Emergency Assembly

Translator: Cinder Translations

...

Near Alden Town, New Recruit Training Camp. 

The morning star still flickered in the steel-blue sky when the sudden creak of the barracks' door hinge broke the silence. Moments later, a night-duty officer stepped out, holding a brass lantern that swayed in the cold wind, casting flickering shadows of the stationed guards. 

A weary soldier immediately straightened his back and saluted with force. 

Just as the officer was about to return the salute, a sudden rush of hoofbeats echoed from the distance. 

Both men at the gate tensed up, shifting their gazes toward the misty horizon. As the approaching figures came into view, they were shocked to see who it was. 

At the forefront was none other than their lord, Paul Grayman. 

Beside him rode several individuals—Catherine, Schroeder, Bryce... 

"Salute!" The officer stiffened and raised his hand in a military salute, his voice betraying his nervousness. 

Schroeder spurred his horse forward and said calmly, "Emergency assembly!" 

The officer sucked in a breath of cold air. This was every recruit's worst nightmare. 

Regardless, orders had to be executed without fail. Hopefully, these young recruits wouldn't disappoint! 

Within moments, the sharp blare of a bugle shattered the barracks' silence. In less than thirty seconds, the entire camp erupted into activity. 

"Emergency assembly! Pack your rucksacks, full battle gear, and assemble on the parade ground!" The officers' voices echoed through the corridors. 

Young men, still half-asleep, groaned as they crawled out from their warm blankets, hastily pulling on the coarse wool uniforms hanging by their beds—uniforms still stiff with the salt-crusted sweat of the previous day's training. 

There was no time to light the barracks. In the dimness, brass buttons glinted as they were fastened, belts cinched, leggings wrapped, and rucksacks secured—all done with practiced efficiency. 

Within five minutes, all soldiers were dressed, armed, and rushing out of their barracks toward the parade ground at full speed. 

The iron-studded leather boots clattered loudly against the ground, the sheer mass of soldiers moving together seeming to shake the earth itself. Each soldier instinctively found their position according to their training. 

From disorder to structure, and finally to perfect formation—within moments, several square battalions had taken shape. The gleaming barrels of their rifles lined up in straight, silver streaks under the dim morning light. 

Loud roll calls echoed across the field. Within minutes, it was confirmed that every single soldier had arrived without exception. The camp commander promptly reported the results to Lord Paul and awaited further orders. 

From the moment the bugle was sounded to the completion of the assembly, less than thirty minutes had passed—Paul was quite satisfied with the efficiency. 

However, as always, there were mishaps. Some soldiers were visibly wearing ill-fitting uniforms. And where one soldier had the wrong clothes, it meant another had swapped with him by mistake. 

The most embarrassing case occurred when Paul walked closer to inspect the troops. With a sudden whoosh, the pants of a soldier right in front of him fell to the ground. 

The unfortunate recruit's eyes widened in sheer embarrassment, frozen with no idea how to react. 

"Soldier, pull up your pants!" 

Paul spoke with a stern face, though he was trying hard to suppress his laughter. 

"Y-Yes, Lord Grayman!" The soldier, as if granted mercy, scrambled to pull up his trousers and tightened his belt as much as he could. 

A training officer jogged to the front of the formation, stood firm, and shouted in a booming voice, "Ten-kilometer weighted endurance run! On my command—everyone, right turn! March!" 

At the command, the battalions moved in perfect order, jogging in formation out of the camp. The rhythmic steps of the soldiers echoed in the morning air, though how long they could maintain this precision under the strain of a long-distance run remained to be seen. 

Catherine watched them disappear into the early dawn, her outward expression calm, but her heart filled with admiration. 

No matter how many times she witnessed it, the sight of Alden's army moving as one—like a singular entity—was always a breathtaking spectacle. 

Over time, she had come to recognize the key differences between Alden's army and traditional military forces, particularly the old kingdom's army. 

In the Kingdom of Aldor, knights were the undisputed core of warfare, while common soldiers merely served as auxiliaries. These feudal knights hailed from various territories, only occasionally gathering for hunts or tournaments. Due to their deep-rooted sense of individual heroism, their ability to coordinate as a unified force paled in comparison to Alden's army. 

Even worse were the common conscripts—peasants hastily recruited from their farms, given only a few days of training before being thrown onto the battlefield. 

The royal family had once maintained a formidable knightly order composed of noble youths from prestigious families, using their collective strength to keep local lords in check. But as years of peace dulled the nation's edge, the quality of knights became inconsistent, finances deteriorated, and common soldiers lacked proper reinforcement. As a result, the kingdom's authority gradually weakened. 

In contrast, Alden's military placed the bulk of its strength in its regular soldiers, with Paul Grayman holding them to near-knightly standards—at least in terms of physical training. Every soldier was robust, well-fed, and rigorously conditioned. 

Just as Catherine was deep in thought, a rider galloped into the camp, carrying an urgent message. 

The messenger didn't even wait for dawn, proving the letter's urgency. 

"My Lord, an express telegram from Crystal Glare!" 

"Crystal Glare?" Catherine's heart sank. Given the kingdom's struggles in recent years, her mind instinctively leaped to the worst-case scenario. 

Paul quickly tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. His eyebrows twitched, and to her surprise, a hint of excitement flashed across his face. 

"The southern war is over." 

Everyone present knew he was referring to the campaign against Duke Giles, the traitorous noble of Crystal Glare. 

"What's the outcome?" Catherine asked eagerly. 

The last report from the northwest bay indicated that the kingdom's army had crossed Eagle's Beak Pass and was advancing toward Five Goats City, preparing for the decisive battle against Giles. 

Paul replied, "The royal army encountered little resistance along the way and reached Five Goats City almost unopposed. With the help of our 24-pound cannons, they blasted a breach in the city walls in just one day—seems like old fortifications are no match for modern firepower. The army stormed in and seized the city... But unfortunately, Giles managed to escape. He wasn't found in his castle." 

"Damn it..."

Catherine thought bitterly, feeling a sudden surge of disappointment, even mixed with a bit of jealousy.

After all, it was she who commanded the army to march south the last time they went to war against Giles, but compared to her campaign, this royal army's expedition was as smooth as a hot knife cutting through butter.

(End of the Chapter)

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