with you, then?”

Kevin’s face darkened. The feeling of being kicked aside and then picked up again was far from pleasant. Still, with a contract finally secured, he chose to endure.

The caravans assembled quickly—they had clearly been waiting a long while. Three in total, with thirty ox carts, all heavily laden. Though teleportation gates were widespread, for large or bulky cargo, transporting by cart was still more economical, and many remote villages, mines, and farms were not connected by gates. Caravans could not yet be replaced entirely.

The general rode at the head of the first ox cart; Kevin hitched his catapult to the rear, providing security at both ends of the convoy.

With the general present, the merchants at the front vied to win his favor. “General, have a pear!” “General, try a cake!” “General, would you like water?” “The general surely drinks wine, not water!” …

Thanks to the general’s presence, Kevin enjoyed a share of the bounty as well. Several merchants climbed onto his catapult. “Sir, have a pear!” “Sir, do you like it? Here’s another!” “Oh, sir, you have quite the appetite—shall we get you another?” …

The caravan advanced slowly, reaching the Karudia Hills by afternoon. The region was indeed rife with bandits. At that moment, the bandit chief lay in ambush atop a hill, watching the approaching convoy and nearly bursting into laughter. “No guards at all? What’s that at the end? A catapult? Five pairs of road wheels?”

“Boss, it’s fine! A single catapult is nothing,” a henchman advised. “Such fat sheep—let’s go and shear them.”

Seized by excitement, the boss leaped to his feet, raised a shout, and led his men down the slope, roaring as they blocked the road.

The bandits of Lowbauer were usually little more than thugs and paupers, many armed with nothing better than woodcutters’ axes. This was not an age of chaos; if one wished to be a warlord, one first had to contend with the regular army. Such rabble posed little threat.

Yet ordinarily, the sight of bandits would send merchants into panic, diving beneath their carts. This time, however, all faces remained calm, as if the threat were no more than a troupe of clowns.

The bandit chief strode confidently to the first cart. “Ha! Old fool, you—”

He recognized the old man’s insignia: a general’s star. The chief fell silent.

Without a word, he set down his blade, clasped his hands behind his head, and obediently squatted by the roadside. His men looked on, aghast and bewildered.