Pioneer

The bond of fate, literally translated, was mysticism and luck.

A reason that was not really a reason could only be chalked up to something as unreliable as intuition.

Captain Garcia ultimately did not ask any further questions. Duke had shown good sense, and he was acting within the scope Lothar had granted him, so there was nothing more to say. After some pleasantries, Garcia gave Duke his word.

"Within an hour, Mr. Reginald Windsor will appear before you."

A real soldier was absolutely disciplined.

There were truly very few dregs among the soldiers trained by Stormwind.

When Duke saw Windsor at the guesthouse, he could not help but laugh.

His mouth said he obeyed, but his face was filled with dissatisfaction. He was only one step away from carving the words "I hate you" onto his forehead.

In the game, all Duke had seen was a game-version middle-aged man.

But when he saw Windsor in person, Duke realized that the marshal had once been young too—and he was rather adorable.

Though the "marshal" still had that same gleaming golden crew cut, his age was right there. How much beard could a fourteen-year-old boy possibly grow?

A full beard was out of the question. Beneath his hawkish nose was only a faint golden shadow of fuzz. Combined with his square mouth, distinctive horizontal golden brows, and deliberately stiff facial muscles, he was the very picture of a poker face.

The one thing Duke found satisfactory was Windsor's physique. Bulging biceps, thick thighs—his entire body brimmed with an explosive sense of strength.

With those muscles, he could probably take on ten Dukes by himself.

Of course, compared to adult orcs whose arms were thicker than a human's thigh, Windsor would still be at a disadvantage in terms of strength.

Duke smiled as he spoke. "What? Windsor, are you unhappy about becoming my follower?"

Clearly, Windsor was the typical soldier: blunt and utterly incapable of hiding his feelings.

"Yes! My dream is to become a glorious Stormwind soldier, fighting on the front lines to defend the kingdom, not becoming someone's personal guard—even if the person I am guarding is a powerful mage. Besides, in my opinion, you are not powerful."

The moment Windsor finished speaking, Duke made his move.

Presence of Mind made his next spell instant.

A Frostbolt directly taught the future Marshal Windsor a lesson.

"Ah!" The empowered Frostbolt stunned Windsor, who was dressed in full uniform. His sturdy armor could not stop the icy chill from invading his chest. If Duke had not held back, Windsor might well have been left with lasting damage.

A few minutes later, before the only lit stove in the Academy of Magic, used for warmth, Windsor sat wrapped in a blanket and said through chattering teeth, "All right, I apologize for saying, 'You are not powerful.'"

"I accept your apology." Duke smiled and handed Windsor a cup of ginger tea.

Having tentatively begun to acknowledge Duke, Windsor's expression was no longer quite so stiff. "However, I still think becoming your follower conflicts with my dream."

"What, in the end, is your dream? Have you thought about it?"

Windsor was a little bewildered. Had he not just said what his dream was?

But Duke continued, "Actually, our dreams are the same—to strive for the rise of the Stormwind Kingdom!"

Windsor shuddered all over.

"Do you see the lion insignia shining on your chest?"

Following Duke's words, Windsor lowered his head.

Duke began to speak, his words flowing steadily.

"Once, in response to the threat of the trolls, the great Emperor Thoradin united the human tribes and founded the great Arathi Empire. Human footsteps began to spread across the entire continent, and new city-states were established one after another. Yet as it grew ever more prosperous, its strongest core began to fall apart."

"The lords of Stromgarde gradually began moving their wealth to the prosperous northern regions of Lordaeron, abandoning the barren south. Even the last descendant of Emperor Thoradin—the final child of the Arathi bloodline—was left behind amid the crumbling walls of Old Stromgarde."

"After many long years had passed, a company of knights finally arrived at what is now King's Valley. One man planted his sword before the knights and declared, 'I swear upon my sword that the Stormwind Kingdom shall bear the glory of the Arathi Empire, sweep away all oppression and injustice, and that my people, my subjects, shall follow Emperor Thoradin's oath and continue down the path that brings humanity prosperity and strength. Should decay and complacency ever blind the eyes of our descendants, then let the Stormwind Kingdom perish in despair!'"

"Twelve hundred years ago, the lion banner of the Stormwind Kingdom was raised in this great valley, reflecting the newborn sun of that day."

"But Windsor, tell me: why, twelve hundred years later, is Stormwind City's directly governed territory still centered mainly around Elwynn Forest? Why does Westfall end with the word 'wasteland'? Why do the Redridge Mountains bear the word 'barren' in their name?"

"Windsor, for whom do you draw your sword? Is it not for the future, for tomorrow, for our descendants? So they may have broader space to live, so they need no longer live beneath the shadows of monsters and all manner of foreign threats."

"What the Stormwind Kingdom needs most is not simple-minded soldiers, but pioneers!"

"Windsor, answer me. Are you willing to become a pioneer with me?"

Windsor's lips moved soundlessly. Clearly, his still-immature heart had begun to waver beneath the persuasion of Duke, a transmigrator.

Yet he still held an extraordinary conviction in his heart.

"Lord Marcus, I ask that you show me your plan—the complete plan." Windsor sat upright. His hesitant blue eyes held an unyielding resolve.

"I will show you."

Fifteen minutes later, Duke brought Windsor to Stormwind's docks.

Ships!

From the moment Duke decided to develop in Stormwind, he had thought of ships.

He could not forget how, in the Warcraft movie, the well-armored Stormwind Guard had been drowned beneath a green sea of orcs. In complex terrain, orcs, who held an absolute advantage in both strength and agility, were invincible.

Gullies and dangerous terrain that humans believed impassable were nothing at all to orcs accustomed to harsh environments.

Given the way history tended to go, Duke had no faith in Stormwind at all. If he had transmigrated into King Llane, perhaps there might still have been hope. Unfortunately, he had not. He possessed only the identity of a commoner. Even with the system spirit's help, there was still only so much Duke could do.

So Duke thought of ships—ships needed both for retreat and for a future counterattack.