Viscount Rebion (3)

Inside the barracks of the Farrow territory.

Currently, about five hundred soldiers were stationed at the barracks in the Farrow domain.

A few months ago, the previous lord had led the troops out to subjugate barbarians, resulting in heavy casualties. The subsequent barbarian incursion deep into the territory had only compounded the damage.

Although the Farrow domain was currently planning to expand its military force to two thousand, they had not even reached half of that goal.

While the territory was developing in its own way, it was still meager, and the soldiers lived in quarters that were little better than shacks.

It was only recently that they had even been allowed to commute from home.

Securing housing in the barony's town was a daunting expense for the average soldier, so a significant number of them still lived on-site.

At the moment, military discipline had completely collapsed.

Helmets and armor were hung haphazardly all over the barracks, while spears and swords rolled around on the dirt floor.

Although their armaments were in the process of being replaced with new ones, they had deliberately ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brought out outdated armor and weapons from a generation ago.

Bowstrings were left unstrung, rendered entirely useless.

Soldiers clad only in undershirts and shorts were gathered in various spots, running gambling rings.

The stakes were particularly high at the tables where the knights joined in. The air was thick with boisterous shouting, and alcohol was flowing freely.

Even if it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was just a disguise, they acted this way because they considered themselves on a collective holiday.

If we were actually like this, the territory would ruin itself in no time.

Sir Garcia had doubted the order when it was first handed down.

"My Lord... perhaps I am misunderstanding because I've been overworking lately? Are you telling me to make our soldiers look like a complete rabble?"

"Exactly, Sir Garcia. Viscount Rebion is currently inspecting our territory. That greedy pig will wage a territory war against us sooner or later, so consider this preparation for that day."

That had been Sir Jenald's explanation.

Since the command had already come down from the lord, the temporary Knight Commander, Sir James, was also hosting a gambling table to carry out the orders.

The knights and soldiers understood the premise.

They were to appear as an incompetent military to prepare for the moment Viscount Rebion invaded the Farrow territory.

Drinking and gambling in the barracks was the ultimate sign of a military spiraling into ruin.

Though they were putting on a show, they drew the line at bringing women into the barracks.

Sir Garcia let his natural instincts run wild.

"Aha! Bet more, bet more!"

"Wait, Sir Garcia! I think I just saw you hide a card in your sleeve. Did my eyes deceive me?"

"What did you say, you bastard? How dare you suspect a knight!"

"Sleight of hand at a gambling table is unacceptable! Are you truly someone who learned chivalry?"

"You miserable wretch!"

Crash!

Garcia flipped the gambling table over.

He immediately ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lunged at the soldiers, starting a brawl.

Since they had selected veteran soldiers to carry out this operation, the men taking hits from Sir Garcia weren't seriously injured.

Garcia was holding back his strength as well.

Tumbling around with the soldiers, Garcia whispered with a sigh.

"Hey, is this really the plan?"

"Hehe, it suits you perfectly, Sir Garcia. When else would we get to play around in the barracks like this? Just enjoy it. He said it's a holiday, didn't he?"

Even Sir James was encouraging the rigged gambling, and as the fight broke out, utter chaos ensued.

Wine bottles shattered, spraying glass, and gambling tables were smashed to splinters.

Coins scattered in all directions.

Soldiers scrambled to pick them up, perfectly executing the image of a ruined barracks.

Everything happening now was being watched by Viscount Rebion from afar. Viscount Rebion's men, disguised as commoners, were also observed watching from various vantage points.

The Farrow soldiers noticed their gaze and acted even wilder.

When they first discussed this plan, some of the knights had worried. They wondered what they would do if the soldiers actually became undisciplined and corrupt.

However, Jeron had dismissed their concerns with a single sentence.

"Such weak-willed men have no right to be our soldiers. Besides, our soldiers are guaranteed to commute. I believe the likelihood of that happening is low."

Discipline could always be restored later.

Sir Garcia finished his brawl, laughed heartily, and set up the gambling table once more.

"Come on, you bastards! Bring it on!"

On the hill overlooking the barracks.

Viscount Rebion could not believe his eyes as he watched the scene unfold.

"Is that truly a barracks?"

"It... it appears to be so, Your Grace."

"I can turn a blind eye to secret gambling, but to drink so openly... Is that a military camp or a den of thugs?"

"Could it be a staged performance?"

"Staged? Does that look staged to you?"

It was an absolute circus.

The state of the barracks was abysmal.

He had heard the territory was poor, but the shacks the soldiers used were no different from a slum.

Their weapons were worn, and they gambled with practiced ease.

If they brought in women, the depravity would be complete.

They couldn't have reached this state in just a day or two. This atmosphere must have persisted for a long time, and the lord clearly paid no attention to the military.

Of course, there were suspicious points.

What if, as Sir Asti suggested, Jeron Farrow had deliberately loosened discipline with a territory war in mind?

But he dismissed it as an overinterpretation.

It made no sense to prepare for a territory war when they had just pledged friendship.

Seeing this, Viscount Rebion's greed flared even higher.

The territory seemed to be developing, but the lord was only interested in internal affairs and had neglected the military.

Perhaps he was so focused on domestic development that he simply lacked the bandwidth to care about the barracks.

In that case, there is no reason not to swallow them whole.

His greed pushed all suspicion aside.

"We must sign the contract."

"Pardon?! Do you mean to hand over the land and the slaves?"

"What of it? It will all fall into my hands eventually anyway. Even if it doesn't, it won't be a loss. If I receive that legendary liquor, it will bring me great political benefit."

"Is that wine truly that valuable?"

"Do you dare doubt my judgment?"

"N-no, of course not. I misspoke."

Viscount Rebion laughed off his adjutant's mistake.

He turned his gaze away from the barracks.

He had hesitated to make a decision until now, but this made everything clear.

***

The terrace of Jeron's office in the lord's castle.

There was always a bigger fish. Jeron was watching Viscount Rebion peer down at the barracks through a telescope.

Viscount Rebion was conversing with his adjutant, and even without hearing them, Jeron could guess what they were saying.

It would be stranger not to realize the Viscount's intentions when he looked that pleased.

Jeron turned his telescope toward the barracks.

The scene there was truly spectacular.

Everyone was shouting in drunken revelry, fully committed to their gambling, perfectly portraying a ruined military.

Especially his adjutant, Sir Garcia.

"He's a natural. If he hadn't become a knight, he would have been a useless playboy."

"I agree. Sir Garcia's playboy tendencies are known throughout the territory."

Sir Leila trembled, clenching her fists as she watched Garcia.

They did not get along well.

Sir Leila had once chased down and thoroughly thrashed Garcia for breaking the hearts of the territory's maidens.

"But he's a devil with a sword, isn't he?"

"If he couldn't even do that, he should surrender his knighthood."

Though Sir Garcia caused a lot of trouble, he was still a knight.

He was peerless in close combat, which was why many of his antics were overlooked.

Knock, knock.

About thirty minutes later, while the soldiers were still enjoying their pleasant holiday at the barracks, Viscount Rebion arrived.

"Ah, Viscount Rebion. What brings you here?"

"My brother! No matter how much I think about it, nothing is more important than our friendship. This older brother of yours will show some generosity! Let us sign the contract immediately."

"Is that true?"

"As you said, settling the past is important. And what are a thousand slaves when it comes to cementing our brotherhood?"

"You are truly... wise, brother!"

"Hahaha! Where is the contract?"

Jeron felt goosebumps rise all over his body.

What a flawless change of attitude.

It seemed this greedy Viscount Rebion was indeed a noble. Anyone who didn't know better would think he was a warm, generous older brother.

Both Jeron and Viscount Rebion fell silent for a moment before the contract.

No noble living in this era could ignore the weight of a contract.

Once signed, it was absolute.

Once notarized, it held binding authority, and any breach would result in state-level sanctions.

Thus, the contract had to be examined thoroughly.

Jeron had drafted this himself.

Here, the wording of the contract proved its utility, specifically the adjective 'healthy' placed before 'slaves.' He had also locked in the timeframe.

Any unhealthy slaves could be sent back and exchanged.

The absolute nature of contracts is a rather convenient system.

Breaking a contract would ruin one's political standing.

Therefore, even if the Rebion family tried to pull something later, they would have to do it through a territory war. They could not contest the contract itself.

Both parties signed and stamped the document with their family seals.

Viscount Rebion burst into laughter as he looked at the completed contract.

"Hahaha! What a joyous day! How can we lack wine on a day like this? This older brother of yours has prepared some fine wine, so let us have a drink."

"Excellent! I do not usually drink to excess, but today shall be an exception."

***

It was not until the next morning that Viscount Rebion returned to his own territory.

He made a grand show of intimacy to Jeron, who came out to see him off, and Jeron played along appropriately.

Viscount Rebion boarded his carriage and disappeared into the distance.

Congratulations poured in from all sides.

"Congratulations, My Lord! We have finally reclaimed the Ravilla Plains!"

"To recover our ancestral land... this is truly a joyous day."

Even the eyes of the strict, by-the-book veteran knight, Sir Jenald, grew misty.

The Ravilla Plains had returned to the Farrow family after a hundred and fifty years.

However, Jeron had no intention of stopping here.

"Three months. I guarantee a territory war will break out within that time. Once ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it is over, our territory's population and land will be much larger. This means you all will receive fiefs of your own, not just manors."

The knights' eyes shone, and the same went for the soldiers.

If Jeron won the territory war, he could secure promotions through Duke Langton and expand the knighthood.

It would be an opportunity for lifelong soldiers to receive knighthoods.

Of course, the kingdom's internal politics remained a variable, but considering the sluggish nature of this era, the likelihood of a territory war occurring was extremely high.

"Now, we just cast the bait and wait."