The Central Army's 3rd Legion (Part 3)
Upon arriving in Brest, the bustling sight of the garrison town came into view.
Brest, located about three days' ride south from Poznyu, was a quintessential military city sustained by the coin of the 3rd Legion.
"Bigger scale than I expected."
"A regular army legion of 2,500 men requires at least 4,000 support staff, technicians, and laborers. Factor in families and passing merchants, and you're easily looking at over 30,000 souls."
As Krout explained, they proceeded down the straight main road, where sturdy log buildings lined the training grounds.
Calix's group headed for the largest one. A few burly soldiers stood guard at the fence entrance.
"State your business."
"I'm that kind of guy."
Calix pulled out his credentials—a letter of proxy from Russell, just in case it might come in handy.
Without a title of his own, Calix still needed to borrow Russell's authority to hold his own among nobles.
Of course, once confirmed as heir, he'd typically receive deference two ranks below the title he'd inherit, but that was mere convention, not law.
The guard took the letter without a second thought, then recoiled in shock upon reading it.
"Gasp! You're the proxy for the Northeast Sector Army Commander? Forgive my ignorance."
To be precise, it was proxy's proxy, but Calix brushed it off shamelessly.
"How would you know the face of every proxy when you wouldn't even recognize the commander himself? Escort us in already. You gonna keep us standing here?"
"S-sorry! Right away, sir."
Sweating bullets, he led Calix's group to an annex.
"Reception room's in the annex, huh?"
"Due to the unit's frequent relocations, we can only use wooden structures. Space is limited, so we couldn't fit everything in the main building. My apologies."
"No need to apologize for that. Still, set up like this, it looks good for buying time in a pinch like now."
"H-ha... Buying time? No such intention, sir."
"Sure, whatever you say."
Entering the annex reception room, Calix quickly scanned the surroundings. Spotless and neatly arranged, despite likely seeing little use.
It exuded the stark, no-frills atmosphere unique to soldiers—no gaudy, expensive decorations in sight.
At least he's not a rotten one... So probably not outright soliciting bribes, more like casually leaking info. Not an immediate threat to my life.
Calix finally eased his tension a bit.
About ten minutes later, Grima Baron entered. Despite the white streaks in his hair, he stood ramrod straight with a solid build and no paunch.
"Pleased to meet you, proxy. I am Grima Baron, commander of the 3rd Legion."
From the first greeting, Calix sensed the man was no pushover. By calling him "proxy" and using semi-formal speech, Grima drew a clear line.
Strictly speaking, Grima's attitude was correct. Russell was only a provisional count, lacking direct command over the 3rd Legion. Thus, Calix as his proxy held the same status.
But the world didn't run on rules alone. Calix was soon to be this man's superior. Currying favor would be the norm, not this standoffish demeanor.
One of two things. Either he's a stickler for protocol... or he's already aligned with the other side. His status window traits lean toward the former, but...
"First time meeting. I'm Calix Szczecin."
He emphasized his identity deliberately, but got a flat response.
"Apologies, but I'm swamped with deployment prep. Let's cut to the chase."
"Straight to the point, then. Central Army movements require royal approval or the sector commander's—i.e., the border count's—permission. Which is it for you, Baron?"
Officially, the Northeast Sector commander post was vacant. Convention dictated reporting to Russell as provisional count.
"Sent by Russell's proxy? Odd. We've only been prepping for ten days... Isn't this response awfully quick?"
He dodged the direct answer, probing Calix instead.
"I was in Poznyu hiring mercenaries when rumors of the 3rd Legion's odd movements reached me."
"Then I have no need to answer. See yourself out."
"One question."
Grima, rising to leave, glanced back.
"...Fine. Ask."
"Is it for the kingdom?"
He wore a strange expression, then answered curtly.
"Of course. Now, if you'll excuse me."
After Grima left, Krout fumed indignantly.
"That rude bastard!"
"Rude? Officially, I've got no title."
"Hmph! So what now? Looks like stalling's off the table."
Calix crossed his arms, deep in thought. Something felt off.
Whose permission did he get to move troops? Not ours, so it must be the royals. But he's not aligned with them. What if he's playing both sides like me? That fits. Problem is, he's left an escape hatch, but I can't spot it.
As Calix pondered, time flew, and the fateful day dawned.
The 3rd Legion arriving at Poznyu's gates acted by the textbook. They first set up camp, erected watchtowers all around, piled earth walls, and placed log barricades strategically.
"Classic field fortification. And masterfully done. Phase one'll wrap before sundown. Straight out of the manual."
Krout, observing from the walls, was impressed.
Hearing this, Trias asked Calix.
"But isn't a field fort like this for prolonged sieges, a month or more?"
"It's saber-rattling. 'Don't get cocky, back off.' Also signals the mid-tier merc alliances are still testing waters. They won't rush the city—urban combat favors mercs."
"Young master's plan is working perfectly."
"Beyond perfect."
"Pardon?"
Calix smirked.
"If they'd charged boldly from the start, even shaky Leoben would've followed the momentum. But camping outside in perfect battle readiness?"
"It'd breed unease. 'Are they gonna sweep us up too?'"
"Exactly. Shows they don't trust them. Plus, rank-and-file free merc sentiment sours. Clear divide: Central Army vs. mercs. Puts pressure on mid-tiers."
Krout nodded.
"Grima's overly cautious nature is backfiring. That Leoben must be torn."
"Heh, he's just a figurehead. Can't control dozens of merc bands. Probably splitting into factions and brawling right now."
As Calix predicted, the mid-tier merc captains were in heated debate, no consensus in sight—until Grima's envoy arrived.
"The baron demands you prove no rebel ties."
"What does that mean?"
"Hand over the Red Wolf Mercenary Corps."
"Nonsense! Know the mood? We'd be branded Central Army lapdogs."
Despite the uproar, the envoy smirked faintly.
"No need to worry."
"What?"
"With a commission brokerage license, those free merc riffraff bow."
"L-license? Explain!"
"Henceforth, only licenses issued by the 3rd Legion commander allow brokering commissions. First ten go to merc bands with greatest merit capturing Red Wolf. Valid up to four years, reevaluated biennially—dropouts for subpar performance."
"Absurd!"
"They wanna leash us? Never!"
Coldness flashed across the envoy's face at their fury.
"Pathetic. The royals left Poznyu free to counter monster waves effectively. But your infighting guts our strength. Can you guarantee no repeat in five or ten years?"
Silence fell—not agreement, but because things unfolded exactly as Trias had warned in negotiations.
Unaware, the envoy pressed arrogantly.
"Commander says tighten control to prevent repeats. Bring Red Wolf heads. No need to capture alive if resistant. More heads, bigger rewards."
Post-envoy, a tense staring contest ensued.
Step up first, draw attention—massive losses fighting Red Wolf, plus free mercs finger us as traitors.
Accept and miss top ten? License might smooth it, but failure...
Can't lead too much, can't lag too far!
Leoben watched silently.
Wrong move. Like this, we're worse than guard dogs. Better Trias's open competition. Damn! Need pretext to retreat...
The roughly 2,000 mid-tier mercs still encircled Red Wolf's building.
But the near-clash tension had eased. Even favorable opinion turned against them.
In this standoff, Trias reemerged.
He wore a cloak embroidered with the Red Wolf emblem, his officers too.
For pragmatic mercs shunning ostentation, it was a luxury only majors could flaunt.
That subtle edge now crushed oppressively.
Each step Trias took, opponents instinctively retreated. Realizing their cowardice, mid-tier captains flushed red.
"Leoben, for industry sake, last chance. Captain duel decides. We lose, we obey. You lose, fight for Poznyu's freedom."
"Ridiculous! Why forfeit our ten-to-one edge?"
"We'll field ten, you hundred. Fair now?"
"Tch!"
Leoben gnashed teeth. Open 10:100 slaughter? Victory would lose free merc respect.
Refuse opponent-proposed duel? Coward brand.
Options narrow, he ground out.
"Ten's enough for us."
Mercs lacked mana breathing, rarely hitting class 5. Duelists all class 4—experience gap minimal, mid-tiers competitive. Calculated choice.
And loss? Fine.
Cede initiative but gain legit retreat pretext. No loss. Wait, did he foresee even this?
Leoben's face stiffened briefly, then relaxed.
No... Trias isn't that cunning. I'm just rattled, overrating him.
He chuckled inwardly in disbelief.
Trias, seeing it play out as Calix scripted, shivered. He steadied his breath, calming excitement.
"One by one or all at once?"
"One by one."
"Good. Time short—noon tomorrow, central square. Forfeits anytime."
"Hmph! My line."