"They actually pulled it off!?"
Chris had been keeping an eye on the players' movements, and he knew about their operation that night.
Chris knew the players would stir up trouble, so he had spoken to Isaac beforehand and arranged to mobilize the militia.
At one that morning, more than two hundred militiamen, including the hunters, had assembled in camp. They formed two small square formations on the open ground outside, their banners flapping in the fierce night wind.
Chris stood on a makeshift wooden platform, wearing a green military overcoat and a Lei Feng Hat. Despite his straight posture and fair, handsome face, he still looked less like a prince than a sentry standing guard outside a military camp.
The militiamen below, looking up at Chris, were hardly an impressive sight either. They were skinny, ugly, and hunched over. Torches planted around them crackled, their flickering light illuminating ranks that, despite their best efforts to line up neatly, still looked crooked from above.
The militia's ranks were not particularly neat, but one thing reassured Chris: although he had remained silent for nearly three or four minutes,
not a single militiaman below whispered to another or fidgeted. They all remained standing at ease.
That was a good thing. After a month of training, the militiamen had acquired basic discipline, and discipline would help them defeat their enemies while keeping as many of them alive as possible.
That was what Chris thought.
Bitton's calf was a little itchy. A flea was probably biting him.
It made him regret what he had done that afternoon. When everyone had taken a hot bath together, he had deliberately avoided changing into the new clothes the prince had issued him, just to save himself the trouble of washing his old ones.
At that thought,