National Defense Reform (3)
A few days later, Kyle stood in front of the full-length mirror, dressed in the prototype officer's uniform that Yansen had delivered.
"Whoa..."
The heavy green fabric, the razor-sharp creases, the gleaming gold accents—it exuded an intimidating presence beyond his expectations. As he examined it from every angle, twisting and turning, the door opened and Ella entered.
"My lord, I brought your tea..."
Ella's footsteps halted abruptly. The teacup rattled for a moment in its saucer.
"..."
She stared up at him blankly, as if she'd forgotten to breathe. Instead of his usual noble attire, he wore this unfamiliar yet powerfully masculine uniform. Fiddling with the brim of his peaked cap, he asked,
"What do you think, Ella? Too stiff-looking?"
"Ah..."
Ella's face flushed crimson in an instant. She hurriedly averted her gaze, but her eyes kept flicking back up slyly.
"W-well... You look really handsome, my lord. It's different from the knights' armor... so captivating, I can't look away."
Unlike her usual tone, Ella's voice grew softer, trailing off. The uniform's unique sexiness and authority had struck her heart dead-on.
Success.
If even his closest maid reacted like this, the awe it would inspire in ordinary soldiers was a given. He glanced back and forth between his reflection and Ella standing behind him. Himself in ironclad uniform. The small, delicate girl in her maid outfit. The contrast felt especially stark.
"Thanks, Ella."
He gave a short reply and adjusted his peaked cap.
"This confirms it for me."
"Pardon...?"
"Nothing, just talking to myself."
Watching Ella leave with her empty tray, he murmured softly.
"I have someone I want to protect."
It was a corny line straight out of some recruitment poster, but in this moment, no words rang truer. To safeguard that ordinary, warm back, he needed to sharpen his blade even further. There would be no more hesitation. Now it was time to meet the protagonists worthy of this uniform.
"What the hell is this? Sudden assembly?"
"I got dragged here from guard duty without even a shift change."
"Damn, I haven't even slept off last night's booze..."
Fifty grizzled veterans from the territory guard and militia buzzed with complaints. Every one of them had faces like weathered boulders, marked by hard lives. The air reeked of leather, sweat, and stale booze—like a bandit den.
Thud, thud, thud.
Then, cutting through the rowdy voices of the roughnecks, unfamiliar, crisp footsteps echoed from the conference room entrance.
"What? Who...?"
Boris turned with a grumble, and his jaw dropped.
"...?!"
Not just Boris—Jack mid-chatter beside him, Theo dozing in the back—all fifty pairs of eyes locked onto the man at the door.
And in that instant, silence.
A hush like cold water poured over the room.
Deep forest-green attire. Razor-sharp lines hugging the body. Gold buttons and epaulets gleaming on chest and shoulders. Nothing like the baggy noble robes or clunky plate armor they'd seen before. Restrained yet ornate, elegant yet brutally imposing. An inexplicable coolness that stirred a man's instincts emanated from it.
"Whoa..."
Someone let out a dazed sigh.
"What the hell is that uniform?"
"That's the lord?"
The men's eyes wavered. Kyle took in their stares and slowly ascended the platform.
Crack, crack, crack.
With each step, the trouser cuffs snapped smartly, polished boots shining. At the podium, he slowly removed his peaked cap and tucked it under his arm. Then he swept his gaze over the fifty stunned faces staring up at him.
As his eyes met theirs, even these rough veterans unconsciously straightened up. Overwhelmed by the uniform's authority.
"Looks like everyone's here."
Even his voice seemed to carry more weight than usual. Jack in the front row muttered, entranced,
"L-Lord... that uniform... what is it? Knight commander's garb? You look insanely strong."
"Cool, right?"
A smirk at their shaken eyes drew an explosion of responses.
"Cool? It's beyond that—my blood's boiling!"
"Whoa... I wanna try one on."
"Wear that home, and the girls would line up!"
Exactly the reaction he'd expected. Men were simple creatures, after all. They couldn't resist something flashy and badass.
"Want to wear it?"
Grinning with satisfaction, he turned to the blackboard. He picked up the chalk and scrawled two bold letters.
OFFICER
"Then prove you're worthy."
He smacked the podium with his baton to grab their attention.
"I'm enrolling you in officer academy. Not some muddy recruit boot camp. This is where we forge real commanders who can bear the weight of this uniform."
The men's eyes changed. The 'why drag us here' looks from moments ago were gone—now they stared like they'd sell their souls for that slick uniform.
Military life was all about looking sharp, after all.
"Good. Don't forget that resolve."
Seeing their fiery eyes, he inwardly cheered. Hook, line, and sinker.
"Details on schedule and curriculum will come soon. Until then, get in shape. No gut's fitting into a proper uniform."
"Yes, sir!"
A thunderous reply erupted from the back. Their heads were probably already filled with visions of strutting home in green glory.
Heads hooked—now to check the leather for the bodies.
Without delay, he headed straight for Yansen's factory.
"My lord, the mass-produced field uniforms as ordered."
Yansen pointed glumly at the rack. He'd been all smiles for the officer prototype, but now he looked like he'd smelled rotten fish.
"Stock secured as reported?"
"Yes, my lord. Finished with all-nighters."
"Let's see."
He grabbed one from the rack and tried it on. The rough, sturdy canvas texture slid over him. Dull olive drab—perfect for rolling in forest mud without showing dirt. Buttoned up, it draped loosely. No tight tension like the dress uniform, but total freedom: swing arms, squat, no snags anywhere.
"Hmm."
In front of the mirror, he swung his arms wide, sat and stood repeatedly. No seam pops.
"Finishing's solid."
"Of course. Double-stitched every seam. Wouldn't rip if two oxen pulled from each side."
Yansen grumbled.
"But my lord, really making them wear this? It's like a goddamn rice sack—no shape at all..."
"This is high fashion, Yansen."
He patted the oversized hardtack pocket on the thigh.
"Magazines, grenades, rations, bandages, maps... Each pocket saves a soldier's life once."
He flipped the chest flap open and shut, grinning with satisfaction. No style. Crude and rough. But that's what made it beautiful. It wasn't clothing—it was a tool.
"...Excellent."
Hanging it back, he nodded approvingly.
"You bitch about the sack look, but the quality's imperial-grade. As expected from you, Yansen."
"I'll take that as a compliment. Though my aesthetic sense is screaming."
Yansen shrugged with a pout.
"Canvas for tents, muddy olive color... Honestly, they'll look like a beggar horde."
"Not beggars—a wolf pack."
Suddenly, he spotted a box amid the stacks and picked it up.
"Oh, and the most important bit."
Opening it revealed heavy black combat boots, rich leather scent wafting out.
"These are the real deal."
He probed the insole, pressing firmly. Memories from his past life flashed—cursed marches where his feet turned to rags. Blisters in stiff boots, bursting into agony. He wouldn't let his men lose combat effectiveness to footwear.
"Ankle-supporting cuffs, thick shock-absorbing insoles... These cost a pretty penny, huh?"
"Don't remind me. Leather prices in the territory are skyrocketing."
Yansen clicked his tongue.
"Honestly, do rank-and-file grunts need boots this pricey? Straw sandals or clogs would do..."
"Yansen."
Gripping the boot tightly, he growled low.
"Ever humped 20kg nonstop for ten hours?"
"Pardon? N-no. Why walk when there's carriages...?"
"Try it. Bad shoes mean soles peeling in an hour, cripple by five."
Yansen flinched at the chilling tone.
"Anyone who drops on march is dead weight, not combat power. Guns can rust—feet stay good. Got it?"
"Y-yes, understood. If you're that adamant... Explains betting your life on insole thickness."
Overawed by his unyielding philosophy—or obsession—Yansen nodded without further protest.
Inspection complete. Time to deliver to the owners who'd burn through this stock.
"Pull everything from storage. Load the wagons."
"R-right now? Over two thousand sets?"
"Yeah. Our recruits are naked out there."
At his command, factory workers sprang into action. Creak—thud! Dozens of cargo wagons lined up. Bundles of uniforms in wooden crates stacked neatly; heavy boot boxes loaded relentlessly.
In the distance, dust rose from the training grounds. Still a ragtag mob of serfs and tenant farmers. He could already imagine how their green eyes would sharpen the moment they donned these.