War Preparations
In the military camp of Binvelt, a logistics headquarters had been established. Supply soldiers bustled in and out of the newly erected logistics tent without a moment's rest. Inside the tent, shrouded by leather flaps, dozens of ledgers and charts were piled high, and Beltran scanned the documents with a sharp gaze.
"We've confirmed five mercenary companies so far. Total personnel: 327. The largest group is the 'Black Eyes' with 133 men. The rest are small independent mercenaries mixed in with unaffiliated wanderers."
"Fuck, what the hell is all this bullshit?" Bill grumbled, ruffling his hair. Mercenaries were arriving every damn day. On top of that, grain, fodder, weapons, arrows, and other supplies kept pouring in. Dozens of warhorses, cart horses, and mules had shown up too, forcing them to build temporary stables. They were short on supply troops, so they'd pulled eight more from the tribesmen and infantry. Still, it was tight.
"War preparations, my ass. This is fucking insane, straight-up insane." Bill muttered irritably before glancing at Beltran. "Hey, kid. Send back all those corn sacks that arrived yesterday. More than half are worm-eaten. And the salted meat with all the fat—send that back too."
"I'll pass it on to the transport troops."
"Tell that dwarf shitbag Benders, the mayor, loud and clear: if he doesn't properly punish those cheating merchant fuckers, the young master—no, the lord—will hold him accountable for sure."
"Pardon? The lord never said anything like that."
"Fuck, don't you have any common sense? Whether the lord said it or not, that's what you gotta say to make sure these assholes don't pull this shit again."
Bill glared. "Ah, got it. Understood."
Beltran nodded reluctantly. "Smart kid like you, but sometimes you're just dense. What about the firewood, cauldrons, and ironware?"
"All good. The issues are flour and hay."
"When did we send the payment, and it's still not here?"
"Seems delayed by the blizzard."
"Fucking hell. Housing?"
"We set up temporary tents on the eastern outskirts yesterday, but it's still short. With the cold worsening, tents alone risk frostbite. And we're low on hides too."
"Patch it with straw piles for now. Tell anyone with complaints to come to me. That noble prick got no issues?"
"Seems satisfied with the huts built by the tribesmen for now."
"Good. We got enough shit for evicting the villagers."
"……."
Beltran nodded silently. The noble Bill meant was Bruno, the eldest son of Vühtner—Beltran's brother—and the soldiers he'd brought. They burned with vengeance against Boatmer and had come to join Binvelt of their own accord. They seemed deeply impressed by how Isaac had routed Boatmer's four hundred and forced two thousand to retreat. Naturally, Beltran was on Bruno's revenge list too. To Bruno, his little brother Beltran was the family traitor who'd killed their father and claimed the barony himself. Fortunately—or unfortunately—they didn't know the traitor was working in this very logistics HQ.
"……Oh, and the tribesmen want to help with supplies. What should we do?" Beltran changed the subject.
"Fine. We need every hand. Pay 'em in grain and firewood for labor. What now?" Bill glared at the supply soldier entering the HQ.
"Supply wagons have arrived."
"Again? Fuck. No breathing room. Kid."
"Yes, on it."
Bill grumbled as he left the tent, Beltran following behind. The camp buzzed with activity. In the central clearing, sparring was in full swing.
"Bessimer! Bessimer! Bessimer!"
Bessimer had just laid out another mercenary captain. "Fucking festival for these idle bastards. Some of us are busting our asses."
Bill spat on the ground as he watched the cheering soldiers, then headed straight for the wagons waiting outside the camp. Supply troops were already hauling crates between the wagons and the storage sheds.
"Hey, you fuck! Why the hell you taking that over there? Potatoes are food, asshole. Why to the weapons depot?!"
"The food storage is full……."
"Then build a new one! We got plenty of land here, shit. Check all weapons and send any problems to the smiths!"
Clang clang clang—
"Argh, fuck."
They were sorting the latest arrivals when the sound of pots and ladles clanging echoed through the camp. It was dinnertime. Normally, Bill wouldn't bat an eye, but with the mercenaries swelling their numbers several times over—especially on the eve of war—it was different.
"Kid!"
"Yes."
"You handle ration distribution. Let the wanderers use the main camp mess. Set up a separate one for the mercenary companies—and assign overseers, don't just dump 'em."
"Understood."
Beltran pulled his hood low and wrapped a cloth over his lower face. The cold weather meant no one gave him a second glance.
"Pour in the bone broth, one barrel of onions only! When're the potatoes and carrots ready?"
The kitchen area boiled with massive cauldrons. Cooks hustled, prepping veggies and meat. For these men facing war in the biting cold, hot soup was comfort—and key to overlooking minor gripes.
"Rations by exact quota. 'Hook' Company: 41 total. One pot—21 salted meats, 21 bread loaves. 'Black Eyes' Company: 133 total……."
Beltran barked orders amid the frenzy. He only got to taste the soup himself after most mercenaries had eaten.
"Finally picking up a spoon?"
"Recruiter."
"Just call me Gunther."
Gunther sat by Beltran near the bonfire. The central clearing still rang with sparring clashes.
"Outta the way, you lot!" Bill bellowed, shoving through the crowd of soldiers and mercenaries.
"What's the logistics chief like?" Beltran asked, spooning cold soup. The long-simmered broth had a decent depth, though it carried a burnt edge too. Beltran used to be picky, but hunger was the best spice—he ate it fine now.
"Bill, you mean?"
"Yeah. Why's he working so hard? Doesn't seem the diligent type."
"You think so too?" Gunther chuckled.
"Anyone would. He siphons supplies for tribeswomen sometimes, and no one calls him out."
"The lord lets that slide. Guy's under a curse, actually."
"A curse?"
"Lord put it on him, they say. Harm Goethe or the lord, and your life's gone in a flash."
"Magic?"
"Heard it's a magic contract, but details? No clue."
Beltran tilted his head at Gunther's answer. The lord's unique constitution supposedly prevented magic use. Even if he could, such a potent curse wouldn't be a mere contract.
"Logistics must be hectic."
"Days blur by. Eyes open—sun's up. Blink—sun's down."
The lord had sold treasures from the Papacy in Bernsi, contracting reliable mercenaries through the market. Funds were ample. Not just treasures—he'd ransomed captured nobles from the Rutger war for hefty sums. They'd haggled high; freed prisoners and kin spat curses as they left.
"Times like these, no choice."
"Odds of winning? Heard Boatmer's got five thousand."
"Like I said before. Don't know details. Just trust the lord."
"……."
Gunther showed unwavering faith in his lord. Most Binvelt soldiers probably felt the same. Beltran couldn't quite grasp it—lives on the line, and they acted so casual. At least he was on rear-echelon logistics, no frontline for him.
"Finally out."
Gunther, mid-bite of bread, glanced at the clearing. "Ah."
Stepping into the central clearing was Bruno—Beltran's brother. A raven with spread wings before a shield emblazoned his tunic's chest: the Vühtner crest. Opposite him stood Enet. Beltran could only set down his bowl. Even spotting his brother from afar made him want to hurl everything he'd eaten.
"Vühtner's eldest, they say. Out for revenge. Claims the second son plotted rebellion, killed their dad, allied with Boatmer. Says the current Vühtner baron's a traitor, and he's the true heir."
Gunther said. "Why keep sparring……?"
"Morale boost. Show off strength too. Tells 'em: this is our power, shut up and follow orders."
"……Isn't Goethe unable to use magic on people?"
"Precisely, that ban's on Count Goethe himself. He's one of the continent's rare 5th Class Mages. And we're not Goethe—we're Binvelt."
Whoosh! Whoosh whoosh!
Fireballs collided between Bruno and Enet, briefly lighting the surroundings. Soldiers cheered wildly.
"Kill him!"
"Burn him to ash!"
Their magic duel was evenly matched—almost rehearsed. Casting speeds nearly identical. Bruno's face twisted more with each exchange. Sparring toe-to-toe with an academy dropout from no family clearly bruised his pride.
"Belon."
"……."
"Belon."
"Ah, yes."
Beltran belatedly recalled his alias. Gunther's eyes flashed coldly.
"Something you did to Vühtner?"
"……Pardon? Ah."
Beltran realized he'd exposed his face—the cloth loosened for eating. A knight approached slowly, eyes locked on him. Surcoat bore the raven crest. A brutal-faced knight with a torn ear.
"……Hagen."
Beltran's breath caught. His father's loyal knight—still Vühtner's.
"Never thought you'd be here, little young master. Or should I say, traitor."
"What're you— This man's Binvelt's sup— Gahk!"
Before Gunther finished, Hagen's gauntlet smashed his jaw. Veteran tribesman or not, without aura, he was no match for a knight. Gunther rolled across the ground.
"Get up. If not for young master Bruno, you'd be dead here."
Hagen said. Jeers rose from the crowd around the clearing. Bruno and Enet's duel ended in a draw. Bruno, scowling fiercely, turned to Hagen—then Beltran. In that instant, Beltran vomited. Murderous mana crushed him. Bruno advanced slowly, deliberately. Rage-fueled mana tightened around Beltran's heart, ever stronger. Despite equal—or superior—mana of his own, Beltran couldn't resist. Guilt and loss dominated his mind. Vision blackened.
"Kill him."
Bruno's—his brother's—voice pierced like an awl. Chills ran down his spine. Dense killing intent vibrated the ambient mana. Shing—The clear sound of Hagen drawing steel. Inevitable death loomed. But clang—Swords clashed, and the crushing mana dispersed. Beltran staggered, refocusing his blurred sight.
"What business you got with our rice bowl guy?"
"……Isaac."
Beltran groaned. Isaac's sword had parried Hagen's—then casually flicked it away. A simple strike, yet Hagen stumbled back several paces.
"What the fuck is this?! He's the family traitor who killed his father—a rebel!"
Hagen roared.
"Baron of Binvelt. Family matter. No place for you."
Bruno glared savagely at Isaac too.
"You see it?"
Isaac asked, picking his ear. "……See what."
Bruno gritted his teeth.
"Did you see it with your own eyes? This guy doing it."