The ten-kilometer run had begun.
Of course, no soldier could sprint such a distance in one breath, but this was not about speed—it was about endurance, unity, and spirit.
The three thousand men had been divided into thirty companies, each with one hundred soldiers. Around them rode one hundred knights in shining armor, keeping order on their warhorses.
As the columns passed through the streets of Lowes City, people crowded the sidewalks to watch. Men, women, and children raised their voices, cheering the soldiers as they marched. The clatter of boots against cobblestones echoed with pride.
At first, the formations held. Rows were neat, movements sharp. The recruits puffed out their chests, thrilled by the admiration of the people. But once the soldiers left the city and the open road stretched before them, the true test began.
The veterans gritted their teeth and kept pace, but the recruits quickly began to falter. Many of them had grown up in poverty—thin, malnourished, half-starved their whole lives. For them, ten thousand meters was a mountain.
By the time they had covered three thousand meters, several recruit companies were already lagging far behind. Veterans were breathless too, sweat pouring from their brows, but they managed to keep their lines intact.
Halfway through the run, half the recruit companies had completely lost formation. Men stumbled along, their breathing ragged.
One young man, no more than seventeen, staggered and nearly collapsed. His thin legs trembled like reeds in the wind.
"I—I can't… Tom, I can't go on…"
Beside him, another recruit grabbed his arm. Tom was drenched in sweat himself, but his eyes blazed with stubbornness. "Hold on, Jerry! Think about it—His Majesty himself will honor us if we finish! Didn't Miss Nancy say she would only marry a warrior? If we win, you'll be more than a warrior—you'll be a hero!"
Jerry's face twisted in pain, but Tom's words lit a spark in him. He clenched his fists and nodded. "For His Majesty… for Nancy… I must keep going!"
The two dragged each other forward.
Gavin Ward, watching from afar on horseback, understood this trial well. In his past life, a ten-kilometer run was a standard drill, barely difficult for modern soldiers. But here, in this world, for peasants untrained in endurance, this was a wall they had to climb. A soldier who crossed this wall was reborn.
At eight kilometers, more than half the recruit companies had fallen behind. Even some veteran companies were struggling. The strongest veterans at the front began to pour out their last reserves of strength, determined not to lose face before the recruits.
"Come on!! The finish line is close!!"
"Don't let those greenhorns pass us!"
But the recruits, driven by dreams of gold, honor, and the King's praise, pushed back with equal desperation.
"Don't give up!"
"His Majesty is watching us!"
The final stretch became a battlefield of pride.
"Yeah!! We are first!"
A cheer erupted from the front lines. Jerry and Tom, still staggering, lifted their heads in shock.
Ahead, they saw a veteran company collapsed at the edge of Rum Village. More than a dozen men sat or lay panting heavily, faces red, as though they had crawled from a river.
"They're first!" someone shouted.
But a recruit's voice rang out, cutting through the noise: "They don't have enough men! They only brought a dozen! To win, a company must have at least fifty soldiers cross together!"
The realization struck like lightning.
"Where are the rest of their men?!"
"Still behind us!"
"Then hurry! Run with our company!"
Every company frantically counted their remaining men. Tom and Jerry's group shouted the result: "Fifty-three! We still have fifty-three! We can do it!"
"Fifty-three!" Tom roared, voice hoarse but wild with hope. "We're number one! Run!!"
The company erupted in desperate shouts. Legs heavy as lead, lungs burning like fire, they hurled themselves forward together.
Behind them, the veterans panicked. Those who had already crossed the line scrambled back to help their stragglers, dragging them forward.
"Faster! Faster!"
"Don't let them beat us!"
But it was too late.
A gong rang across the field. A knight lifted his horn and shouted, his voice carrying over the exhausted ranks:
"The first to qualify! The fourth company of new recruits! Fifty men reached the finish line!"
The recruits collapsed in triumph, tears mixing with sweat. The veterans beat their chests and cursed the heavens, bitter with shame.
---
Evening in the Barracks
The sun dipped low, painting the camp in hues of red and gold. The soldiers assembled in ranks. The recruits of the Fourth Company stood tall, their faces glowing with pride. The veterans, meanwhile, bowed their heads, their spirits heavy. They had been humbled by boys.
Then the sound of hooves rang out. Gavin Ward rode into the square, cloaked in his black uniform, long boots gleaming, a tall stallion beneath him. His guards followed, their uniforms immaculate, their rifles gleaming in the fading sun.
Jerry tugged Tom's sleeve, eyes wide with awe. "Look, Tom! It's His Majesty!"
Tom rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched with a smile. "I can see, I'm not blind."
Around them, recruits murmured in reverence. Even the hardened veterans straightened their backs as Gavin dismounted.
"The fourth company of recruits—step forward!" a knight bellowed.
Tom, Jerry, and their fifty-one comrades stepped out from the ranks. Their boots struck the earth in unison, their heads held high.
Gavin's eyes swept over them. His voice was calm but warm. "Soldiers, you have done well."
The recruits dropped to one knee and shouted as one: "We will die for Your Majesty at any time!"
A knight approached, bearing a silver tray. Upon it lay a row of freshly minted bronze medals, gleaming under the torchlight.
"The Medal for Courage," Gavin announced.
One by one, he pinned the medals to the soldiers' chests. Tom's heart hammered as Gavin's hand touched his uniform. Jerry's vision blurred with tears. Each man felt as though fire had been lit in his soul.
For peasants who once struggled to eat, this moment was worth more than gold. To be recognized by their King himself, to wear a medal forged in his name—it was glory beyond measure.
A cry spread among the ranks. Soldiers stared at Gavin with shining eyes.
This was more than loyalty. This was worship.
The King who had lifted their taxes.
The King who had crushed fifty thousand Nord soldiers with only one thousand.
The King who now stood before them, granting honor with his own hands.
A tide of devotion surged in the camp. Unknowingly, Gavin Ward had become not just their monarch, but their living symbol—their justice, their glory, their victory.
---
System Prompt
In the silence of his mind, Gavin heard the strange, cold voice of the system:
[Army Personality Cult initiated.]
[From this day forth, you hold 100% control over the army.]
[The loyalty of your soldiers will grow stronger with each day.]
[To them, you are justice, you are glory, you are victory.]
Gavin exhaled slowly, his face calm. But within him, fire burned. This was more than an army. This was a force bound not by fear, but by worship.
And such a force would follow him through fire, through blood, through death itself.
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