Location: Shelb Estate
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Shelb estate, Ethan sat in his study, engrossed in military reports. The heavy oak door creaked open, and his squire stepped in, holding a sealed letter.
Squire (bowing): "A letter for you, my lord. From Dame Vivian."
Ethan froze mid-sentence, his pen halting above the paper. He glanced at the envelope as though it were a coiled snake.
Ethan (grumbling): "What does that insufferable woman want now?"
The squire wisely said nothing, handing over the letter. Ethan broke the seal and began reading, his eyes narrowing with every line. By the time he finished, he was pinching the bridge of his nose.
Ethan (muttering): "Valor? Punctuality? Who in their right mind—"
He slammed the letter onto his desk, glaring at it as if it were the cause of all his problems.
Ethan (to the squire): "Apparently, I've become the subject of unsolicited praise. Someone out there decided to send Dame Vivian a glowing review of my… punctuality."
Squire (hesitantly): "That's… admirable, my lord?"
Ethan shot him a withering glare before throwing up his hands in exasperation.
Ethan: "Admirable? This is her idea of mockery! She thinks I orchestrated this nonsense."
The squire tilted his head, considering the letter.
Squire: "Perhaps it's her way of… expressing respect?"
Ethan (snorting): "Respect? More like a new method to invite me to a duel."
Leaning back in his chair, Ethan rubbed his temples. The letter was maddeningly vague, and the lack of a clear author left him suspicious.
Ethan (muttering): "Whoever wrote this had better pray I don't find out."
The squire, wisely, decided to change the subject.
Later that evening, Dame Vivian twirled her sword with practiced grace, her thoughts lingering on Ethan's likely reaction to her letter. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she envisioned his frustration.
Vivian (to herself): "Let him puzzle over it. Keeps his mind sharp."
Her gaze shifted to the folded letter from Micheal on her desk. She picked it up, her smirk softening into a thoughtful smile.
Vivian (musing): "At least one of them has a sense of humor."
With a flick of her wrist, she set the letter aside and returned to her training, her laughter echoing softly in the quiet of her chambers.
Location: Armond camp
The morning air at the Armond camp was crisp, but Micheal and Arthur were anything but. Exhausted from their first chaotic night, the two stumbled into the training grounds, trying to appear composed. Micheal tugged at his training gear, a bit snugger than he'd prefer, while Arthur lagged behind, muttering to himself about the indignities of peeling potatoes.
Arthur (groaning): "I signed up for gallantry and glory, not manual labor and blisters."
Micheal (grinning): "Character-building, Arthur. Plus, it's great for your grip strength."
Arthur (deadpan): "I'll be the strongest potato peeler in the kingdom."
The training field was alive with energy. Half-beast recruits practiced wrestling in the mud, aura users demonstrated dazzling combat techniques, and the air buzzed with commands from the drill sergeant.
Drifter watched Micheal approach, his sharp eyes noting the noble's posture. From a distance, Micheal appeared slender, almost frail compared to the bulkier recruits. The sergeant snorted.
Drill Sergeant (barking): "Von Shelb! Let's see if that noble blood of yours can handle the mud."
Micheal stepped forward, trying his best to exude confidence. He began with the obstacle course, an imposing array of hurdles, nets, and trenches. The first hurdle went smoothly—until Micheal misjudged his footing and landed face-first into a muddy ditch. The recruits howled with laughter.
Arthur (from the sidelines, wincing): "My lord, you're supposed to climb the wall, not hug it."
Micheal stood, mud dripping from his hair, and gave a sheepish grin before charging forward. Despite his initial fumbles, Micheal's bullish strength began to show. He powered through the weighted lifts, outpacing human recruits, and when it came to the rope climb, his arms bulged with unexpected power, hoisting him to the top.
The drill sergeant raised an eyebrow.
Drill Sergeant (gruffly): "Looks weak, hits strong."
By the time sparring drills began, Micheal was drenched in sweat. His partner, Claude—the fox-eared recruit—sized him up, smirking.
Claude (mockingly): "Ready to be flattened, Prince?"
Micheal shrugged off his shirt, revealing a slender but well-toned physique, his abs more wiry than the carved muscles of aura users.
Claude lunged at him. Micheal met his fist half-way, grabbed it and immobilized Claude. The laughter in the group faltered for a moment.
Claude (stunned): "Huh. Didn't expect the noble to pack a punch."
Micheal (wiping his face): "I get it from my grandfather."
Claude rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the mention of Harold, the South-Western Wall. Sparring began, and Micheal's unconventional strength quickly became apparent. Though he lacked finesse, his strikes were powerful, his endurance dogged. Still, every time he gained ground, Claude's agility outmatched him.
Claude (dodging a swing): "You've got the strength of a bull, Prince, but you fight like one too."
By the end of the session, Micheal was bruised but oddly satisfied. His performance had earned him a few nods of grudging respect, though the nickname "Merchant Prince" stuck after the recruits discovered his tent decorations. Micheal had tastefully decorated his tent with silken curtains, different scented candles, insect repellents, and other things seem too out of place in a military camp
While Micheal sweated through drills, Arthur found himself in the camp kitchen under the tutelage of the gruff but jovial cook, Hector. The half-beast chef towered over Arthur, his wolfish grin gleaming.
Hector (handing Arthur a cleaver): "Cooking's like combat, lad. You need precision and speed."
Arthur stared at the cleaver like it was a venomous snake. His first task—chopping onions—resulted in more tears than progress. By midday, the kitchen was in chaos. Arthur had burned a pot of stew, accidentally used salt instead of sugar in the soldiers' dessert, and somehow managed to lock himself in the pantry.
Hector's booming laughter echoed across the barracks.
Hector (roaring): "You've got talent, lad! For destruction!"
Arthur dragged himself back to the barracks that evening, his apron singed and his pride in tatters.
Arthur (grumbling to Micheal): "If food is a weapon, I'm guilty of culinary crimes."
The second day of training saw Micheal paired against Garrick, a grizzly half-beastman renowned for his brute strength. The recruits gathered to watch, some placing bets.
Claude (smirking): "Ten coins says the Prince won't last a minute."
Micheal squared off with Garrick, who cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping logs. The grizzly half-beast loomed over Micheal, his size intimidating.
Garrick (grinning): "Don't worry, noble. I'll make it quick."
The match began, and Garrick charged like a bull. Micheal, remembering Barnaby's teachings, sidestepped at the last second, causing Garrick to stumble.
Micheal used his surprising strength to land a solid blow to Garrick's side with his practice sword. The grizzly roared, more surprised than hurt, and retaliated with a swipe that sent Micheal sprawling. But the noble got back up, mud-covered and grinning.
The match ended in a draw, with both combatants panting and bruised. Drifter watched from the sidelines, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
Drifter (muttering): "He's got potential."
That evening, Micheal returned to his tent to find Claude waiting, a smirk on his face.
Claude (tossing a towel): "You're not half bad, Prince. Maybe you'll survive after all."
As Micheal cleaned up, he caught sight of Arthur dragging himself into the barracks, carrying a lopsided tray of food.
Arthur (exhausted): "I made it through another day. Barely."
Micheal chuckled, sharing the tray with Claude. Despite the hardships, a sense of camaraderie was beginning to form in the barracks. The recruits might not fully accept Micheal yet, but they were no longer mocking him outright.
As Micheal lay down that night, his muscles aching and his pride bruised, he couldn't help but smile. This was tougher than anything he'd faced before—but it was also oddly exhilarating. For the first time, he felt like he was truly earning his place.
Location: Shelb Barracks
The first day of Soldier Appreciation Week dawned on the Shelb estate, a quiet contrast to Micheal's chaotic introduction to camp life. Adrian von Shelb, ever the visionary, was in his element. Clad in his finest double-breasted coat, he strode into the soldiers' courtyard, flanked by Harry Alcott, his perpetually frazzled assistant. Ever since Micheal said he can be anywhere but Shelb's army and left for Armond's camp, Adrian had been researching on ways to make Shelb's army attractive to the soldiers. The Soldier Appreciation Week is a result of Adrian's hardwork to raise soldiers' Morale.
Tables were laden with food, banners fluttered in the breeze, and the aroma of roasted sausages wafted through the air. Adrian's voice rang out, clear and confident, as the soldiers gathered hesitantly.
Adrian: "Men and women of the Shelb estate! Today, we honor your service with the inaugural Soldier Appreciation Week! Consider this not just a feast but a celebration of your commitment and courage."
The soldiers exchanged glances, their skepticism as palpable as the smoke rising from the grills.
Soldier #1 (muttering): "What's the catch?"
Soldier #2: "Probably wants us to fight blindfolded or something."
Adrian, unaware—or perhaps unfazed by the doubts—stepped onto a silk-draped crate and gestured grandly to the spread behind him.
Adrian: "Let this breakfast be the start of something extraordinary. No drills this morning. Only laughter, camaraderie, and the finest cuisine this side of the kingdom!"
The soldiers lined up cautiously, eyeing the abundance of sausages, fried eggs, and pastries. A tower of pears stood proudly at the center, Adrian's attempt to add a touch of "elegance."
Harry (hissing to a cook): "Next time, smaller portions. We're feeding soldiers, not hosting a royal banquet."
Cook (grinning): "You think they'll complain?"
As the soldiers began eating, the mood shifted from wary silence to tentative chatter. A few even ventured to taste the pears.
Soldier #3 (biting into one): "These pears… they're actually good."
Soldier #4: "Think they're enchanted?"
Near the food tables, Adrian floated among the soldiers, shaking hands and nodding graciously. One soldier, Sergeant Halbert, held a cup of coffee and stared at it suspiciously.
Adrian: "Freshly ground beans from Mount Vedrin. Only the best for our defenders."
Sergeant Halbert (sipping): "Tastes like dirt."
Adrian laughed heartily.
Adrian: "Constructive feedback! I'll have Harry look into a lighter roast."
Adrian had distributed handwritten thank-you notes earlier, each one crafted with care—or, as Harry suspected, a touch of overzealous enthusiasm. Two soldiers leaned against a fence, examining theirs.
Soldier #5 (reading aloud): "Dear Private Collins, your unwavering dedication to the Shelb estate does not go unnoticed. You are a valued team member. Sincerely, Adrian von Shelb."
Soldier #6: "Sounds like a love letter."
Soldier #5: "Better than the last one I got."
Laughter rippled through the courtyard. Adrian, watching from the sidelines, leaned toward Harry.
Adrian (whispering): "Do you see that, Harry? Morale is rising already."
Harry snorted, his arms crossed.
Harry: "Morale or confusion? Hard to tell."
Adrian waved him off, his optimism undeterred.
Near the pear tower, a soldier slipped on a discarded peel, prompting a round of laughter from his comrades. Adrian, quick to seize the moment, turned to Harry with a grin.
Adrian: "You see, even mishaps bring people closer. It's all part of the bonding experience."
Harry muttered something under his breath, no doubt a prayer for patience, as the soldiers returned to their breakfast, the courtyard now buzzing with life.
Meanwhile, Adrian scribbled notes on his clipboard, already planning the next day's festivities. This is only the beginning, he thought with a satisfied smile. Far from the chaos Micheal faced at the Armond camp, Adrian was determined to leave his own mark—one fruit basket and thank-you note at a time.