Chapter Fifty-Six: No Money to Spare

The head of the Logistics Affairs Office was a woman with the rank of lieutenant colonel, rumored to be Sain’s elder sister. Her name was lengthy and cumbersome, so most simply called her Director Bell.

Commander Ode had three sons and three daughters left in total; Sain ranked fourth, the youngest among them. Director Bell was the third child, nearing forty years of age. Even so, her appointment as head of the office was undoubtedly due to her father’s influence.

The Order of the Thunder Knights consisted of three cavalry battalions: the first led by the eldest son of the commander; the second, where Sain was assigned, would likely be under his command in the future; and the commander’s second daughter served as the head of the magical communications unit. The third daughter, of course, was the chief of logistics. More than half of the major positions within the Order were held by the commander’s own family, granting him an iron grip over his subordinates—a situation that left little room for outside interference.

Sain, at eighteen, was much younger than his siblings—his next eldest sister was already forty. Below Sain were a brother and sister, one ten years old, the other three. But these were family matters; Ode, being a general, could marry several wives and father many children without issue. Whether the Order would become a family regiment in the coming years was not Kevin’s concern.

What he cared about, at present, was procuring military funds—yet the person he needed was simply never present.

Arriving at the office barracks, Kevin waited as the sentry went inside to report. Moments later, the response came: “The director is not here.”

Kevin was left helpless. With his rank and position, he could not just barge in or make a scene. Fortunately, there was ample time, so he decided to wait at the entrance.

He gradually realized the director was deliberately avoiding him, and even if he pressed for military funds, she would find some excuse to refuse. Kevin could even anticipate the simplest excuse: “There’s no money.” He couldn’t raid their accounts, nor would he obtain any evidence.

After all, for them, developing the cavalry took precedence—a catapult was perhaps a dispensable accessory. Still, one had to try to know the outcome; without trying, nothing would come of it.

So Kevin waited outside the office for an entire day, to no avail. Several carriages came and went, but with their curtains drawn, he could not intercept them. For all he knew, the director might have entered and exited several times without his knowledge.

The next morning, Kevin inquired with the logistics staff during drill, only to be told that the director never attended drills.

He was quite frustrated—she didn’t even have to show up for drills, whereas he, when he did, was constantly targeted. On second thought, it was the logistics unit; even if the soldiers drilled, it was little more than standing in formation.

At least there was one comfort: he was no longer stopped by the patrol for riding his donkey. He continued to salute from atop the donkey, and the patrol now reluctantly returned the gesture. Evidently, that particular issue was now behind him.

With no night training, Kevin found himself with ample free time. He had noticed earlier that no one seemed to care whether or not he was present at camp—he could hide in his wagon all day and no one would know. It seemed he could wander freely, even go into town. As long as he showed his face at the morning drill, that was enough.

But then he recalled that during the last meeting, the parrot had been sent to find him. If he wandered off so far that the parrot couldn’t locate him, that would be a real problem.

Given all this, as commander of an independent unit, he reasoned that he should have what any independent unit ought to have: its own military funds, its own messenger parrot, perhaps even its own kitchen and mess hall. He could handle these things himself—after all, he was a mage. Signing a contract with a parrot was not difficult, if only one were assigned to him.

With his thoughts in order, he decided to approach the commander directly with his suggestions. Unfortunately, he was immediately rebuffed; the guards at the door simply refused him entry.

“The general is busy with official matters. Please come another day,” they said. Kevin had nothing to say to that—he certainly couldn’t drag his catapult over for a midnight drill at the general’s door, unless he had a death wish.

Thus, Kevin sought out Lieutenant Colonel House, commander of the third battalion, who had previously answered two of his questions. Kevin had nothing to offer, and though he had a little money, it was not enough to interest the man. He could only thicken his skin and try to build rapport.

“Lieutenant Colonel House,” Kevin said respectfully, “I always enjoy our conversations.”

House smiled. “The patrols are settled, then? Not bad. But there are some questions I won’t answer.”

“Lieutenant Colonel, I’d really like to ask: in my situation, what should I do?” Kevin’s question was straightforward.

“What do you want to do?” House retorted.

“I don’t know,” Kevin admitted. “If you were in my position, what would you do?”

“That’s not a question I can answer,” House replied flatly. “Such a hypothesis doesn’t exist.”

“There’s something called ‘strategic simulation,’” Kevin persisted. “I hear it’s a required course for officers above the rank of major. You could easily simulate the next move from my perspective.”

“You certainly know a lot of terms,” House sighed. “A pity you’re using them in the wrong place.”

“Then at least tell me, why am I the catapult commander?” Kevin pressed.

House was silent for a long while before speaking. “That’s a difficult question. I can only give you a simple analysis from a certain perspective.”

“First, every unit is required to undergo comprehensive magical modernization—that’s a general directive. Each unit must have a certain number of mages, cavalry, infantry, archers, heavy equipment, communications, long-range strike capability, mobility, and so forth,” House explained, imparting some basic knowledge. “Our army is primarily cavalry, but all are trained in archery and can fight as infantry when dismounted. We have mages as well. The only thing we lack is heavy equipment.”

“At present, heavy equipment includes catapults, giant staves, formation diagrams, and so on. Of these, the catapult is the cheapest. So… do you understand?” House left his sentence unfinished.

Kevin nodded. “So the general just needed a catapult to meet the national quota? But why would the state require such a rule? It seems odd for a cavalry unit to be forced to acquire heavy equipment.”

“That’s not your concern,” House waved it off. “Some say it’s due to overproduction—the warehouse in Landon City is overflowing, so they’re forcing the units to take some of it. Others say it’s to ensure the generals are familiar with all regular unit types and equipment in peacetime, so they can coordinate in war. Either way, don’t dwell on it.”

“But I still don’t get it,” Kevin pressed. “If the catapult unit is so dispensable, why assign me? Wouldn’t some old veteran biding his time do just as well?”

“First, the catapult unit isn’t dispensable—it’s mandatory,” House replied. “Second, it’s hardly a cushy spot for someone looking to idle away their days. If you do, you may well end up dead for real!”

Kevin paused. “What do you mean?”

“Every unit has targets and plans,” House said. “How many subordinates reach a certain level of battle energy? How is the riding assessment? The archery skills? There are evaluations mid-year and at year’s end. Your catapult—can it even launch a projectile right now?”

“Year’s end?” Kevin was startled. “There’s an assessment at year’s end? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Regrettably, your direct superior is the general. If he doesn’t tell you, no one will,” House chuckled. “If you fail the assessment, don’t panic—you won’t be executed on the spot. But you’ll lose half a year’s pay and be formally reprimanded. For the next six months, you’ll have no income, though scrounging a meal won’t be hard. Fail again at the next assessment, and you’ll lose another six months. After two or three such failures, your officer’s rank will be stripped, and you’ll be demoted to private.”

Kevin was silent a moment. “Is that what happened to my predecessors?”

“Yes,” House replied. “Your post as catapult commander was vacant for half a year before you arrived. No one wanted the job—everyone was scrambling to curry favor or pull strings to avoid it. Eventually, they decided to pick someone from the new recruits this year.”

“You might wonder why, after thrashing Sain in the recruit drills, you—the supposed genius—didn’t get promoted, but ended up here instead,” House smiled. “Some nobles look down on commoners, and the more talented the commoner, the more they… Well, I’m not naming names. Also, a genius is only useful if they’re under control. A genius outside their control is dangerous—the more gifted, the greater the threat.”

“Do you think that, after beating the general’s son in front of him, you’re seen as someone easy to control?” House asked.

Kevin remained silent, still processing the explanation. House began to usher him out. “That’s enough for today—I have things to do. If you’re hoping for military funds, don’t bother. That woman—er, Director Bell—is… frugal. Not even I can always get to see her.”

“Thank you for your time,” Kevin said as he stood. “When’s the next independent department meeting with the general?”

“No set schedule, but at least once a month—sometimes several times a day,” House replied. “Why? Planning to speak up?”

“What else can I do?” Kevin sighed. “My only real skill is talking.”

“Good luck,” House said with a wave.

“Will I really have any luck?” Kevin asked, somewhat at a loss.

“At the very least, you’re the only catapult commander I’ve ever seen who brought his catapult to drill outside the patrol office at night,” House replied.

Kevin managed a bitter smile as he left. House hadn’t said everything, but had made the situation clear. To the commander of the Thunder Knights, the catapult was just for ticking boxes—no need for excellence, just presence. Officers might get demoted if the catapult didn’t function, but for the regiment as a whole, it was inconsequential. Every year brought new officers; losing one more meant little.

Kevin had simply been the chosen one this year—perhaps as retribution for beating Sain. He wasn’t really a genius; his physique was ordinary, and his magic didn’t interact with elemental constitutions. Beating Sain was a matter of technique and strategy—little more than cleverness in their eyes.

No one would want to trade places with Kevin now. When new recruits arrived in December, he doubted any would be assigned to him. At that point, any excuse—shortage of personnel, for instance—could be used, and how would Kevin know if it was true?

Regardless, his situation was now clear. He had no other options but to find a way to break the deadlock.

He continued to visit the logistics office and the general daily, each time hearing that they were busy or unavailable. Kevin had grown accustomed to it. Meanwhile, he began to consider how to modify the catapult.

No one was coming to help, so he had to devise a way for a single person to operate it. The catapult was of the counterweight type—the main problem was how to hoist the heavy load back into position. Currently, the counterweight was a large basket of stones; Kevin could move them one at a time, but it was far too slow.

He considered adding a winch or lever system to make the process easier. But while winches trade distance for force, turning one alone would still be slow and perhaps not up to standard.

Another idea occurred to him: splitting the counterweight into two, connected by pulleys or levers. The central point would be fixed where the original counterweight’s rope attached. When lifting, he could first raise one half. The other half would remain on the ground. Once the first half was at its maximum height, he’d lock the throwing arm, then use the pulley or lever system to lift the second half. The first half would serve as a counterbalance, making it easier to raise the second. At that point, the arm would still bear the full load, and unlocking the mechanism would let it drop as before.

This method would halve the force needed to lift the counterweight, though it might reduce the drop distance. The increased bulk might make it impractical—Kevin wasn’t sure.

There was also a much simpler solution: involve the three donkeys. Kevin alone lacked the strength, but with three donkeys harnessed to a winch, pulling the counterweight up via rope might do the trick.

If three were not enough, he could request three more. They had plenty of donkeys, and three were barely enough to pull the cart, let alone carry projectiles. At present, Kevin had not a single shot for the catapult; ideally, enough stones should be on hand for a full battle—requiring at least another three donkeys to haul them.

Over several days, Kevin drafted a few designs. The director and general ignored him, but he felt some satisfaction in having made progress. He’d studied a fair bit of structural mechanics—his father had taught him from the Royal Academy textbooks. He wasn’t exceptional, but he was competent.

Still, he knew drawings weren’t enough. Anyone who worked with their hands knew that creating something new always brought unexpected challenges—things you’d never considered. Kevin’s ideas were only that—ideas. To truly modify the catapult, he’d need to consult and collaborate with skilled craftsmen.

He could saw wood and measure dimensions, but innovation was risky for a non-expert. Ultimately, he needed money.

Finally, after another week, a parrot flew into Kevin’s little cabin. “Meeting! Independent department heads meeting!”

This time, Kevin was full of confidence. Sword at his side, he strode into the main tent and took a seat at the back.

The meeting was much like the last—probably routine, with little substance. The general didn’t even mention Kevin’s “infamous” night drill outside the patrol office. The discussion was all about improving training… implementing various regulations…

At last, the general spoke: “Does anyone have any questions?”

Kevin immediately stood. “General! I—”

“You’ve come to see me many times, I know,” the general interrupted. “You’ve also sought out the director. You want military funds, don’t you?”

“Yes, General, I—”

“Don’t bother.” The general waved him off.

Kevin was speechless.

“The financial situation is dire at the moment. We’re auditing the accounts,” the general explained. “No one’s receiving funds—not even the other battalions. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

Kevin glanced at the others; they sat silently, tacitly confirming the general’s words.

“But—”

“Kevin!” The general’s face darkened. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin closed his eyes and sat down slowly.

“Meeting adjourned.” The general waved his hand. Everyone rose and left; only House gave Kevin a lingering glance, but just the one.

That evening, Kevin wandered out of camp—the one advantage of leading an independent unit was that no one supervised him. Others needed approval to leave the camp, but as an independent department head, his only superior was the general. If the general said nothing, no one else would stop him.

With no hope of military funds, what was left to do? Kevin drifted aimlessly into the city, lost in thought. Saka City was bustling as ever; in the evening, people thronged the streets to shop and enjoy the cool air.

Before he knew it, he found himself outside a tavern. He paused—years as a wandering bard had made taverns his second home. Apparently, the habit persisted.

From within, he could faintly hear: “Rex is now invincible… He’s invincible, ha ha ha…”

Kevin’s eyes lit up. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door.

No military funds? Did they think he couldn’t earn his own living?