The Frankish border. Sunset Fortress. The Fifth Legion's encampment.
It had been over half a year since Robson transmigrated.
Upon arriving in this Otherworld, he was fortunate to have a Warband panel.
This Warband panel was Robson's greatest asset for navigating the Otherworld. He could use it not only to train his troops and raise their levels, but also to forge them into an elite army.
Most importantly, Robson could also use this panel to train himself. As long as he worked hard, he would gain experience. With experience, he could upgrade his level and martial skills. For him, there were no bottlenecks. As long as he put in the effort, it was as if he had a perfect aptitude and limitless talent.
Thanks to the Warband panel, Robson had become the ultimate grinder.
"[Host: Robson Odogin (Third-tier Bronze Knight 489/500) (No Title)]"
"[Hero: None]"
"[Skills: Proficient: Eight Knightly Arts (494/500), Uninitiated: Bloodburn (96/100)]"
"[Soldiers: Tier Two: 500 Frankish Militia (495/500)]"
"[Morale: 69/100]"
"[Unit Cap: 500]"
In just six months, his power had soared from First-tier Bronze to Third-tier, putting him at the very top of his peers. To put it in perspective, a Baron was typically only at the third or fourth tier.
He had grinded the Eight Knightly Arts, a set of basic techniques, all the way to Proficient and was on the verge of reaching Perfect. When it came to the Eight Knightly Arts alone, likely few sixth or seventh-tier Knights could reliably defeat him. If he reached the Perfect level, his understanding would probably be on par with eighth or ninth-tier Knights. As for the even higher Legendary tier, that was out of the question—they were in a league of their own, operating on a completely different level of comprehension.
As for Bloodburn, that was a skill Robson learned from the Barbarian Beastmen. It was their innate racial talent, allowing them to burn their own life essence for a massive, short-term boost in strength. The Warband system, however, shattered those limitations, allowing Robson to learn the racial talents of others. Of course, what Robson valued most were the 500 Peasant Soldiers his 'dear' old dad had recruited for him. After so many days of training, they were finally starting to look like an elite army.
His progress in the last six months had been astonishing.
'Has it been over half a year already?' Robson thought, inhaling the cool autumn air with a swell of emotion.
At the start of the year, Robson had transmigrated into this world of sword and magic, becoming the second son of a Baron. As for the whole transmigration affair, Robson could only call it a mixed blessing.
The good news: he'd transmigrated as a noble! The bad news: he was a noble in the Frank Kingdom. The Frank Kingdom was situated in the northern region of the Human Race Alliance and shared a long, contested border with the Beastman Royal Court.
Ever since the Knight King founded the country, the two sides had fought a major war every thirty years and a minor one every five. The average lifespan of a noble in the Frank Kingdom was the lowest on the continent, primarily because most of them died on the battlefield against the Beastmen. From the King down to the Barons, every noble had to face at least one major Beastman invasion. Why 'at least' one? Because many nobles didn't survive their first, dying a 'glorious' death for their kingdom.
Thirty-six years had passed since the last Beastman invasion. Now, their forces stronger than ever, the Beastmen were marching south again, intending to annihilate the nemesis they had been locked in conflict with for five hundred years.
During the last invasion, the Beastmen had breached and sacked the Frank Kingdom's capital, Barishik. In the end, the kingdom had only managed to expel the Beastmen with the help of the Human Race Alliance.
This time, the Beastmen were even more ferocious; their Vassal Army alone numbered in the millions.
The clearest evidence of this was the front line at Barol City, where every day brought news of another legion being annihilated or another Count dying in battle. Although Robson wasn't in Barol City, the situation on the Western Front, where he was stationed, was hardly any better—in fact, it might have been even worse.
Another group of crestfallen soldiers dragged their exhausted husks into the camp. Most had lost their armor and weapons, their bodies covered in the dried stains of green and red blood.
These were routed soldiers from Vanguard Fortress up ahead.
"How many routed groups is that now?" Knight Ed asked, his brow furrowed.
Two days ago, the soldiers had started trickling back. Soon they were followed by entire formations of them, and now, even scattered members of the Pioneer Knight Order were appearing.
"I hear Vanguard Fortress has fallen. We're next," Robson said with a casual shrug. Vanguard Fortress was the Frank Kingdom's last bastion beyond the main defensive line. Their Sunset Fortress was the next in line.
Knight Ed lowered his head in silence. As a Knight of the Frank Kingdom, he had grown up listening to the war stories of his forefathers.
Unlike the other martial-minded nobles of the Frank Kingdom, Ed had always done his best to avoid the battlefield. If the kingdom hadn't enforced mandatory military service for all adult male nobles, he would have never set foot in this place.
"We do what we can, and then we wait for the enemy," Robson said. In his past life and in this one, he'd never been one for hesitation or indecisiveness. He believed in doing one's utmost to defy fate.
"Right," Ed replied.
...
After exchanging a few more words with Ed, Robson returned to his own camp.
Training had all but ceased in the other camps; only Robson was still insisting on grinding for experience. The last thing he wanted was to lead a troop of men who couldn't even hold their spears steady onto the battlefield.
"Ais, go get everyone. Training continues today," Robson ordered. Ais was the adjutant he had painstakingly selected. Ais's main advantage was that he was literate!
"Yes, sir!" Ais accepted the order. He then entered the tents, and a short while later, groups of soldiers began assembling on the training grounds in their respective units.
Robson watched the soldiers with satisfaction. All this training had clearly paid off. These 500 men had originally been a gift from his father, intended to help him secure an officer's commission in the army.
When Robson first took charge of them, they were all skin and bones, their faces pale from malnutrition. Forget fighting—they could barely even lift their swords.
Many people believed that such peasants were just numbers on a report. Robson could only scoff at that. Oftentimes, they weren't even counted as numbers.
But now, after so many days under Lord Robson—who spent his own money to buy extra rations and trained them day and night—they had finally been upgraded from Tier One Frankish Peasants into Tier Two Frankish Militia.
Robson predicted that after today's training, they would become Tier Three Soldiers—either Frankish Infantry or Frankish Archers. This was a level his peers' armies couldn't hope to match; their troops were still just Peasant Soldiers.
In truth, Robson's peers weren't to blame. The entire army at Sunset Fortress was built upon a foundation of Peasant Soldiers. Only a major stronghold like Barol City could afford to field Tier Two Militia as their basic troops. Tier Three Infantry were already considered an elite force of the kingdom.
And then there was the food. Under Lord Robson, the soldiers were getting three square meals a day and had even started to put on some weight. On the battlefield, that extra layer of fat could mean the difference between having the strength to fight and having the energy to escape with your life.
If you were to ask where one could even buy grain in the middle of a massive army... Robson could only say that the lords above him perfectly matched his stereotype of nobles.
"Begin training!" Robson commanded.
"Yes, sir!" the soldiers answered.
Immediately, the groups of soldiers began to drill with great enthusiasm. Not one of them complained. They knew they were eating the best food and serving under the most responsible officer they could ask for.
Besides, for every ounce of effort they put into training, Robson put in ten. When their own noble lord was working that hard, what right did they have to complain?