"Line up!"
The roar thundered across the parade square, shaking the hearts of every man present. Three thousand soldiers—veterans and fresh recruits alike—scrambled into formation. Boots thudded against the stone ground, armor clinked, and voices echoed as the square filled with the sound of discipline, or at least the attempt at it.
The veterans moved into their rows with practiced ease, spines straight as spears, shoulders squared. But the new recruits—most of them farm boys and craftsmen's sons—were crooked, restless, and awkward, their lines bent like broken rulers.
An instructor dressed in the sharp uniform of a German Guard soldier stormed toward one recruit who slouched like a sack of grain. With a snarl, he slammed his boot into the man's thigh.
"How many times have I said this? Stand upright! Straight as a pike!"
The recruit yelped, face pale, and snapped his back straight in fear. "S-sorry, sir!"
The instructor's face darkened. "Not sir! Instructor! There are no masters in this army—only officers. Remember this!"
"Yes, Instructor!" the recruit cried, trembling.
The correction rippled across the line. Every recruit straightened, each one terrified of drawing the instructor's wrath.
In the square, 3,000 men stood in the morning light. A thousand were hardened veterans, men who had survived countless skirmishes and battles. The other two thousand were untested youths, eager yet raw.
High above, Gavin Ward appeared. He was clad in a new black military uniform, its polished buttons gleaming. The belt strapped around his waist gave him an imposing air, and the brim of his officer's cap shadowed his sharp eyes. His tall frame, straight nose, and chiseled jaw radiated authority.
"Smith," Gavin called.
The German-born instructor strode over and saluted sharply. "Your Majesty."
"Begin with formation drills," Gavin ordered calmly. "Then prepare them for physical training."
"Yes, Majesty." Smith nodded.
Gavin's plan was simple but harsh. The kingdom could not feed or equip an endless army. Only two thousand soldiers would be retained. The extra thousand recruits would have to prove themselves in grueling training; those who broke would be sent home. Only the strongest, toughest, and most disciplined would remain.
Gavin walked to the raised platform at the edge of the square, his boots ringing on the wood. The crowd of soldiers looked up as he swept his eyes across them.
"I am your king," Gavin Ward declared, his voice carrying across the square.
The veterans stood unmoved, already loyal and accustomed to discipline. But the recruits rippled with excitement. Whispers and cheers broke out.
"His Majesty the King himself!"
"The King came to see us!"
To these young men, Gavin was more than a monarch. He had spared their families crushing taxes, lifted peasants from poverty, and given commoners the chance to rise. To them, he was a just ruler, a savior—and now he stood before them.
"Soldiers!" Gavin's voice boomed. "You are warriors of this kingdom, but warriors must be chosen, forged, and tempered in fire! Some of you will break. Some may even fall. But hear this: if you are injured or if you die in service, your kingdom will care for your family as my own."
The words struck deep. Many recruits clenched their fists, their fear turning to resolve.
"And for those who stand out," Gavin continued, "you will earn the Medal of Honor, presented by me personally."
A murmur of awe swept through the square. Veterans who had fought for years straightened with pride. Recruits trembled with excitement. An honor from the king himself—it was the dream of every soldier.
"Your first test," Gavin declared, "will be a ten-kilometer race. Each company of one hundred men will run as one. The company that takes first place will receive the title 'Brave Company', awarded by me. That title will be yours to carry in every battle henceforth."
He raised a hand, and knights brought forward several large wooden chests. The lids were thrown open before the army.
Gasps erupted.
The first two chests brimmed with rare meats, cheeses, and vegetables—the kind of feast only nobles had ever tasted. The third chest glittered with gold coins, stacked high. The sunlight gleamed on the treasure, and every soldier's breath caught in their throat.
"Victory brings reward," Gavin said firmly. "For the company that wins, you will not only be named Brave Company, but you will feast on this food, and you will receive the highest pay for an entire month."
A roar of excitement shook the square. Recruits elbowed one another, veterans grinned with grim determination.
"But there is one condition!" Gavin raised a finger. "At least fifty men of your company must cross the finish line together."
This was not just a test of speed—it was a test of teamwork, of unity. No soldier could abandon his brothers and hope to claim glory alone.
"Veterans," Gavin's tone hardened, his gaze cutting into the seasoned companies. "You are the pride of the old army. But the new army will not be the same. If any veteran company loses to the recruits, you will not be rewarded—you will be punished. Do you understand?"
The veterans bristled. Their eyes flashed with fire, and they shouted in unison:
"Your Majesty, don't worry! We will never lose to a bunch of green recruits!"
"Let us show these boys the gap between veterans and real soldiers!"
Their confidence rippled across the square.
But Gavin was not finished. "Recruits! If any of your companies finish ahead of the veterans, you too will be treated as first place."
The square exploded with cheers.
"So what if they are veterans!" one recruit shouted. "We will surpass them!"
"His Majesty is watching us—long live the King!"
The air surged with excitement. For the first time, the recruits saw themselves not as weak boys, but as potential equals to the veterans.
By Gavin's side, Rotis watched in awe. Just a few words, a few promises, and Gavin had ignited the fire of every man present. Respect swelled in Rotis's chest.
Gavin turned to him. "Rotis."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"I once made you a viscount," Gavin said, "but I have stripped noble privileges. Still, I owe you for your loyalty."
Rotis dropped to one knee. "Majesty, you owe me nothing! To serve you is the greatest honor."
"After the training," Gavin continued, "I will appoint you as commander of this regiment. You will oversee these soldiers."
Rotis's eyes widened. He bowed his head, overwhelmed. "Thank you, Majesty!"
"Do not think the role is easy," Gavin warned. "The new army is not like the old. Learn from Smith. Study discipline."
"Yes!" Rotis answered with resolve.
Gavin lifted his hand and shouted: "The training begins now! Each company will run in formation to Rum Village, ten kilometers outside Ross!"
The horns blared. Lines of soldiers began to march, then run, their boots pounding against the dirt roads as they surged toward the horizon.
Gavin watched them go, his eyes steady. He knew the truth: this was not about speed. It was about endurance, about unity. A company of fifty men crossing the line together meant one thing—teamwork over pride.
The purpose was clear:
To forge tenacity.
To build discipline.
To instill team spirit.
To ignite collective honor.
This was the essence of the new army.
The old armies of Nord and Kiswell broke after 20% casualties. Sometimes even 10% was enough to make them scatter. But Gavin's new army would endure through blood and fire. Even with 80% dead, the survivors would hold the line, fighting until the very last man.
That was the difference. That was the future.
And Gavin Ward would carve that future with iron and fire.
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