Interlude

Karl heard the noise and quickly hurried over.

He saw several soldiers gathered around, with one person in the middle sitting on the ground in pain, clutching his left foot tightly with both hands, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

"What's going on?" Karl asked, parting the crowd.

A soldier quickly replied, "My lord, it's Roderick! He slipped while helping to clear the last batch of logs, and a log rolled down and hit his foot!"

Karl squatted down. The military doctor, who had some medical knowledge, had already removed the boots of the soldier named Roderick.

His ankle was visibly swollen, and his skin had an abnormal bluish-purple hue.

The military doctor gently pressed a few times, and Roderick gasped in pain.

"My lord," the doctor said, looking up with a grave expression, "it looks like his bone might be cracked. Even if it's not, the sprain is very serious. He definitely won't be able to walk and will have to be carried on a stretcher."

Hearing this, Roderick ignored the pain, his face instantly drained of color. He struggled to look at Karl, his voice filled with panic and pleading, "My lord! No! I... I can endure it! Don't carry me on a stretcher! It will slow down everyone's march! I... I can still walk!"

He tried to stand up but was in so much pain he almost fainted. Becoming a burden during the march in the Northern Border could have extremely severe consequences.

Karl looked at his pale, anxious face and was silent for a moment.

Carrying him on a stretcher would undoubtedly slow down the entire group significantly and increase the risks, but abandoning an injured soldier was something he absolutely could not accept.

Suddenly, he made a decision.

"You don't have to walk, and you don't need a stretcher," Karl's voice was calm but carried an undeniable power. "You can ride my horse."

"What?" Roderick's head shot up, looking at Karl in disbelief, almost thinking he had misheard. The surrounding soldiers were also stunned.

"My lord! How can that be!" Roderick reacted, waving his hands frantically. "That's your mount! How could I..."

Karl interrupted him, saying seriously, "Do you intend to disobey your lord's orders, soldier!"

Roderick was immediately speechless, instinctively straightening his body. "No... I wouldn't dare!"

"Then it's settled," Karl's tone softened. "What's your name? Your full name."

"Ro... Roderick, my lord, Roderick Steadfast," the soldier's voice trembled slightly.

"Alright, Roderick Steadfast," Karl solemnly called out his full name. "I now order you to ride my horse until your foot injury improves."

Soon, with the careful assistance of a few comrades, Roderick, feeling anxious yet incredibly grateful, sat on Karl's gentle-looking travel horse.

Roderick was originally a farmer. He had joined the militia because his mother was seriously ill and urgently needed money. This was the first time in his life he had ridden a horse.

He clumsily held the reins, feeling as if he were dreaming.

The surrounding soldiers watched this scene, their eyes filled with admiration and emotion.

They were no longer surprised by their lord's actions, only feeling that following such a lord, who truly loved his soldiers like his own children, was their greatest fortune.

Karl patted the horse's neck and smiled at the uneasy Roderick. "Hold on tight, don't fall off. This horse is very gentle."

After dealing with this small incident, Karl's gaze swept across the entire assembly. The troops were completely ready.

He took a deep breath of the cold air and waved his arm forward:

"Move out!"

The long procession set off again, like a tenacious stream, slowly merging into the desolate and dangerous wilderness of the Northern Border.

Brendan and Roland wanted to offer their horses to Karl, but he declined.

Karl walked in the middle of the procession, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

On his horse's back, he carried an ordinary soldier, but this did not diminish his authority. Instead, it added a unique leadership quality.

The procession marched silently for several hours across the desolate Northern Border wasteland. Apart from the sound of the wind and the rustling of footsteps, there was dead silence all around, but this silence made their hearts feel even more oppressed.

Brendan rode back from his scouting position ahead. He dismounted nimbly and approached Karl, who was walking on foot. The old knight's face held a hint of barely perceptible solemnity.

"My lord, I found no anomalies within the visible range ahead. The terrain is relatively open, not conducive to large-scale ambushes," Brendan reported. However, he then lowered his voice, his brow furrowed. "But... I have a bad feeling, as if something is watching us from the shadows. It's been happening for the last half hour, like a prickling sensation on my back."

Almost the moment Brendan finished speaking, a cold system prompt sounded in Karl's mind:

[Daily Quest Updated]

[Quest Content]: Establish camp and construct stable defensive fortifications. (Incomplete)

Karl's heart tightened. Brendan's intuition and the system quest pointed in the same direction—danger was approaching, and they had to stop advancing!

He immediately made a decision, looking up to order Brendan and the surrounding officers: "Brendan's feeling is not wrong. In that case, we'll travel a shorter distance today and set up camp early! Order the troops to halt, find a suitable location on the spot, and construct the camp according to yesterday's defensive standards!"

The order was quickly relayed, and the long procession slowly came to a halt.

Although the soldiers and slaves were somewhat confused about setting up camp early, no one questioned the lord's decision.

With yesterday's experience, coupled with the on-site command of Old Morrell and a few craftsmen, the construction of the camp was faster and more standardized than yesterday.

The trenches were dug deeper, the earthworks were compacted more firmly, and the palisades were erected more densely.

This time, Karl specifically improved the management system for the slaves.

He divided the two hundred and seventy male slaves into nine large teams, with thirty people per team, and decided to personally select temporary managers.

He walked into the group of slaves who were vigorously chopping wood.

His gaze swept over them and quickly locked onto a middle-aged slave who, despite being thin, was agile, always worked diligently, and occasionally reminded those around him.

Karl pointed at him. "You, come out."

The slave's body stiffened violently, his face instantly drained of color, his eyes filled with immense fear.

In his experience, being singled out by the lord never meant anything good; it usually meant a beating, punishment, or even death.

He trembled, and was almost pushed forward by his companions until he stood before Karl. He bowed his head deeply, preparing to face his misfortune.

However, Karl's voice was unexpectedly calm, even carrying a hint of encouragement. "Lift your head. You work diligently and know how to cooperate. What's your name?"

Otto looked up blankly, stammering in response, "L-lord... my name is... is Otto..."

"Good, Otto," Karl nodded. "From today on, you are the slave captain of your team. You no longer need to do heavy manual labor. Your responsibility is to command and supervise these thirty people in completing their assigned tasks. Your daily ration will increase to two bowls of Black Rye Porridge."

Otto was completely stunned, his eyes wide open as if he had heard the most incredible thing in the world.