Makarov stood rigidly, a heavy cross strapped to his back, as he endured the intense discomfort of the training session. "What's the point of this ridiculous training against pirates? What on earth are you doing?" he muttered silently to himself, frustration mounting with each passing moment. He longed to glance sideways to gauge the state of the soldier next to him but quickly squashed the thought. He'd seen what happened to others who dared to shift even slightly under the watchful eye of Major Claude—punishments as severe as being denied food. He had no desire to face such a fate.
The little lord's peculiarities were becoming increasingly tiresome. Makarov continued to stew in his thoughts, recalling the absurd routines they'd been forced to endure: standing in military posture, executing awkward forward kicks. Even seasoned knights had been subjected to the same nonsensical drills. Makarov winced at the memory of the goose-step exercise—embarrassment flooded him at the thought of how he must have looked. Thank the gods they hadn't practiced in the town; he could only imagine the laughter from the villagers.
It seemed the little lord was suffering from some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder, with his obsessive demand for "tidiness" and "uniformity." The man even insisted on folding his quilt into four precise squares. Makarov had half a mind to believe the little lord was mocking them, especially after he had personally demonstrated the correct method of folding for the soldiers who couldn't get it right.
The only aspect of training that felt somewhat normal was the assassination drills conducted by Major Claude himself. In Makarov's eyes, these were essential skills for survival on the battlefield. Each lesson was a revelation, and he absorbed every word the major imparted, practicing diligently.
Despite his grumbling, Makarov held a deep respect for the little lord—not just because he had enjoyed meat twice this week, but for a far more significant reason: the lord had taken it upon himself to teach them how to read and write.
Most common folk lived their entire lives without the opportunity for formal education. While some could recognize a few letters, especially those engaged in trade or serving the nobility, the majority were illiterate. In remote areas, writing was often viewed as a mystical skill, reserved for the elite. Makarov had witnessed the astonishment on the faces of his fellow soldiers when the little lord announced evening literacy classes. Major Claude's surprise had been palpable, as if he had just been presented with a rare treasure. Yet, many soldiers remained dismissive, believing their duty was merely to fight for their rations. Makarov secretly scorned their complacency.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by Major Claude's booming command: "All troops, gather!" Makarov quickly shook off his distractions and moved into formation, aligning himself with the "pacetrooper" beside him. After a week of training, this response had become instinctive.
"Relax!" the major continued, his voice steady and commanding.
As the little lord approached, the atmosphere shifted.
"Soldiers, you have made significant progress this week. I am pleased to announce that your military posture has reached the standards I require. From now on, you will not need to wear the cross during drills."
He paused, noticing the lack of enthusiasm from the soldiers. Satisfied, he continued, "However, there are still areas needing improvement. According to Major Claude, many of your skills are lacking. If we are to combat the bandits efficiently, you will need to practice relentlessly. Sweat now, or bleed later!"
Makarov could sense the murmurs of dissent among some of the soldiers. "Isn't it because, my lord, you waste half our training time on marching and standing still?" they grumbled inwardly.
"And about your personal hygiene. I cannot stress this enough: if I find littering in any tent again, I swear I will have every member of that class running laps around the camp until they drop."
He then revealed, "Now, I have good news. I have commissioned Philip to create uniforms for us, which have just arrived. I will distribute them now."
With that, the soldiers formed an orderly line to receive their new attire. The uniforms, inspired by designs from Paul's previous life, were dark green and included jackets, trousers, hats, leather belts, and shoes. Each uniform bore insignia to denote rank.
As the soldiers changed into their new garments, an air of excitement replaced their earlier fatigue. The old, tattered clothes had been a constant reminder of their struggles; now, they wore their uniforms with a sense of pride. Their spirits lifted, they regrouped, and though discipline kept them quiet, the energy in the air was unmistakable.
Claude surveyed the newly formed ranks, a swell of pride filling him. Just a week ago, these were undisciplined farmers, some unable to discern their left from their right. Now, they stood with purpose, embodying the semblance of a proper army. The transformation was striking; even the kingdom's regular forces couldn't boast such immediate cohesion. He finally understood the little lord's insistence on the seemingly futile training.
However, Claude noted a critical flaw: nearly half of these soldiers had never seen combat.
Paul directed Claude to proceed with the planned training regimen, then led the supply servants into a nearby tent guarded by internal sentries.
"My lord, everything you requested is here. This is the first batch. Philip is still gathering the remainder, so it will take some time."
"Excellent. This will suffice for now, but we must remain vigilant for the rest."
Boxes filled with supplies lay scattered on the ground, the scent of sulfur wafting through the tent. Claude surveyed the contents with satisfaction before asking, "Where are the individuals I requested?"
The servant replied, "They are waiting in the next tent."
"Are they trustworthy?"
"Rest assured, they are loyal individuals who have served your family for generations. Philip has vetted them personally."
"Good. Ron, you'll continue to deliver supplies here. I will reward you well, but remember: discretion is paramount. Not a word of this to anyone, understood?"
"I understand, my lord. I swear on the Light that I will keep my mouth shut. If I leak anything, may I be damned," Ron replied fervently.
"Very well, you may go. But remember what I said."