Four years of war had instilled in Caesar the habit of eating quickly. After finishing his meal in haste, he wiped his hands and said to Tom, who sat beside him, "Tom, let's go."
Caesar made his way back to the quartermaster camp. It was midday, and most soldiers were either napping or lounging in the tavern. Without hesitation, Caesar walked straight to the rear outpost of the quartermaster camp, took the money pouch from Tom, and entered the building.
"Warner! Warner!" Caesar called out.
"Damn it, Caesar! Can't a man have a decent nap? I hear you, I hear you! Stop hollering, you bastard!" Warner, the officer responsible for coordinating stagecoach communications, emerged from one of the inner rooms, his hair disheveled and his face scowling.
Still grumbling, Warner said, "Sending money home again, are you? Alright, hand it over!"
"Here. This one's mine, and this one's for my squad. Don't mix them up!" Caesar barked.
"Got it, got it. It's not the first time I've sent your money back. You're more particular than most captains!" Warner muttered, still irritated from being woken.
Caesar gritted his teeth and pointed a finger at Warner. "You'd better not mess this up, Warner. You know I'll come for you if you do."
Warner, despite his easygoing demeanor, was in an enviable position. As the head of the post, he not only earned the pay of a third-class soldier but also enjoyed safety and stability. Logistics, after all, was the lifeline of the army—everything else could fail, but supply lines could not.
No small-time officer dared to provoke Warner. Yet, despite the cushy position, Warner had little chance of promotion. Caesar had heard rumors that Warner was connected to the steward of a baron, which might eventually open doors for him.
"Any other requests? A message, perhaps?" Warner asked knowingly. Over time, he had become familiar with Caesar's routine.
"Yeah. Tell my parents to take care of their health. And tell my big sister to stop hoarding her money—she should buy what she likes. I don't lack coin now," Caesar said firmly. In his mind, he pictured the silk scarf he hoped his sister would finally buy.
"Got it," Warner nodded. "The merchant caravan heading back to Kyle Territory leaves tomorrow. It'll pass through the occupied Peters region in eastern Tyre Province, then Flor City, and finally reach southern Del Province. It should arrive in about twenty days."
After exchanging a few more words, Caesar excused himself, allowing Warner to return to his nap.
The post might seem deserted now, but Caesar knew it would be bustling by the afternoon—today was payday.
Leaving the outpost, Caesar and Tom made their way back to their squad's tent.
"Tom, what do you think our village looks like now?" Caesar asked as they walked.
"Pretty much the same, I'd guess," Tom replied, his voice soft but nostalgic. "The maple tree at the village entrance must be bigger now. My older brother had another son this year, so I've got three nephews now. The fields will have no shortage of hands to plow. They say this year's harvest was good—our family even slaughtered a pig and shared the meat among the military households. And..."
Tom, usually quiet, became animated when talking about home. He spoke ceaselessly until they arrived at the tent.
"This war has been dragging on for four years now," Caesar sighed. "It must end soon. I really want to go home."
Back at the squad's tent, most of the men were resting. Only Phil, the servant soldier, remained on guard duty. Veterans knew that conserving energy was the key to surviving on the battlefield.
Caesar removed his jacket, lay down on his bed, and closed his eyes. But sleep didn't come. His mind was occupied with thoughts of promotion.
The Garrel Kingdom's military promotion system was clear-cut:
Servant Soldier: Fresh recruits, often cannon fodder, who undergo two months of training.
Third-Class Soldier: The backbone of the army, requiring one year of wartime service and the ability to defeat three servant soldiers.
Second-Class Soldier: Leaders of ten-man squads, requiring two years of wartime service and strength sufficient to defeat three third-class soldiers.
First-Class Soldier: Commanders of hundred-man squadrons, requiring three years of wartime service and the ability to defeat three second-class soldiers.
The position of First-Class Soldier came with the privilege to cultivate "fighting energy." Beyond that, the path to becoming a knight remained shrouded in secrecy.
Caesar knew his own abilities well. He could hold his own against three soldiers of similar rank. His years of service and combat experience met the requirements. But competition was fierce, especially now.
Two months ago, their battalion suffered heavy casualties in an intense battle. The third and fourth squadron leaders had been killed, leaving two vacant positions. Every capable soldier in the battalion now eyed those spots.
Caesar shuddered at the memory of that battle—a brutal fight in the Felmer Grand Canyon. To breach the enemy's defenses, the kingdom's three main legions launched relentless assaults. Soldiers fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground.
Caesar still remembered enemy soldiers, bloodied and broken, launching desperate counterattacks even as they lay dying. Their tenacity was both terrifying and admirable.
In that battle, Caesar had led his squad to attack a relatively undefended flank. They avoided heavy magic bombardments and fierce frontal clashes, instead securing a strategic vantage point.
Still, the price was steep. Two men from Caesar's squad—Private Geli and the young servant soldier Gal—had fallen.
In return, Caesar had earned significant military merit. Each enemy waist tag they retrieved was exchanged for honor points:
Servant Soldier: 1 point
Third-Class Soldier: 5 points
Second-Class Soldier: 10 points
Caesar had accumulated nearly 50 points—enough to exchange for money or supplies. But he wasn't spending his points. Not anymore.
He had learned from the bloody battle at Gordon Heights that survival came first. Military merit could secure his promotion and, hopefully, his life.
Now, with two squadron leader positions open, Caesar believed he had a fair shot at advancing. His performance, his merit points, and Uncle York's support gave him hope.
But war was unpredictable, and Caesar knew better than to count his chickens before they hatched.
For now, all he could do was wait—and prepare.