Burning ideals left Maximus completely numb to the cold. He imagined the thick mud beneath his feet as the ministers who had betrayed him, digging strength from his weakened body and planting every step firmly. No matter what, he had to build up a military force. Regardless of the war's outcome, he needed violence to maintain his regime—he did not need to control too many people, only establish an organized armed force and control its leaders to ensure his military objectives were met. The rest would gather manpower, weapons, and other resources under his command under the pressure of survival. Maximus believed his foolish brother would certainly be unable to hold the line. The fall of the last defensive line was only a matter of time. Before then, he had to gather every available force.
"The messengers are ready, Your Majesty. We can leave at once!"
A nimble armed civilian stepped forward to report. The black clothing he wore was nearly invisible beneath the shadows. He and the so-called messengers all came from Attilan's Civilian Clans. More precisely, the deserters Maximus had encountered so far had all come from the Civilian Clans. That was easy enough to understand. After all, this was the fiercest front of the war. Throwing civilians with no training whatsoever, who had not even undergone Terrigen mutation, onto the battlefield was an extremely irresponsible act. Maximus saw it as a waste of resources.
"Take food, Ronnie. Take half the food and medicine." Maximus slowed his tone. He had only controlled Ronnie, the captain of the messenger team, and had not carved those symbols onto him. The others had copied them out of adoration or a sense of ritual. Though the symbols had merely been painted on their faces, they still marked their identities. "Those people must