Glorious Mission
In the early morning, the mist had not yet completely dissipated over the Carnford Plain, and the air was crisp and fresh.
On the training field, shouts and synchronized footsteps had already broken the silence.
Oliver stood like a statue on the high platform in the center of the training field, his posture ramrod straight, although a slight stiffness could still be seen in his left leg when he stood.
He held a smooth, hardwood Command Baton in his hand, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, scanning the neatly lined-up, silent militia company below the stage.
Most of these soldiers were former refugees who had settled in Carnford. For a stable ration, a meager salary, and a chance to win battles that might change their fate, they donned the uniform dark blue uniforms and took up arms.
Their faces still bore the simplicity of farmers, but their eyes held a newfound obedience and perseverance honed by rigorous training.
Oliver had just received clear orders that, thanks to his diligent training, his Militia Camp had distinguished itself among the three Tunbao, and that this best-trained Militia Camp under his command would undertake a crucial and glorious task in the upcoming "Summer Purge" operation: protecting the massive logistical supply convoy.
His superiors ordered him to select one of the most elite companies from the battalion to accompany the army on the expedition.
For him, this was not just a mission, but also an opportunity to fulfill a dream.
His old knee injury prevented him from charging into battle and capturing enemy flags as he once did, but being able to step back onto the battlefield and personally command a unit, even if it was just to be responsible for the relatively "safe" rear guard, was enough to ignite the long-dormant fighting spirit in his heart.
"Listen up, all of you!" Oliver's voice was loud and hoarse, carrying an unquestionable authority that clearly reached the ears of every soldier.
"Today's training: a 10-kilometer full-armor, weighted march! Route: from the training ground to the Artisan River, run back and forth twice! Upon returning, immediately conduct formation switching training for two hours! Finally, individual martial arts sparring for one hour! That's all for the morning; there are other plans for the afternoon! Understand?"
As soon as the command was given, a chorus of suppressed, low sighs and gasps filled the ranks.
Ten kilometers round trip to the Artisan River with heavy equipment? That means running more than twenty kilometers on rugged roads while carrying dozens of kilograms of gear!
They'll have to go through intense drills and combat training when they get back? That's practically killing them!
Many people were inwardly groaning, feeling that "one-legged devil" Oliver had suddenly gone crazy again, raising the training intensity to an outrageous level.
Many people secretly wondered, "If we keep training like this, we'll be exhausted today, and will we even be able to get up tomorrow? Is it worth risking our lives for a daily wage of just five copper coins?"
"Hmm?" Oliver's ears were extremely sensitive; how could those subtle sighs and grumblings escape his notice?
His face darkened, and with a whoosh of wind, the gleaming hardwood Command Baton in his hand struck the leather armor on the outside of the thigh of the soldier closest to him who seemed to be complaining the loudest, producing a crisp sound.
The soldier winced in pain, but dared not utter a sound.
"Shout! Shout again!" Oliver's eyes widened, veins bulging on his forehead, as he roared, "Those who don't want to train, now! Immediately! Get out of the ranks! I'll personally report to the Lord that your whole family will pack their bags and get out of Carnford today! What? Feeling wronged? Feeling bitter?"
He waved his Command Baton, pointing at the faces below the stage—faces filled with fear, exhaustion, and defiance. "Training pays off! There are battles to fight! Opportunities to earn merit! Land to be distributed, promotions to higher ranks! Isn't that fucking good? It's a million times better than you were homeless, starving, living hand to mouth, being chased around like dogs!"
He grew increasingly agitated as he spoke, his spittle almost spraying onto the faces of the soldiers in the front ranks:
"Let me tell you! The more you sweat now, the less blood you'll bleed on the battlefield! If you complain about the hardship and fatigue now, you won't even have time to cry when the Sauron Barbarians ' blade is at your throat!"
"If I hear anyone utter another word of dissatisfaction, I recognize you, but the knife in my hand doesn't. I'll treat you as someone who disrupts morale and disobeys orders, and I'll chop you down with one stroke! Do you understand?"
A thunderous roar silenced the entire scene. The slight commotion in the ranks just moments before vanished instantly. Every soldier straightened their backs, stared straight ahead, and dared not utter a sound.
Oliver's menacing expression and undisguised murderous intent left them with no doubt that this "one-legged devil" was truly capable of killing someone in public.
Although life in Carnford is tough, they at least have a stable place to live, regular meals, and hope for the future. No one wants to be kicked out, much less lose their head.
Oliver's stern, knife-like gaze slowly swept over each face again. Seeing that everyone lowered their eyes, not daring to meet his gaze, and their expressions a mixture of fear and forced exhaustion, he felt a slight sense of satisfaction.
Fear can also be an effective driving force, especially in the early stages of forging these undisciplined farmers into competent soldiers.
"Hmph!" He snorted coldly, withdrawing his murderous gaze. "What are you all standing there for? Put on your armor! Prepare to depart!"
The order was given, and the team immediately sprang into action.
Although the soldiers were inwardly groaning, they dared not slack off in the slightest. They quickly and skillfully assisted each other, donned heavy armor, stuffed their backs with pebbles to simulate carrying weight, and picked up spears, shields, swords, or other weapons for practice. The metal plates and leather rubbed together, making a clattering sound.
Soon, amidst the hoarse commands of their platoon Platoon Leader, the team of over a hundred men began to jog away from the training ground. Their heavy footsteps pounded the ground with a rhythmic, muffled sound, raising a slight cloud of dust.