The Kingdom

Chapter 10: The Final Preparations

On the training grounds, five hundred newly conscripted soldiers ran in circles around the camp, their breaths labored, their faces strained. Alongside them, ten young boys wielding whips played the role of instructors.

Too fast—one lash.

Too slow—another lash.

Formation disorderly—yet another lash.

Under such ruthless discipline, the recruits had long since lost their tempers, reduced to mere cogs in the wheel of obedience.

It was evident that the land’s indoctrination of servitude had been remarkably effective. The expected defiant troublemakers were nowhere to be seen.

Harboring a silent disdain for such outdated methods, Hudson nonetheless saw no reason to deny himself the pleasure of their results.

With time so short, proper military training was out of the question. The only thing he could teach them now was obedience.

Even if they were merely going through the motions, appearances had to be maintained. Actual combat ability mattered little—what was important was looking the part.

Despite his earlier scathing remarks about Earl Pierce in front of his father, when the time came to truly face the man, Hudson dared not take him lightly.

After all, for a figure of such stature, crushing a mere pawn like him would be as effortless as squashing an ant.

—

“Hudson, we depart the day after tomorrow. Is there still time for training?”

Baron Redman’s voice carried a weight of concern.

Though he recognized his son’s knack for drilling troops, the time was simply too short. To ensure they set out on schedule, even the training had been kept relatively mild.

In terms of intensity, it wasn’t even on par with military academy drills. Not because Hudson was overly soft-hearted, but because the soldiers' physical condition simply couldn’t keep up.

In an era of such primitive productivity, even black bread packed with filler could barely stave off hunger. As for nutrition? That was a luxury few could afford.

Malnourished and burdened with grueling labor, their bodies had long since deteriorated.

This was precisely why, whenever the baronial estate recruited, people flocked in droves. No matter the task, as long as one served the lord, at least their stomachs would be filled.

Even now, after such brutal treatment, not a single man had chosen to withdraw.

The battlefield was dangerous, yes—but only high risks brought high rewards. Though they had no delusions of sudden glory, securing a place in the estate’s guard through valorous deeds was well within reach.

Most of the baron’s household guards had risen through the ranks in precisely this manner.

Taking this step not only solved their food problem but also granted them the opportunity to train in combat techniques.

Becoming a warrior meant an entirely different standard of living—clothing, food, lodging, all provided, along with a salary.

“Rest assured, Father. We’re not expecting to forge an elite force in mere days. As long as they look the part, that’s enough.

With such a large-scale conscription, even accounting for the rebel-affected areas, the southeastern province should still be able to muster tens of thousands of troops.

With so many forces drawn from different noble families, true coordination will be near impossible. Most likely, units will be haphazardly mixed together. When battle erupts, who will be able to tell friend from foe?”

Hudson’s tone was calm, laced with undisguised contempt for Earl Pierce’s mobilization order.

Take their own situation as an example—his father’s household guards alone could rout this five-hundred-strong r****e with a single charge.

Raising a massive army might sound impressive, but in reality, it was a recipe for disaster.

Once the fighting started, both logistics and command would be in utter disarray, not to mention the actual combat effectiveness of the troops.

Under such circumstances, they would be better off fielding a smaller force of elite nobles’ guards—easier to command, better supplied, and vastly superior in battle.

Hudson had no doubt that his own family was not the only one feigning full compliance while discreetly holding back its true strength. Any noble with the slightest foresight would do the same.

—

“Hmm.”

“If that’s the case, then so be it. But remember, Hudson—you lack battlefield experience. Once you’re there, exercise caution. Do not act recklessly.

Here are letters I’ve written to several old acquaintances. If you encounter them on the battlefield, present these. For my sake, they should keep an eye on you.

That said, do not rely on this. When it comes to true peril or matters of great interest, these men cannot be counted on.

Should the battle turn against us, prioritize survival—as long as it does not tarnish our family’s honor. Mark my words: as long as you live, there is always hope.”

Baron Redman’s voice was heavy with solemnity.

Yet to Hudson’s ears, his father’s words rang oddly unpleasant.

Was it his imagination, or was his father subtly hinting that, in dire straits, desertion was an option?

Desertion—a disgrace entirely incompatible with knightly honor.

A noble could surrender and become a prisoner of war, but to flee the battlefield? That was a stain that could never be erased.

For the sake of family honor, many nobles preferred death or capture to the shame of desertion.

Of course, there were always ways to bend the rules.

For an obscure figure like Hudson, if he played his cards right, even if he did desert, chances were no one would notice.

At worst, he could vanish into some distant land. Given the glacial pace of information dissemination in these times, the odds of discovery were slim.

“Father… Are you allowing me to lead troops into battle?”

Hudson’s voice brimmed with surprise.

He had all but resigned himself to rejection—after all, entrusting a sixteen-year-old with command was far from reassuring. No matter how sound the arguments, age and inexperience were glaring weaknesses.

Yet now, the tide had turned. Whatever the reason, Hudson was thrilled.

Survival was already his top priority—his father’s warning was unnecessary. As a transmigrator without an overpowered “golden finger,” Hudson had no intention of gambling with his life.

Chivalric ideals, noble honor, family prestige—these burdens of the traditional aristocracy held no weight for him.

From the very beginning, he had set his course: cause no trouble, but make no mistakes.

—

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Baron Redman warned sternly. “This rebellion will not be easily quelled.

If you wish to seize military merit, I won’t stop you. But if you lose your life in the process, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

It was clear he had high hopes for his son.

In the world of Aslant, for a minor noble, there were only two paths to advancement: either possess unparalleled martial prowess, or command troops with exceptional skill.

The latter offered far greater potential.

Despite the world’s low magic, no single warrior could stand against an entire nation.

Even the mightiest of champions, should they face the tide of an army, would be forced to flee. Tales of lone warriors challenging empires were nothing more than myths.

Compared to the near-impossible path of personal strength, military command had seen countless success stories.

Though the highest ranks of the noble class were occupied by great houses, the presence of lesser nobles in court was not uncommon.

With careful management over generations, minor nobility rising to prominence was hardly unprecedented.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even an “upstart” phenomenon. The noble class, bound by generations of intermarriage, was an intricate web of lineage. More often than not, blood ties could still be traced back to the great houses.