Militia

In a corner of the Militia training ground outside the Tunbao, which had been trampled and hardened, a silent figure stood quietly like a wooden stake driven into the ground.

The afternoon sun slanted down, outlining his slightly thin but ramrod straight spine.

He is Oliver, a man with an ordinary name, yet whose fate is closely intertwined with that of this newly established Tunbao.

Unlike the vast majority of new recruits on the training field who wore rough, patched homespun militia uniforms, Oliver was still wearing the faded, frayed uniform of the Carnford Main Corps veterans, with a few carefully mended but still visible patches.

Although the old military uniform was somewhat incongruous with his current identity as a "Militia Instructor," he stubbornly wore it, as if the uniform was his last connection with his past glory and his fallen comrades, and also a symbol of his dignity.

His attire made him stand out conspicuously, even somewhat jarringly, among the group of dusty and disheveled peasant soldiers.

Those familiar with Oliver's past know that, given his outstanding performance in the last devastating and historic Carnford Siege Battle and his experience as a seasoned veteran, he was fully qualified, and should have been, to remain in the rebuilt Main Corps.

More than one person has said that, given his military achievements and seniority, he could easily become a Platoon Leader leader.

In fact, several of his former comrades who performed worse than him have now been promoted in the main force and are wearing insignia that symbolize their Military Rank.

His former squad leader, William, had been promoted to company commander due to his military achievements and seniority, and was considered a promising figure in the newly formed Main Corps.

However, fate played a cruel joke on Oliver.

The Crossbow Bolt that pierced his knee in the final battle, though it didn't take his life, completely crippled his leg.

Now, Oliver's body leans uncontrollably to one side when he walks, and every step is accompanied by an undeniable limp.

This irreversible disability made him unable to meet the stringent physical requirements of the Main Corps, and unable to engage in long-distance raids, rapid charges, and intense hand-to-hand combat.

Under the Carnford Territory's generous Wounded Soldier Pension Regulations, Oliver could have received a substantial pension, been allocated a piece of land of his own, and lived a peaceful life away from the battlefield as a respected disabled veteran.

Many people, including his old sergeant William, who was promoted to company commander, advised him in this way.

But Oliver refused. He couldn't imagine himself dragging a crippled leg around, facing the fields every day, slowly decaying in memories and loneliness.

The army, the battlefield, the smoke of gunpowder, the bugle calls, and the shouts of comrades—these had long been ingrained in his blood.

He insisted on staying, even if he could no longer fight as a member of the elite unit.

Ultimately, it was thanks to the repeated pleas of Sergeant William and several comrades to their superiors, coupled with Oliver's own outstanding military achievements and high prestige in the army, that he was granted special permission to remain in the military, but his new role became the Militia Instructor of this Tunbao.

Oliver knew better than anyone the difference between being a veteran of the Main Corps and Militia Instructor, but he was already very satisfied.

At least, he can still stay in the familiar atmosphere of the military camp, still hear the footsteps of drills and the sounds of commands, and still do his part to protect this land that he won with his blood.

This is far better than letting him live out his remaining years in obscurity as a mere "disabled veteran."

At this moment, Oliver's sharp, even somewhat harsh, eyes were fixed intently on every movement of the three hundred newly recruited militiamen on the training field.

The defenses of this Tunbao were quite rudimentary, consisting of only a thin earthen wall, barely taller than a person, beyond which stretched an endless expanse of newly reclaimed fields.

The so-called training ground is just a relatively flat open space outside the fence.

At this moment, a few family members and curious children had gathered sparsely around the training field, pointing and chattering as if they were watching a grand spectacle that had nothing to do with them.

Oliver frowned, but he couldn't care less; all his attention was on the greenhorns.

On the playground, the drumbeats beat out monotonously and stubbornly.

Three hundred militiamen were forced into six ranks, in a formation that followed the standard Drill Manual promoted by the Carnford Army.

In the center were one hundred spearmen wielding long spears, arranged in a slightly thicker line; on each flank were sixty Musketeers, serving as ranged attack force; and behind the Musketeers phalanx were fifty spearmen on each side.

Their duty is to quickly move forward to fill the gaps and extend the line of fire and defensive depth during the vulnerable moments when the Musketeers have finished firing and need to reload.

As required by the Drill Manual, a gap of several meters was left between the spear formation and the musket formation to facilitate maneuverability.

At first, following the drumbeats and the occasional trombone sounds used to adjust the formation, the team was able to barely maintain a basic formation as they moved forward. Although their steps were messy and their movements were stiff, at least they could still make out a general outline.

However, when the instructors simulated Musketeers firing a volley and needed to retreat to reload, ordering the pikemen in the rear to quickly move forward to take over the defensive line, chaos inevitably broke out.

"Quick! Pikemen, push forward! Musketeers, retreat! Quickly!" the Assistant Instructor in charge of the scene shouted hoarsely.

But the recruits immediately descended into chaos. Musketeers retreating and spearmen pushing forward collided, some fell, some cursed, and the ranks instantly twisted and crumbled, like a calm lake tossed with pebbles.

The scheduled rotation time had long passed, but the formation remained a complete mess.

The surrounding family members burst into laughter, and the screams of children and the chatter of women mingled together, making the training ground as noisy as a marketplace.

Oliver's face was so dark it could drip water. He stopped watching and, supporting himself on his weak, lame leg, limped quickly and strangely into the chaotic crowd.

He refused to use his cane, which he saw as a sign of weakness; the smooth yet hard Command Baton in his hand became an extension of his anger.

"Idiots! You bunch of brainless idiots!" Oliver's roar drowned out the noise. His Command Baton lashed mercilessly across the backs and legs of some particularly sluggish or obviously panicked militiamen, making crisp "smack, smack" sounds.

"Left! You spearman on the left, are your eyes on your ass? Where are you pushing? Musketeers on the right, your retreat route! What did you learn from the Drill Manual? Did it get eaten by a dog?!"