The door to the command room was kicked open by Hank, then slammed shut with a bang. Klose and Little Donnie stood at the entrance, staring at Hank’s imposing back, not daring to breathe too loudly.
Hank strode to the command table covered with a massive military map and braced both hands against it. “From this moment on, we begin a tactical briefing.” He was always serious, but now, to Klose and Little Donnie, he seemed ten times more severe. “The Rosenberg Guard is to enter Level One alert immediately!” He raised his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over Klose. “Deputy Captain Klose, after this meeting, you will lead a team to seal all city gates except the south gate! Then, gather every guard—active duty, on leave, even those in confinement. I want to see all of them on the training ground within five minutes!”
Klose was stunned by the sudden order and instinctively protested, “Captain, it’s just unrest in the surrounding villages. Is it really necessary to mobilize on such a… large scale?”
Hank slowly lifted his eyes. The coldness in them made Klose’s heart skip a beat. “This is Nolan, acting militia captain of Shire Town.” He gestured toward Nolan, who stood calmly to the side. “He has brought intelligence that concerns the life and death of Rosenberg.”
“Life and death?” Klose and Little Donnie exclaimed in unison. That was no small matter.
Little Donnie’s young face flushed red as he stepped forward excitedly. “I told you, Deputy Captain Klose! I said those boneheads were acting strange! They’re not scattered raiders like before. Their movements are highly organized, with clear intent—like… like an army!”
Klose’s expression immediately darkened. What he hated most was that look on Little Donnie’s face, as if he understood everything. He shot Nolan a disdainful glance, clasped his hands behind his back, and spoke loudly, “Captain, military intelligence is no trivial matter. But to mobilize the entire defensive system of Rosenberg based on the word of a single, unidentified militiaman—isn’t that too rash? If the intelligence is wrong, it will not only cause panic within the city but also waste our already strained war resources! With all due respect, what kind of insight could a backwater commoner from places like Shire or Parson Town possibly have? Most likely he ran into a few skeletons, got scared out of his wits, and exaggerated the whole thing!” He felt his words were both forceful and professional—impressive, even.
But the approval he expected from his captain never came. Hank only looked at him coldly, making the hairs on the back of Klose’s neck stand on end. His mind raced, and a dreadful realization struck him. Cold sweat broke out instantly.
He remembered.
Captain Hank Corot… before being knighted… had also been born a commoner. His earlier remarks had just insulted the one person in Rosenberg he absolutely shouldn’t offend.
“Hmph,” Hank let out a cold snort. “Put away that shallow, aristocratic arrogance of yours, Klose. Acting Captain Nolan’s insight and courage surpass ten of you.”
Every word from Hank landed like a slap across Klose’s face.
Ignoring Klose’s ashen expression, Hank asked directly, “Tell me—how many troops can the Rosenberg Guard mobilize right now?”
“Uh… the number is…”
Klose opened his mouth but couldn’t give a clear answer. He had obtained his position through his father, Baron Locke, the city lord. To him, the role was more about prestige than responsibility. Aside from strutting around the city and thinking about how to look more impressive in uniform, he had never concerned himself with such details.
“Two hundred thirty…? No, wait, maybe two hundred si—” he stammered, while Hank’s face grew darker by the second.
Beside him, Little Donnie struggled not to laugh, barely holding it in.
Hank’s sharp gaze snapped toward him. Little Donnie immediately straightened, wiping away any trace of amusement.
“Reporting, Captain! The Rosenberg Guard has a total of 312 registered personnel! Excluding the wounded, sick, and those on long-term assignments, the maximum number we can mobilize within the city immediately is 280!”
Two hundred eighty.
So few?
Even though he had expected it, Nolan still let out a quiet sigh.
Hank’s fingers pressed against the map, his nails digging deep into the rough parchment, nearly tearing it apart.
Two hundred eighty men… against two thousand undead, and a mage corps. For a moment, the blood-soaked battlefield from fifteen years ago flashed before his eyes—his fallen comrades, their broken bodies strewn across the ground. Even with advance warning, the situation still hung by a thread.
He drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising and falling violently. When he looked up again, the despair had already been crushed beneath sheer iron will. He decided, for now, not to reveal the enemy’s true numbers to the other two. If morale collapsed, then there would truly be no hope left.
Nolan, meanwhile, was also considering countermeasures.
Across the entire Veli Province, only the capital, Veli City, had a standing army. Other cities relied solely on local forces like the guard for defense. But this wasn’t just a matter of numbers. From the fact that someone like Klose could become deputy captain through connections—and from the lax attitude of the guards outside—it was clear the kingdom was already rotting from the inside.
Hank took a deep breath and pointed at the map as he began issuing orders. “Klose, inform the city defense—within two days, move all heavy crossbows to the southern wall for reinforced deployment! Little Donnie, divide the remaining guards into three shifts to rotate on the south gate wall. Assign at least five scouts to the top of the bell tower for lookout, reporting every five minutes—”
“Captain Hank, forgive my interruption!” a voice cut through his orders. It was abrupt, but not disrespectful.
Everyone froze and turned toward Nolan. Interrupting the commanding officer during a military briefing was a serious offense in the kingdom—one that could lead to trial.
Klose immediately felt a surge of schadenfreude, eager to see this overconfident nobody get torn apart by the captain. But Hank only frowned, not erupting on the spot. Still, without a good explanation, that restraint might not last. “You have something to add?”
Nolan stepped forward, his finger tracing across the map as he laid out three clear suggestions. “One proposal. First, despite our manpower shortage, we must detach thirty men to form an independent strike unit, composed of our most elite members, tasked with executing assault operations. Second, clear out all the fire oil and torches from the warehouse and distribute them. In addition, every soldier must be issued three flint stones for ignition. Third, prepare all bows and adjust their strings. Distribute arrows to the second line. Gather all reserve minor holy water used for healing from the warehouse and centralize its storage and allocation.”
When Nolan finished, silence once again filled the command room.
Klose’s expression looked as if he had just seen a ghost. He glanced between Nolan and Hank, utterly baffled. What kind of nonsense was this? They already didn’t have enough troops, and now he wanted to split off thirty men for some “strike unit”? Wasn’t that just speeding up their deaths? Torches and flint? What for—a bonfire party at night? And the most important resource, the minor holy water—something meant to save lives in critical moments—shouldn’t each soldier keep their own supply? Wasn’t this just an attempt to hoard it for personal gain?
Klose’s gaze flickered between Nolan and Hank, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. If the captain hadn’t spoken yet, he would have already shouted, “Seize the spy!”
Even Little Donnie looked confused. He trusted the captain’s judgment and believed Nolan wasn’t ordinary, but these suggestions were too strange—completely beyond his understanding of conventional defensive warfare.
Yet the most striking reaction in the room did not belong to either of them. The cigar in Hank’s mouth slipped free with a soft tap, falling onto the map and scorching a small black mark. He stared at Nolan as if looking at some mind-reading demon capable of stealing memories.
Torches… Holy water…
This young man—this so-called militia from Shire Town… How did he know these supplies existed in the Rosenberg Guard’s warehouse?
That warehouse—aside from himself and the quartermaster, not even Klose, the deputy captain, knew its exact inventory.
…Who exactly was he?
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