The small unit did not become "established" through any written order.
It was done in a way far more consistent with the logic of war—by tacit acceptance.
They began to be grouped separately for certain tasks. On paper, they still belonged to different units, scattered across the rolls. In practice, everyone knew that whenever a mission involved reconnaissance, infiltration, sabotage, or early warning, someone would lower their voice and say—
"Send Nathan's people."
It wasn't an official designation, but it was more effective than any unit number.
Nathan did not rush to expand the team.
He understood clearly that in this era, a force that did not fully belong to any traditional structure became more dangerous the larger it grew. Once its size crossed a certain threshold, it would invite institutional scrutiny.
What he needed was not numbers.
It was stability.
Training began quietly.
There were no new commands, no new uniforms, not even new weapons.
The first thing Nathan changed was time.
"You will no longer keep a unified schedule," he told the team. "From today on, your sleep cycles will differ. Your meals will differ. Your patrol times will differ."
Someone asked, confused, "Doesn't that make things messier?"
"Messier on the outside," Nathan replied. "Safer on the inside."
He put Elias Moore in charge of observing changes in everyone's condition, while Thomas Reed was tasked with recording reaction times after every operation.
There were no endurance trials.
No tests of bravery.
Nathan watched only three things:
Who could maintain judgment while exhausted.Who could remember the objective amid chaos.Who could recognize when not to act without being told.
To other officers, this didn't look like military training at all.
It looked like sanctioned disorder.
Unease began to spread.
The first to voice dissatisfaction was a senior officer with long service.
"General," he said privately to Nathanael Greene after a meeting, "this unit is too uncontrolled."
Greene did not answer immediately.
"They're effective, but they lack discipline," the officer continued. "If others follow their example, the army will lose order."
After a pause, Greene asked only one question.
"Have they caused disorder?"
The officer hesitated.
"Or," Greene continued, "are they simply not obeying in a way you recognize?"
The question was quiet, but it left the officer with nothing to say.
What truly stirred concern was the outcome of a later operation.
It involved a temporary British supply point—small in scale, but positioned awkwardly. A frontal action by regular forces would have required a significant cost.
Nathan did not request main-force support.
He led the team in at night.
There was no firefight.No charge.
They damaged the axles of two supply wagons, cut several tethering lines for the horses, and withdrew.
By morning, the British discovered that the supplies could not be moved on schedule and were forced to delay their operation.
That delay directly disrupted a planned advance at the front.
The effect was excellent.
Too excellent.
Because it meant that a unit of barely a dozen men had altered the outcome of a much larger operation.
In a meeting, someone finally spoke up.
"Should we consider standardizing this kind of tactic?"
Once the question was voiced, the atmosphere became noticeably delicate.
Nathan sat in the corner and did not join the discussion.
He already knew the answer.
"No," Greene said at last.
Not because he disagreed.
But because this method could not be replicated.
"The effectiveness of this unit depends on people, not procedure," Greene explained. "Once it becomes a standard process, it will stop working."
It was protection—for Nathan.
And a warning—to everyone else.
After the meeting, Greene spoke with Nathan alone.
"You're making some people uncomfortable," he said.
Nathan nodded.
"That means you're starting to matter," Greene continued. "But it also means you need to be more careful."
"I understand," Nathan replied.
He did.
In any system, excessive efficiency is a kind of original sin.
That night, Nathan gathered Elias Moore and Thomas Reed.
"From now on," he said, "we accept only three kinds of missions."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Which are?"
"Ones no one wants.""Ones no one wants responsibility for.""And ones whose failure won't jeopardize the entire theater."
Elias looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"We don't chase credit," Nathan continued. "We guarantee only one thing—that what must happen will not happen ahead of time."
This wasn't modesty.
It was survival.
In the distance, the camp lights dimmed one by one.
Standing alone in the darkness, Nathan came to a clear realization:
He was no longer just the general's son, nor merely someone whose judgments were useful.
He was becoming something else—
An existence the current system could not fully understand, yet could not easily discard.
And such existences rarely live long in war.
Unless they reach a position where no one dares move against them lightly.
There was only one path to that place.
To possess value that could not be replaced.