Training Ground

The villagers gathered around, but no one pushed up to the stretcher. They merely stood a few steps away, staring carefully at the monster.

An old woman pressed a hand over her mouth, her fingers trembling. Several men squatted by the roadside, one still holding an unlit pipe between his teeth without even noticing.

A little boy slipped through a gap in the crowd, his bare feet carrying him to the stretcher. He stared at the Chicken Snake's beak.

The beak hung half open, its tip still stained with dried venom. Then he reached out curiously to touch it, only for his mother to yank him back.

Ron set down the stretcher and dug out half a boot from the spoils. Half its shaft had been torn away, and its leather was covered in broad stains of dried blood.

He walked over to the thin old man. Without saying a word, he held out the boot.

The old man looked at the boot and reached out, pausing midway before taking it. His trembling hands clutched it tightly. He looked up at Ron, his lips moving twice, but no sound came out.

He nodded, hard enough that his whole upper body dipped with it. Hugging the boot to his chest, he turned and walked toward the village.

The man who had been squatting by the roadside stood and nodded at Ron. It was neither a bow nor a salute.

The others beside him nodded as well. No one shouted a slogan, and no one spoke words of thanks.

The thin old man stopped at the edge of the crowd. He turned around, the boot still held against his chest.

"My lord, if you ever need anything, just say the word."

That night, a bonfire burned outside the Crow's Nest barracks. Several veterans sat around it. Someone brought out ale, but no one drank too much. One old soldier rested his cup on his knee, stared into the flames, and spoke.

"I've seen that thing before," he said. "The last time the baron sent us up there, there were seven of us. Four died. The remaining three stopped at the foot of the mountain. We didn't dare go any farther."

No one answered.

"How many did he bring?"

"Just those two archers," another voice replied. "Not counting himself."

"Fuck."

"Two."

The fire burned for a while. A log cracked, sending a spray of sparks soaring upward.

The young man seated on the outermost edge looked up. He was Hans, the young soldier Fiona had thrown into the mud before. Staring at the fire, he suddenly spoke.

"I told you their bows could shoot at least four hundred paces. You all said I'd been knocked stupid when I fell. You even said you'd find a chance to compete with them in swordsmanship and teach those newcomers a lesson."

No one spoke.

"And now?" someone asked.

Hans thought for a moment. "Now? I think I might've underestimated them."

Across the bonfire, the old soldier poured the last bit of ale from his cup into his mouth.

"Good thing we didn't offend them. Fuck, it's scary just thinking about it," he said.

After that, no one spoke again.

When Ron returned to the manor, the central courtyard was empty. Everyone had gathered behind the castle. The dull thuds of hammers striking wooden stakes and shovels digging earth came from beyond the walls, layered with different shouted commands. Ron crossed the courtyard, rounded the main building, and stopped at the corner.

The training ground—the wasteland once overgrown with weeds—had now been divided by wooden fences and low walls into several clearly separated sections.

At the far end, straw human-shaped targets stood in a row at the archery range beneath the dusk. Their bullseyes were marked by crude charcoal circles. The low wall at the side had yet to be fully completed, and two craftsmen were tying the final layer of vines onto the fence.

Closer in, wooden posts had been set up in the swordsmanship area. More than a dozen recruits practiced thrusting around them, spearheads striking wood with steady thud, thud, thuds.

The drill ground occupied the largest area. Its packed earth had been trampled smooth and shiny, while formation lines drawn in white lime stretched from one end to the other. A waist-high wooden platform stood at the edge of the field.

Karl stood atop the platform, a visored helmet tucked under one arm as he pointed at the formation below and shouted something.

The sparring enclosure occupied the farthest corner of the training ground, its sandy interior tightly surrounded by wooden fencing.

The lance track ran along the outer edge of the grounds, long and straight. At its end, a thrusting ring hung from a wooden frame, swaying lightly in the wind.

Erwin approached from the direction of the platform, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm and mud on his hands. One lens of his glasses was speckled with dirt. He stopped before Ron and opened the clipboard.

"The training areas have been divided according to your requirements." He tapped the diagram with a finger.

"Six sections: the archery range, swordsmanship area, drill ground, sparring enclosure, weapon testing area, and cavalry lance track. The main materials are all wood, straw, and sandbags. It doesn't consume iron, only labor. Construction was wrapped up two days ago, and today is the final inspection."

He wiped the mud from his lens and put his glasses back on.

"The manor walls are still under construction, with one-third completed. The water-powered workshop is currently having its site planned. The materials list has been prepared, and we can begin calculating the required amount of stone tomorrow."

"Three months is too long. If we mobilize more workers, can we cut it down to two?"

Erwin considered it for a moment. "It needs to be reassessed. Hiring more laborers would require raising the budget cap."

Then he flipped the clipboard to the next page. "Population: currently one hundred and fifty-two people. Including the two households that just arrived, the number of full-time professional soldiers has grown from fifty-one in the last count to eighty-two."

Ron nodded and continued forward, with Erwin walking beside him.

On the sandy ground of the training area, Miko crouched beside a young archer, helping him adjust the angle of his bowstring.

Pete was checking the stability of the wooden posts one by one in the swordsmanship area. He still limped slightly from the arrow wound he had suffered last time, but his movements were quick and efficient. He crouched, shook a post, stood up, and repeated the process several times.

Cole stood at the edge of the drill ground with a long spear upright beside him. More than thirty recruits stood in three rows before him, their spearheads angled forward far more steadily than when he had first held a spear.

Ron did not go over to interrupt them. He walked along the edge of the training ground for a while before stopping at the weapon testing area.

One wooden post was bound with thick, water-soaked cowhide. An old breastplate selected from the warehouse hung on another. The gaps in its plates remained, but someone had carefully wiped it clean.

"Twenty-five men have currently reached the standard of professional soldiers."

Karl came down from the platform, his visored helmet tucked beneath his arm, his voice muffled.

"These twenty-five have mastered the full shield-and-spear formations, anti-cavalry formations, and basic tactical flag signals. They have all passed their combat assessments. The remaining recruits have completed basic training but haven't entered the tactical coordination stage yet.

"Old Gott is responsible for militia training. They gather once a week, mainly to learn the longbow and spear. He's a man who's been to war. I don't need to keep an eye on him while he teaches the militia."

Ron tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping toward the other end of the training ground. Old Gott stood before the militia formation, a wooden stick in his hand.

He was correcting the militia's spear grips one by one. He did not speak loudly, but his voice was steady.

Erwin clutched his clipboard more tightly. "Old Gott has recently started helping me handle manor affairs. Progress has been quick.

"If I become tied up with other matters and can no longer manage the manor, he can take over the position."

"Mm, understood."

Erwin's pen paused on the paper for a moment, then continued writing.

"The Seagull returned yesterday." He turned over several stapled sheets on the clipboard: a supply procurement list and detailed financial accounts. His finger pressed against the paper and moved down the entries.