Development Direction and Crisis

Ron sat at the nearly collapsing wooden table on the second floor, his fingers unconsciously tapping a steady rhythm against the tabletop.

The system panel hung before him, its translucent edges faintly glowing as he stared at it for quite a while.

His gaze moved downward and stopped at the "Troops" section.

There had been changes.

The troop count was no longer twenty-two, but thirty-seven.

At the top of the newly added names was Miko, the young man who had been the first to beg to join his army.

The string of names after that were mostly local Velen names, but those fifteen men were very real, currently being drilled in the courtyard by Karl until they cried out in misery.

Ron stared at the number for a moment before opening the troop tree.

The interface unfolded like an inverted tree, its branches splitting downward. At the very bottom were recruits, gray-white icons with no armor or weapons, clean and bare as newborn babies.

He remembered what recruits had looked like in the game: dressed in ragged shirts, clutching wooden clubs or pitchforks, trembling as they charged onto the battlefield, then fleeing in a mob the moment the battle turned against them.

Following the trunk upward, the colors began to change. The Imperial Infantry icon was tinged with pale blue. The humanoid silhouette wore light armor and carried an iron longsword and a kite shield. Above that came Imperial Veteran Infantry, with heavier armor, broader shields, and standard-issue javelins.

At the Imperial Senior Infantry tier, they wore full sets of thick, square-cut scale armor, and the large shields in their hands nearly covered half their bodies.

Finally came the Imperial Legionary, clad in the same heavy armor as the cataphracts and armed with armor-piercing Kalarad Staffs and standard Imperial sabers. There was no doubt that they would be elite among elites in any world.

Then the tree branched. To the left were Imperial Glaive Guards, their main weapons replaced by double-bladed spears—the indispensable backbone of any battlefield.

Three small markers hung beneath the cataphract icon: warhorse, heavy armor, weapon. To the right were Imperial Legionaries, requiring no horses, with only armor and weapon markers.

Ron's gaze lingered on the "Imperial Elite Cataphract" icon for a long time before he finally looked away.

He switched to the status tab for his personal guard. The sixteen cataphract icons were gold, a color that matched none of the troop tree's categories. It was a color assigned by the system alone, one he had never seen in the game before.

Fiona's troop tree was lit up as well, though not completely. From recruit up to the Fian Warrior tier, the icons glowed in gray-green.

Woodland longbows, thick scale armor, and two-handed greatswords. They were tier-five troops. Above them, the tier-six Fian Champions remained gray, like an unexplored region on a map.

Nord Royal Guards and Nord Berserkers were also listed, their top tiers likewise locked. That was only expected. The fact that common soldiers could become noble troops in the game had already been a pleasant surprise; restrictions like these were perfectly normal.

Then he saw several names that were completely unfamiliar.

Redanian Pikemen? Temerian Heavy Axemen?

Ron's hand froze in midair, then slowly lowered. He stared at those two names for several seconds, as though confirming that his eyes had not deceived him. They were troop types he had never seen in the game.

Their troop trees were short, without the long progression chain that ran from recruit all the way to elite. From recruit to tier one, tier two, and tier three—then it ended.

The tier-three Redanian Pikeman icon showed a figure in half armor, gripping a halberd horizontally, his face sharp and angular. The tier-three Temerian Heavy Axeman carried a round iron shield and a one-handed battle-axe.

Their armor looked heavier than the Redanians'. Beneath a half-breastplate worn over padded armor was a dense layer of iron mail. Their stances were lower, their centers of gravity steadier, as if they were ready to charge at any moment.

Local troop types.

Ron leaned back in his chair. Its joints creaked as he crossed his arms over his chest, his thumbs circling each other while he stared blankly at the gray icons.

"Tier-six troops need noble-born youths," he muttered, his voice tinged with mockery. "Where am I supposed to find nobles for them?"

Temeria had already fallen. Its nobles had either fled or died. The few people of standing who remained had all holed up in mansions in Novigrad, terrified that the chaos outside might stain their silk robes.

Even if there were still one or two destitute nobles hiding in some corner, why would they come to him? He was a warlord squatting in an abandoned castle, with barely thirty men under his command. In Velen, he could not even make a ripple.

Ron forced those thoughts out of his mind. The matter of nobles could wait. There was no use thinking about it now.

He looked back at the troop tree and began calculating.

The Imperial Legionary line was completely unlocked, from recruit to Imperial Legionary, tier five. Every step was visible and attainable. It required no horses and no noble blood—only training, equipment, and time.

Fiona's line only went up to tier five, but that was more than enough. Longbows, scale armor, and two-handed swords—their range, accuracy, and melee capability far surpassed most archers in this world. Against Velen's bandits and the monsters lurking in the swamps, even tier-five archers felt extravagant.

For now, he did not want to think about cavalry. The sixteen golden cataphract icons gleamed in the corner like a reminder.

These were his foundation: cold-forged lamellar armor, Imperial sabers, Imperial warhorses brought from Calradia. If one piece broke, there was one less. If one horse died, there was one less.

He also needed to find a way to re-equip the personal guard. Plate armor craftsmanship in this world was already quite advanced.

Full plate offered protection no worse than lamellar armor, perhaps even better, but that required money—a great deal of money. And his current savings were not even enough to cover a fraction of a set of full plate.

Besides, Velen was a place of endless swamps, rivers woven as densely as spiderwebs, and thickets that could cut visibility down to three paces. Heavy cavalry in such terrain would be nothing but living targets, their horses' hooves sinking into mud so deep they could not even be pulled free.

So infantry and glaive guards would form the core, with archers in support. The cavalry would be kept as a trump card and left untouched unless things became truly desperate.

Ron silently worked through the numbers in his head. Thirty-five men, plus more than forty refugees to feed. How many days would the food last? How many battles could their weapons endure? How much armor needed repair, and how much would those repairs cost?

How long would the loot and crowns taken from the bandit leader last? The numbers bounced around in his mind. Just as he was about to sort them out, someone knocked on the door.

The knock was not loud, but it was urgent. There was a pause, followed by two more knocks.

Ron swept a hand through the air, and the system interface vanished. From outside the window came the distant sound of Karl's drill commands and clashing iron.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Erwin stood in the doorway, sweat beading on his forehead, several strands of hair stuck to his brow.

He still held the wooden board he used as a writing slate, but the paper pressed atop it had been replaced. Its edges were scorched black, as though it had been snatched from beside a fire.

"Ron." Erwin swallowed, his throat sounding dry. He did not address him as "Your Highness" like the others did, and Ron had never demanded that he do so. "I found something."

He held the board farther forward. The blackened paper trembled slightly in the light streaming through the crack in the door.

"You need to see this."