Chapter Fifty-One: The Captain of the Trebuchet

The recruit drills had ended, and the matter of personnel assignments was now in the hands of the high-ranking officers. Kevin and the other privates, naturally, had no say in such affairs. They simply returned to their original barracks and waited quietly for news.

At this point, Officer Marcus no longer scolded them; after all, they were about to leave. On the contrary, he seemed quite pleased—having trained two of the strongest new recruits under his command was no small achievement. He was now considerably more amiable with everyone.

Kevin and Sain were polite as well, though conversation between them remained sparse. In the end, things had resolved rather satisfactorily—Kevin had neither been beaten nor had he beaten anyone else, thereby avoiding any offense to the commander of the Knights of Thunder. In retrospect, Kevin realized that after winning several matches, letting Sain win one would not have been a problem. But given how much Sain had annoyed him throughout, Kevin had indeed wanted to teach him a lesson.

Regardless, Sain had managed to salvage a bit of his dignity. The incident was behind them. With his father being a general, no one would dare taunt Sain with questions like, “So why don’t you call Kevin ‘Grandfather’?” any longer.

At the same time, Stat and Gray showed genuine interest in Kevin’s experiences abroad. Kevin shared what he could, keeping silent on what he couldn’t disclose. This led to the story unfolding that Kevin had simply been relaxing on a rooftop when he was suddenly arrested, put on trial, and, during the proceedings, it was revealed that the attackers in the Poisonous Forest had actually been guards from the Kingdom of Labozier. Kevin had suffered a great injustice, which caused the others to hold Labozier in even greater contempt.

A day passed, and by early morning the next day, the orders finally arrived. By a curious twist of fate, Kevin’s entire squad had been assigned to the Knights of Thunder. They would be led by another captain and were to depart immediately.

Marcus gave them a final word of consolation: “This is normal, don’t overthink it. The Knights of Thunder retired many last year and need to recruit more this year. Quite routine.”

His words offered some comfort, for Kevin had worried that his victory over Sain during the drills would lead to his being assigned to Sain’s father’s regiment for a grueling round of retribution. But such worries were now moot; orders were orders, and they had to be obeyed. The group began taking their leave of their drill officer.

Recruit training had been an ordeal for all. As for the source of their suffering—the drill officer—their feelings were complex. Sain and the others had once plotted to take him down, Gray had cursed him countless times in secret, and even Kevin had harbored resentment after being struck simply for asking questions. The officer’s methods were, to say the least, severe.

Yet, at this moment, it was impossible to feel animosity. Marcus smiled and waved them off: “Someday, you might find yourselves training new recruits too, and perhaps then you’ll understand my methods. Soon we’ll be colleagues, and with your strength, you’ll all surpass me. If one day your rank exceeds mine, I’ll have to call you ‘sir’! Ha ha!”

“No, no,” Kevin replied with a smile, “an officer will always be an officer.” The others joined in the laughter.

With a wave, they boarded the carriage, watching Marcus grow smaller and smaller in the distance until he disappeared from view. The city was silent, each of them lost in thought.

By afternoon, they arrived at their destination: Sarka, a grassland city in the kingdom’s north. The main city still boasted towering walls, though not as exaggerated in height and thickness as those bordering Labozier. Kevin had visited Sarka in his travels; it was an agricultural hub, supplying nearly ten percent of the kingdom’s grain. There were half a dozen large estates outside the city, three of which supplied the Knights of Thunder with provisions.

Along the way, their escorting captain shared details about the Knights. The regiment comprised approximately 2,500 men—2,000 in combat units and 500 in logistics. The Knights of Thunder were among the kingdom’s elite, with over eighty percent of their combat troops at level five or higher, some even stronger, on par with the palace guards.

Five years ago, at the royal parade, the Knights of Thunder displayed orange battle aura—a feat impossible to fake. Kevin and his companions, though officers, were still green; even displaying red aura would have been grounds for ridicule. They might be stronger than new recruits or logistics, but not by much.

Such a formidable force required robust logistical support. While individual talent and fortune could explain a man’s strength, to raise an entire unit’s power, there was only one solution: food. No one ever became a sword saint by eating weeds.

It was accepted that certain magical beasts’ meat could enhance one’s aura, but even farmed magical beasts were hard to supply for three meals a day. Most units had to make do with a little magical meat mixed in with regular beef or pork. Raising magical beasts was no simple task—they were finicky eaters—and wild ones were even harder to find; you’d be lucky to catch a dozen after scouring hundreds of kilometers.

But the Knights of Thunder had money—if one estate couldn’t supply enough, they’d add another, or even a third. Through sheer wealth, they had hammered out one of the three great knightly orders.

Of course, the flipside of such extravagance was that, once you became a full-fledged combatant here, retirement was difficult. After so much investment, you couldn’t just leave after two years. The oldest sergeant was already forty-five, a level-six warrior with yellow aura, but even though he wanted to retire, they wouldn’t let him. He refused promotion, wanting only to leave, but they kept him on, year after year.

Hearing all this, Kevin and the others felt uneasy. With the soldiers here being so strong, how were these rookie officers supposed to make a place for themselves? Sain didn’t have to worry, but the rest were in for tough times.

The Knights’ camp was outside the city, which was unusual. The camp had its own walls, backed against the city walls. They didn’t handle city security or take on mercenary jobs, except on rare occasions.

Their carriage stopped at the camp gate. Regulations stated that, unless under emergency or exceptional circumstances, riding within the camp was prohibited. All cavalry must dismount and lead their horses, and carriages had to stop. This rule applied to everyone, generals and soldiers alike.

They disembarked, taking in the unfamiliar camp with curiosity. Parrots circled overhead—a sign of many mages in the camp. The grounds were spotless, tents arranged with perfect precision, and the soldiers’ uniforms gleamed; each man radiated an imposing presence. Their arms looked thicker than Kevin’s by a fair margin.

“Sain! Marinus! Orca!” the escort captain called out, reading from his list. “You three, report to this tent!”

“Yes, sir!” the trio responded, asking no questions, and went on their way. Kevin and the others had no idea what awaited them in that tent.

The captain then led the remaining three further along, stopping at another tent. “Stat! Gray! You two, report here!”

“Yes, sir!” They went in, leaving Kevin alone and feeling a little anxious.

The captain continued to escort Kevin, winding through tent after tent until they reached a place that looked long neglected. The ground was overgrown with weeds, and spider webs clung to the corners—almost unimaginable in this otherwise immaculate camp.

With practiced ease, the captain produced a key and opened an old, heavy door. Inside was an ancient catapult, the air tinged with must.

“Here’s the key,” the captain said, pressing it into Kevin’s hand. “This catapult is your responsibility now. From now on, you’re the catapult captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin replied instinctively.

“Remember, this is the only catapult in the whole regiment. The previous caretaker retired, so it’s just you now.” The captain patted Kevin on the shoulder. “You can pick up three donkeys at the stables tomorrow for hauling it.”

Kevin was speechless.

“Oh, and,” the captain led him into a small adjacent room, “you’ll live here. You can get all your supplies at the quartermaster’s office—meals and lodging are included, from underwear to cups. Here’s the catapult manual; study it well.”

Kevin could only stare in silence.

“I’m off,” the captain finished, waved, and walked away, leaving Kevin to gape at the catapult.

It was still folded, its four massive wooden wheels thicker than Kevin’s waist. Fully assembled, it would nearly reach the height of the city walls. It was covered in dust and cobwebs. Kevin rolled up his sleeves and tried to push it, even summoning his aura, but it didn’t budge—only a little dust fell.

There was no way one person could operate something this heavy. Was he being set up?

But even if he was, there was nothing to be done about it. Kevin shook his head, dispelling thoughts of conspiracy. He locked the door again and went to the quartermaster for his supplies.

The quartermaster said little, just processed his paperwork. Not only did Kevin receive a cup, bedding, and uniform, but also standard weapons—sword, shield, spear. This was an elite unit; their gear was a cut above what new recruits received. Every item was recorded, so replacements were possible if damaged, but unlimited requests were out of the question.

With so many things, Kevin realized he couldn’t carry them all himself. Looking around, he saw Sain and the others collecting their supplies as well, but they were lucky—a group of new recruits followed behind, diligently helping carry everything. Sain didn’t even need to lift a finger.

Stat and Gray had new recruits helping them, too; they barely had to lift a hand.

Stat called out to Kevin, “Hey, we’re heading out.”

“Yeah.” Kevin could only nod. He watched as the new recruits bustled around them, knowing that, as officers, regardless of their current strength, they would all rise in rank and power, and building good relations was always wise.

The quartermaster gave Kevin a curious look. “Are you new to the team? Why isn’t anyone helping you move?”

“I’m… the catapult captain,” Kevin replied.

“Oh.” The man’s expression suddenly made sense, as if he understood everything, and he said no more.

Kevin had no choice but to make two trips, moving everything himself. He spent the rest of the day cleaning his quarters and organizing his belongings, working until dusk.

He went to the mess for dinner, but knew no one. Nobody greeted him; he grabbed some food and bread, returned to his room, and ate alone—no one stopped him.

That night, he lit his oil lamp and finally opened the catapult manual. Ten pages in all, half of them diagrams for assembly and disassembly, the rest technical specs—range, power, and so on.

The Kingdom of Lauboler produced several models of catapult; Kevin’s was a large, model 204, counterweight type—the biggest there was. Only the siege engines mounted on city walls were larger, but those weren’t really vehicles.

A counterweight catapult used leverage: a heavy weight at the front, a long arm at the back, with the payload at the tip. Once triggered, the weight dropped and the payload launched—up to 500 meters, and could fire incendiaries with devastating force.

Ideally, it required ten to twenty operators, but if you argued, one person could theoretically do it. The counterweight—usually several tons of loose stone—could only be loaded at once by a level-seven warrior. Still, since it was just stone, one person could do it bit by bit; the result being, it might take a full day to set up the catapult, and you’d only get two shots off.

At least there was some consolation—the catapult had a brake. The reason Kevin couldn’t move it was because the brake was engaged. It was lighter than he’d feared.

Knock, knock, knock! Suddenly, someone rapped at the door.

Surprised, Kevin wondered who it could be at this hour. He rose and opened the door, finding Stat outside, accompanied by a new recruit.

“What brings you here?” Kevin asked.

“So you live here?” Stat glanced around. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you being targeted?” Stat guessed, likely because of the match with Sain.

“I have no idea.” Kevin shrugged—what could a junior officer know? He changed the subject. “Why are you here?”

“I’m on patrol,” Stat spread his hands. “Came to see who still had lights on after curfew, you know.”

“Come on,” Kevin said, a bit uneasy, “I’m just… working late!”

“Relax, I’m joking.” Stat waved his hand. “I’m off.” The recruit said nothing throughout, just exited with him.

“Be careful yourself,” Kevin warned, “that’s a job that earns a lot of resentment.”

Stat just smiled and waved. “No choice. See you.”