Chapter 139

War Preparations

A logistics headquarters had been established in Vinfelt’s military camp.
Supply soldiers moved in and out of the newly set-up supply tents without pause.
Inside, beneath leather coverings, dozens of ledgers and charts were piled up, and Beltran scanned through the documents with a sharp gaze.

“Five mercenary groups have been confirmed so far. A total of 327 men. The largest group is ‘Black Eyes’ with 133. The rest are a mix of small independent mercenaries and unaffiliated drifters.”

“Damn it, what the hell is all this…”

Bill grumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Mercenaries had been arriving one after another every single day.
On top of that, supplies—grain, fodder, weapons, arrows—kept pouring in.
Dozens of warhorses, cart horses, and mules had also arrived, forcing them to build makeshift stables.
They recruited eight more men from the tribespeople and infantry to reinforce the supply corps.
Even so, they were still stretched thin.

“Preparing for war, my ass… this is insanity. Pure insanity.”

Bill muttered irritably, then looked at Beltran.

“Hey, kid. Send back all the corn sacks that arrived yesterday. More than half are eaten through by bugs. And send back the salted meat with too much fat, too.”

“I’ll inform the transport unit.”

“And tell that bastard Venders—make sure that dwarf-shit merchant understands this clearly. If he doesn’t properly punish those scumbag traders messing with goods, the young master—no, the lord—will hold him accountable.”

“…The lord never said anything like that, though.”

“Are you dense? Whether he said it or not, that’s how you make sure they don’t pull this crap again.”

Bill glared.

“…Yes. Understood.”

Beltran nodded reluctantly.

“You’re sharp most of the time, but sometimes you’re slow as hell. What about firewood, cauldrons, and iron tools?”

“No problems there. The issue is flour and hay.”

“When did we send the payment? Why hasn’t it arrived yet?”

“It seems to be delayed due to the snowstorm.”

“For fuck’s sake. And the lodging?”

“We set up makeshift tents on the eastern outskirts yesterday, but it’s still not enough. With the cold setting in, tents alone risk frostbite. We’re also short on leather.”

“Just deal with it using straw piles for now. If anyone has complaints, tell them to come to me. What about that noble lord? Any complaints?”

“For now, he seems satisfied with the huts built by the tribespeople.”

“He better be. We already got enough shit for clearing out the villagers’ houses.”

Beltran silently nodded.

The “noble lord” Bill referred to was Bruno, the eldest son of Büchtner—
the very soldiers Beltran’s brother had brought with him.

They had come to Vinfelt themselves, burning with a desire for revenge against Botmer.
It seemed they had been deeply impressed by Isaac defeating Botmer’s 400 troops and forcing back 2,000 soldiers.

Naturally, Bruno’s list of enemies included Beltran as well.
In his eyes, Beltran was a patricide who killed their father and seized the barony for himself.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—he didn’t know that same “patricide” was now working in the logistics headquarters.

“…Ah, and the tribespeople said they want to help with supply work. What should we do?”

Beltran changed the subject.

“Good. We need all the hands we can get. Pay them in grain and firewood for now. And you—what is it?”

Bill glared at a supply soldier who had just entered the headquarters.

“A supply wagon has arrived.”

“Again? Damn it… they don’t give us a second to breathe. Kid.”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

Grumbling, Bill left the supply tent, and Beltran followed behind him.

The camp was bustling with noise.
In the central clearing, sparring matches were in full swing.

“Besimer! Besimer! Besimer!”

Besimer had just taken down yet another mercenary captain.

“This place is like a damn festival. Bunch of idle bastards. Some of us are working ourselves to death.”

Bill spat on the ground as he watched the cheering soldiers.
He headed straight for the wagons waiting outside the camp.

Supply soldiers were already carrying crates back and forth between the wagons and the supply depot.

“Hey, you idiot! Why are you taking that over there?! Potatoes are food, damn it! Why the hell are you bringing them to the weapons storage?!”

Bill shouted at the top of his lungs.

“The food storage is full, so—”

“Then build a new one! There’s plenty of land here, damn it! And check all the weapons—if there’s any problem, send them to the blacksmiths!”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

“Ah, for fuck’s sake…”

As they were sorting through the newly arrived supplies, the sound of pots and ladles clanging echoed through the camp.
It was dinner time.

Normally, it wouldn’t have mattered much, but now—with the number of troops multiplied several times over due to the incoming mercenaries, and with war looming—it was a different story.

“Kid!”

“Yes!”

“You go handle meal distribution. Let the drifters use the camp mess hall, and assign separate ration stations for the mercenary groups. Don’t just assign them—attach supervisors too.”

“Understood.”

Beltran pulled his hood low and covered his lower face with cloth.
In the cold weather, no one found it strange.

“Pour the bone broth! Only one onion per person! When are the potatoes and carrots ready?!”

The cooking area was filled with several large cauldrons boiling furiously.
Cooks busily prepared vegetables and meat.

For men facing war in the cold,
warm soup was both comfort—and an essential factor in keeping minor complaints at bay.

“Distribute according to standard rations. ‘Hook’ mercenary group—41 men. One pot: 21 salted meats, 21 loaves of bread. ‘Black Eyes’ mercenary group—total—”

Beltran issued orders nonstop.

By the time he was finally able to taste the soup himself, most of the mercenaries had already finished eating.

“Only now picking up a spoon?”

“Recruiter.”

“Just call me Günter.”

Günter sat down beside Beltran near the campfire.
Even now, sparring continued in the central clearing.

“Move, you idiots!”

Bill shouted as he pushed through the crowd of soldiers and mercenaries.

“What kind of person is the quartermaster?”

Beltran suddenly asked, bringing a spoonful of lukewarm soup to his mouth.
The long-boiled soup had a decent richness—but also a slightly burnt taste.

At first, Beltran had been picky about food, but now hunger had become the best seasoning.

“You mean Bill?”

“Yes. Why does he work so hard? He doesn’t seem like the diligent type.”

“You think so too?”

Günter smirked.

“Anyone would think so. He even siphons off supplies sometimes and gives them to tribal women. But no one calls him out on it.”

“The lord decided to overlook that much. Truth is, that guy’s under a curse.”

“A curse?”

“They say the lord himself placed it. If he ever does anything that harms Count Goethe or the lord, he could lose his life at any moment.”

“Magic?”

“I heard it’s some kind of magical contract, but I don’t know the details.”

At Günter’s answer, Beltran tilted his head.

As far as he knew, the lord couldn’t use magic due to a peculiar constitution.
And even if he could, such a powerful curse wouldn’t be possible with a mere magic contract.

“Anyway, things must be busy on your side.”

“I don’t even notice the days passing. I open my eyes and it’s morning, blink, and it’s already night.”

The lord had taken treasures from the Holy See, sold them in Bern City, and used its markets to contract reliable mercenaries.

Finances were abundant.

Not only treasures—he had also released the nobles captured during the war with Rutger in exchange for enormous ransoms.
The prices had been set so high that every freed prisoner or their family left behind at least one curse or insult.

“Well, times are what they are.”
“Do we stand a chance? I heard Botmer has five thousand troops.”
“As I said before, I don’t know the details. I just trust the lord.”

Günter showed unwavering faith in the lord.

Most of the soldiers in Vinfelt seemed to share that same trust.
Beltran, however, couldn’t quite understand it.
How could they be so unconcerned when their lives were on the line?
Then again, Beltran himself was in logistics and wouldn’t be fighting directly, so he had little ground to speak.

“Finally, he’s out.”

Günter, who had been biting into bread, suddenly looked toward the central clearing.

“Ah.”

Walking out into the clearing was Bruno—
Beltran’s older brother.

On the center of his tunic was the Büchtner crest: a crow with wings spread before a shield.
Standing opposite him was Enette.

Beltran had no choice but to set down his bowl.
Just seeing his brother from afar made him feel like vomiting everything he had eaten.

“That’s the eldest son of Büchtner. Says he’s out for revenge. Apparently the second son committed treason, killed his own father, and joined hands with Botmer. Claims the current Baron Büchtner is nothing but a traitor and that he himself is the rightful heir.”

Günter explained.

“…Why do they keep sparring?”
“Partly to boost morale. And partly to show off their strength. It’s also a way of saying—this is what we’ve got, so don’t complain and follow orders.”

“…Isn’t Goethe unable to use magic against people?”
“To be precise, that restriction applies to Count Goethe himself. They say he’s one of the very few 5-class mages on the continent. And besides, this isn’t Goethe—it’s Vinfelt.”

Boom!

Bang!

Several fireballs collided between Bruno and Enette, briefly lighting up the surroundings.
The soldiers erupted in cheers.

“That’s insane!”
“Burn it all!”

The magical sparring between Bruno and Enette was evenly matched.
At times, it almost looked like they were in sync.
Their casting speeds were nearly identical.

As time went on, Bruno’s expression grew more twisted.
It seemed his pride was wounded—being evenly matched with a mere girl who wasn’t even from the Academy or a noble house.

“Belon.”

“…Belon.”

“Ah—yes.”

Beltran belatedly remembered the alias he had made up.

Günter’s eyes sharpened.

“Did you do something to offend the Büchtner side?”
“…What? Ah.”

Only then did Beltran realize his face was exposed.
He had removed the cloth covering his lower face to eat.

And now, a knight was slowly approaching while locking eyes with him.
The winged crow crest on the surcoat.
A fierce-looking man with one torn ear.

“…Hagen.”

Beltran felt as though his breath stopped.
A loyal knight of his father—still serving Büchtner.

“I never imagined I’d find you here, young master. No… traitor.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this man is a soldier of Vinfelt—guh—!”

Before Günter could finish speaking, Hagen’s gauntlet slammed into his jaw.
Even as a seasoned tribal warrior, without being able to use aura, he was no match for a knight.
Günter rolled across the ground.

“Get up. If not for Young Master Bruno being here, you’d already be dead.”

Hagen spoke coldly.

Boos rose from the gathered soldiers in the clearing.
The sparring between Bruno and Enette had ended in a draw.
Bruno, his face twisted with displeasure, turned his gaze toward Hagen—and then toward Beltran.

At that moment, Beltran couldn’t hold it in anymore and vomited.
A killing intent-laden mana crushed down on his body.

Bruno slowly—but surely—walked toward him.
The anger-filled mana tightened around Beltran’s heart.

Even though Beltran possessed mana equal to or greater than Bruno’s, he couldn’t resist.
Guilt and loss dominated his mind.

His vision went dark.

“Kill him.”

Bruno’s voice—his brother’s—pierced into his ears like a spike.
A chill ran down his spine.
The surrounding mana trembled with murderous intent.

Shing—

The sound of Hagen drawing his sword rang out clearly.
Inevitable death loomed before Beltran’s eyes.

And then—

Clang!

With the sound of steel colliding, the suffocating pressure vanished.
Beltran staggered, his blurred vision returning.

“What business do you have with our food clerk?”

“…Isaac.”

Beltran muttered, almost like a groan.

Isaac’s sword had blocked Hagen’s blade—
and then casually knocked it aside.

It was a simple strike, yet Hagen was forced back several steps.

“What do you think you’re doing!? That man is a traitor who killed his own father—a disgrace to his family!”

Hagen roared.

“Baron of Vinfelt. This is a matter of family importance. It is not your place to interfere.”

Bruno also glared fiercely at Isaac.

“Did you see it?”

Isaac asked, picking at his ear.

“…What do you mean?”

Bruno clenched his teeth as he replied.

“I’m asking if you saw it with your own eyes. This guy doing that.”