A Fucked-Up Day in the North (5)
After meeting with the Ludwin Court Count, he returned straight to his office. Slouching into the plush chair, Estiang mulled it over.
The Founding Festival. Honestly, he could barely remember the romance novel plot his sister had raved about anymore. Twenty years since reincarnating—expecting him to recall every trivial detail would be superhuman. That'd make him a supercomputer, not a person. He'd only skimmed it to tease her anyway, not reading every word cover to cover. But he vaguely recalled the Founding Festival being a key early event. The original heroine appears, gets entangled with the male leads. And of course, the indispensable villainess lady shows up to stir up some chaos.
"Not like I have any reason to go there myself."
He muttered, practically reclining in the chair. What was there to see in the capital that warranted leaving his territory? Who'd handle things if shit hit the fan while he was gone? Who could've predicted a horde of thirty ogres, skipping hibernation and rampaging like mad?
Ogres were no joke. Bipedal, elephant-sized brutes that knew how to use their hands and always craved human flesh. Ugh, horrifying. Sure, as a Sword Master, he could slice through thirty no problem. But to regular folk? Pure disaster.
Last winter, fifteen had swarmed—not thirty, but still.
Anyway, he stared at the documents he'd been reviewing earlier, lost in thought.
What had his sister gone on about? "That's not the important part anyway."
"Why? Can the grand duke just up and leave his territory? That's insanely risky, sis. Even Lionheart Richard vacated his lands once, and a rebellion broke out—he got shot with an arrow and keeled over while suppressing it."
"People read for the romance between the heroine and male leads. You gotta deliver the love story first. Everything else is secondary—secondary!"
He remembered now. She'd definitely called it secondary.
Back then, he'd just nodded along. Made sense to him too. Imagine craving tteokbokki, only for the owner to shove fermented skate on you. Even if their house version with black mountain skate was killer, you'd bail. Same logic. If the leads' flirting and romance was the draw, focus there.
But.
"This is reality."
He grumbled, picking up the papers before him. Novels could sacrifice plausibility for bigger priorities. If romance was priority one, nitpicky territory management got bumped way down the list.
But now that he was the reality? Different story. No fourth-wall readers clamoring for his love life, so romance dropped to secondary. Instead, as the Northern Grand Duke wielding unique judicial, military, and administrative authority...
He bore the responsibility of ruling the Berg Grand Duchy and holding back the monsters beyond the Great Wall. Handling all those plot-convenience skips too.
"No early night for me today, huh."
He shrugged, grabbing a quill to sign.
Enlisting in the Berg Grand Duchy army wasn't a bad choice. Steady pay, plus gear provided. Even mercenaries had to outfit themselves—that alone made it solid. Sure, you risked your life fighting monsters, but this was the harsh North anyway. If you're betting your neck regardless, better the army than solo hunting or mana stone mining. Plenty signed up.
And lately, the Berg army had changes. Bows—essential for Northerners, the go-to weapon for wall defenders mowing down monster hordes. The shift was in those bows.
"This is insane. What the hell's with the draw strength? Three or four shots in a row and my shoulder's toast."
"But the power's brutal, right? Night and day from my hunter bow. This'll punch through troll hide in one shot."
Soldiers clustered, chatting about their new issue bows. Massive yew longbows, nearly man-height, as unwieldy as their size suggested. Even tough Northerners struggled.
"Pull to eighty pounds? I'll drop after a few. Gotta lean into it somehow."
"Knights mentioned that. Some staff officer dude said classify the troops."
"Classify how?"
"Give longbows to the ones who handle 'em well. Weaklings get crossbows instead."
"Crossbows? Those artifacts from His Highness?"
"Nah, those are magic-reinforced, limited stock. Just regular crossbows."
"Makes sense. Artifacts ain't cheap."
The soldiers nodded. Specialization in action. Bows were Northern basics, but skill varied wildly. With differing proficiency and physiques, efficiency demanded sorting: longbowmen and crossbowmen.
Estiang was already implementing it. Routine staff meeting.
"From now on, standardize issued bows to two types: longbows and crossbows. Longbows to those skilled enough; crossbows to the rest."
He addressed his officers, who blinked at him. Estiang's reforms were routine now. But the reactions never changed.
As if on cue, he added, "Questions? Speak freely."
"Your Highness, we grasp the logistics benefits. But operations-wise?"
"Good question."
Estiang smiled. "For simplicity, call them longbowmen and crossbowmen. Dividing like this lets them cover each other's weaknesses."
"Weaknesses, sire?"
"Crossbows reload mechanically. Longbows? Nock, draw, loose. Get the difference?"
"Crossbows lag on reloads post-shot; skilled longbowmen loose over ten per minute. That it?"
"Spot on. Longbows lack crossbow penetration but excel in rate of fire. Crossbows punch through trolls or ogres—headshots guaranteed—but reload slow. Perfect complements."
"Operations might need tweaking, but longbowmen form arrow storms on approach, then pick off wall-clingers with direct fire."
Estiang nodded. They knew it intuitively from experience. He was just systematizing it. Plus, as a former history buff...
Medieval Europe's top ranged: English longbowmen and Genoese crossbowmen. He knew how longbowmen sniped French knights' horses at Agincourt, dooming them in the mud. How Genoese crossbowmen with pavises shone in the Crusades.
With Berg's wall-defense strategy? Ideal combo.
"Workshops are set: uniform longbows, arrows, crossbow parts. Easier command—no more mismatched ranges."
"As expected of Your Highness!"
The generals exclaimed. Not revolutionary, just practical efficiency. But Estiang nailed the details. Veterans' eyes sparkled.
'Could His Highness be...!'
'What elite army is he forging?'
'The throne...? No, his loyalty's ironclad. But succession isn't impossible...'
'With this army, we could smash through the Wall, wipe out those orc bastards beyond the mountains!'
Thoughts varied. But they saw the real impact. Desk-jockey theory? No—battlefield game-changer.
"We pledge our lives to serve Your Highness!"
"Long live the Grand Duke!"
"For the Grand Duchy! For the Grand Duke!"
Eyes gleaming, they roared.
Estiang's vision: not just strong, but peerlessly elite. A precision machine, slaughtering foes with mechanical efficiency. For lifelong soldiers? Heart-pounding stuff. Their fervor made sense.
But to Estiang, hearing these graybeards hype like kids with new toys...
"...?"
His confusion was plain. Roena, watching silently from behind, smiled faintly.