Those who followed Brad's gaze twisted their faces in disgust.
"Tch. Greenhorn thinks grabbing the commander's seat makes him the boss."
"Keh, spit. Doesn't have the chops for it."
"Enough."
As the dangerous talk continued, Brad raised a hand to stop them.
"Watch your mouths unless you're starting a mutiny. And if you are, watch them even closer."
"...."
He silenced the room with even riskier words, then lifted his glass.
"How'd the battle go?"
"I'll report, sir."
"Right, Joseph, was it?"
"Thank you for remembering. Joseph Marshalli of the Bolt Unit Rangers."
"Good to see you alive. Sorry about your vice commander."
Joseph took a moment of silence to gather his thoughts before beginning his report.
"On March 13th, the Bolt Unit mobilized with 200 elite troops. Target was the forward outpost in Kaminiti territory. But it wasn't a strike or escort op... Ah, sorry."
"No worries. Go on."
"The unit crossed Kas Plains on the 14th, Kiter Valley on the 15th, and reached the Kamini River on the 16th."
"Forced march."
"Vice Commander Bolt was trying to cut time as much as possible."
Brad nodded slowly.
"Shortening time is one way to dodge risks."
"But that day, hell broke loose."
Joseph recounted the battle with the calm precision of a scout.
"Dawn of the 17th, orcs hit the camp. Sentries spotted them first, and the ready squad bought time, but there were just too damn many."
"Roughly how many?"
"Couldn't say. We killed and killed till sunrise, and they didn't thin out."
That sacrifice let the command staff retreat safely.
"Damn common tale."
Harsh, but all too common. Brad raised his glass to honor the dead and console the survivor.
"Survivor's got one duty: live for the fallen comrades too."
"Kkh."
Glasses clinked, eyes reddened. Someone stood and belted out a song.
The blood-red sunset felt especially poignant that day.
And so another day ended.
The next day, Brad rose late.
As he left the commander's quarters, a burly man carrying a water jug greeted him.
"Morning, boss. Feeling better?"
"Fine. Got a solid rest thanks to you, Roman."
"Whoa, easy with words that could be misunderstood. Later."
As he walked off, a man with nets slung over his shoulders approached with a greeting.
"Good morning, boss."
"Morning? Sun's been up ages."
"Still morning before heading out to work."
"World still revolves around you, Hunmelt."
"Heh heh heh."
The man chuckled idly and wandered off.
All of them were convicts or natives. Prisoner or captured savage, justified or not, they were fodder who fought and died alongside him.
'Me too, someday. Like the Bolt Unit boys.'
Brad's casual demeanor was consideration for them—and himself—in a life where any moment could be the last.
The training grounds buzzed with activity as always.
"Everyone, hoist the wounded. Go!"
"Hup!"
"Heave-ho."
At the veteran drill instructor's command, soldiers hoisted the man in front.
"Swift exit from the battlefield now. First squad, move!"
"Wooah!"
"High knees! Trip, and we're all dead."
After walking a bit, he suddenly halted. He glanced at the mansion that had been his command post, then turned away.
"Better find weapons first."
His pace quickened.
Thud, clang, thud, thud.
As the sweltering air hit his skin, he spotted shirtless men. Nearby, soldiers inspected gear and loaded carts, snapping salutes.
Snap.
"Good work."
"Here for gear, sir? We can—"
"Nah. Carry on."
He waved off the soldier and entered the forge.
Whoosh.
A blast of flame and heat greeted him.
Cold iron meets hot fire to become stronger steel. In that sense, fire resembled the battlefield. Like metal tempered in flames, men grew strong there—or were scrapped.
The smith eyed the blaze for a while, then pumped the bellows hard.
Fwoosh, fwoosh.
Air surged in, flames roared. His sweat-and-grime-caked torso gleamed in the firelight.
Clang thud, clang thud.
The hammering pierced the ears.
The glowing iron hardened under blows, its unrelenting heat dying in water.
Sizzle.
Tongs in hand, the smith inspected it, then back to the anvil.
Clang thud, clang thud.
Hammering that seemed eternal.
Finally, after grueling time, the sword took shape.
"Came by? Almost done, hold on."
"Waiting's only right before a craftsman. Finish up."
Alton Smith was a key figure in the fortress. Not on par with former commander and knight Brad, but longtime comrades shared easy rapport.
"Heard you were back. Here."
Soon Alton handed over the shortsword.
"Lucky we got prime iron two weeks back. Tricky to work, took ten days just to coat."
Meaning he'd secured multiple high-quality blades via coating.
"Meteorite fragment, they said. Can't melt with ordinary fire."
"Feels solid."
He examined the blade. Unlike mundane steel's silvery gleam, it held a uniform dark blue sheen.
"You're the best smith I know, Alton."
"Great material helped."
Modest words, but Alton didn't hide his smile.
"Third young lord's strikes gave us time. Poured it into heat treatment and finishing."
"Makes sense. Almost too good to use."
Brad swung it around, satisfied.
"Everyone held it down while I rested in the clink. Thanks."
Alton glanced around before adding,
"Heard you called up troops."
"Our brothers are lying cold on the plains."
Brad sheathed the shortsword at his waist.
"Heading out now?"
"Wasn't that our pact?"
Retrieving corpses was risky and inefficient. But defending the fortress with human lives was inefficient too.
Body recovery was their sole devotion to each other.
"Thanks. Catch you later."
A casual wave as farewell, and he turned.
Just then, Hal Frederick rushed up with a report.
"Troops assembled. Main force 120, Bolt remnants 30. All volunteers."
"Pack supplies and carts. Report back, then we move."
"Yes, sir."
Hal dashed off. Brad headed for the fortress commander's quarters.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Arun van Brennenton was the third son of the renowned Brennenton Earl family, border marquises of the empire.
At twenty, he had the handsome looks, balanced build, and sharp mind—top graduate of the capital academy—that proved his bloodline. A perfect young noble, close with his brothers, life seemed a royal road ahead.
But at twenty, everything changed.
All three sons adults, the succession struggle began. Perhaps fratricide by another name.
The timid second son yielded and branched to the capital.
Not Arun. Elite from youth, academy honors, knighted by the emperor—surrender wasn't an option.
Then eldest Lloyd's real pressure started.
—Terminate contracts with Isaac Company and domain merchants.
—Appoint Loyton Merchant Company as new domain merchants, assign Steel Knights.
—Entrust Arun van Brennenton with northern development.
The mild brother bared fangs; Arun was defenseless. His backers—merchants, knights—were sidelined, eldest's dormant power surged.
'Maybe it was inevitable.'
Succession wasn't academy grades or sports. All-out deathmatch.
'Reckless. Should've prepped longer.'
This north was crisis and chance.
Unlike barren expectations, urbanizing, elite troops, convicts and savages turned solid citizens.
'Win their loyalty, I'd have edge in succession.'
Overrelied on his Royal Guard.
Ambitious expedition failed per academy playbook; no strike on Kaminiti, total rout.
Imprisoned defiant commander for disobedience, sweet-talked opposing vice into compliance.
'Command shaky now. Bleaker by the minute.'
Locals' scornful eyes now terrified him.
'End like this?'
Arun clutched his head.
A knock snapped him back.
Knock knock.
"Uh, come in."
"Runner from home."
"Oh, really?"
Arun brightened, rising from his desk.
"Uncle's word? More like, reinforcements?"
"Well..."
"Not good? Speak."
"No support for now. Company revenue halved, backers peeling off."
"What? Cutting aid? Did they get my letter?"
Adjutant Benjamin swallowed hard before replying carefully.
"Confirmed your letter delivered fine."
"Damn it!"
Arun slumped into his chair.
"I'm the challenger. Must advance, cower and it's surrender."
Desperate for aid, but rival eldest cut funds for advantage.
"One failure, crumbling? Unfair."
But Benjamin's report continued.
"Sorry to say."
"Worse than this? Out with it."
"Fortress ops disrupted."
Arun rubbed his forehead.
"Go on."
"Troops are conscripts with day jobs. Week on ops, week farming, hunting, smithing."
"I know. So?"
"150+ casualties out, gaps immediate."
"Damn."
Battle turns on training and command, forces on supply. Academy mantra, painfully real now.
"Bad?"
"Gear repairs lagging, especially horse shoes. Mess worsening; soon need squires in kitchens."
"Fixes? Levy locals?"
"...."
Benjamin silent, Arun calmed.
"Reason can't?"
"Skilled spots like forge not numbers fix. Plus levying locals..."
He wasn't too dumb to get it.
"Moods off after mass deaths?"
"My take."
"Fair."
Grief for father, brothers could spark riots. Worst unthinkable.
"Watching for revolt signs?"
"No overt danger yet, but supply shortages hint issues beyond manpower."
"Strikes?"
"Not blatant, but yes."
"Grr. Ballsy."
Fury rose, but he quelled it. Botch, and it'd be 6 knights, 30 squires vs. locals.
Needed another way.
"Sir Brad..."
"Sir Brad..."
Both sighed short.
"Heard he was released yesterday. Movements?"
"Tavern last night, that's it."
"He took disgrace to block last op. I failed, men died. Hard to order him now."
Shame and despair surged.
Then a runner burst in.
"Troops assembling in the yard now."
"What?"
Stunned, but report continued.
"Sir Brad Cahill requests audience."
Gulp.
Fear became real.