The sharpness of their weapons wasn't the only distinguishing feature. Michael's soldiers had undergone two months of intense training, transforming them into capable warriors. Their morale was unmatched, and the Crassus family's elite guards, in particular, exhibited exceptional individual combat prowess.
As a commander, Michael's thoughts were conflicted. The confrontation with the Pamir Empire's forces was drawing near, and he knew his time was limited. Could he raise these unpolished recruits to the level of the Crassus soldiers? Would his efforts bear fruit, or would they perish on the battlefield?
Closing his eyes briefly, Michael inhaled deeply. All he could do now was prepare them to the best of his ability. Who would survive and who would fall in the flames of war was beyond anyone's prediction.
A week passed. The soldiers, to Michael's surprise, were far more enthusiastic about their training than he had anticipated. Their zeal wasn't driven solely by the fear of war—it was also fueled by the intimidating presence of the magical beasts, Miaomiao and Marcus, who revealed their true forms as they sat grooming their claws.
Michael had implemented a system where underperforming soldiers were separated and trained under the watchful eyes of the beasts. The results were extraordinary. To avoid being singled out for this special training, the soldiers pushed themselves harder.
The story of a soldier who broke his leg while fleeing in terror from Miaomiao's piercing gaze spread like wildfire. This incident birthed rumors that "subpar soldiers would become beast fodder." When Michael's attendants, Alex and Anthony, reported this to him, he deemed the fear an acceptable price for maintaining discipline.
After completing basic military training, Michael addressed the troops to boost their morale. Thanks to an amplification artifact crafted by Leonardo, his voice resonated across the field.
"You have all worked hard," Michael began. "Thank you for diligently following the basic training regimen. But this is only the beginning. Soon, you will return to your respective legions and enter the fires of war. Even on the march, do not forget what you have learned here—keep practicing.
"Even if you are conscripted peasants, you should know how much you stand to gain from earning merit in battle. The greater the danger, the greater the rewards. Soldiers, I wish you all good fortune!"
As Michael's speech concluded, the soldiers erupted into cheers, their faces brimming with determination. Watching them, Michael felt a pang of doubt. How many of them would survive to achieve glory? Having seen the brutality of war firsthand, he knew morale alone could not guarantee victory.
Shaking off his thoughts, he reminded himself that he couldn't afford to worry about others' soldiers. It was challenging enough to ensure the safety of his own.
Albert, a former bandit, cultist, and prisoner, had been assigned to the penal battalion, destined for the most perilous fronts. He had been captured during the fanatic rebellion and later conscripted as a model prisoner for reclamation projects.
With the sudden outbreak of war, Albert, along with other petty criminals, found himself conscripted into the penal battalion. Despite this turn of events, Albert considered his situation not as dire as he had expected. He was fed three meals a day, and no one beat him—conditions far better than he had feared.
Though he was anxious about where he might be deployed, he thought it might be better to earn merits and gain freedom than endure twenty years of hard labor. Of course, surviving to achieve such a goal was another matter entirely.
To calm his nerves, Albert began doing jumping exercises, focusing on building his stamina. While he was at it, a pickpocket named Jean approached him. Jean, a slightly dim but kind-hearted individual, had chosen ten years of forced labor over losing his hands as punishment for his crimes.
"Albert, why are you always doing those jumping exercises?" Jean asked curiously.
"If I build my stamina, I might be able to swing my spear one more time. You should stop wasting your breath and start moving too," Albert replied.
"Ugh, I'm already tired of the training. If I move any more, I'll probably throw up the barley bread I just ate. Besides, if it gets dangerous, I'll just run," Jean said with a grin.
Albert jabbed his finger at Jean.
"Idiot! Don't even think about running. If you run and get caught, you'll die for nothing. Do you even know what that mark on your forehead is?"
Jean rubbed his forehead indifferently, referring to the magical mark that Michael had ordered to be inscribed on every penal soldier before deployment.
"This? Eh, I'll just burn it off with fire after I run," Jean replied nonchalantly.
"You fool! That's magic! If you don't respond when the overseer calls your name, your head will explode right then and there," Albert snapped.
Jean's face turned pale.
"No way... That Sir Michael, with his fine looks, would order something so horrific?"
"Shh! Watch your mouth, you idiot. Do you want to get me killed too?" Albert hissed, pressing his hand over Jean's mouth and glancing around nervously. His face was drenched in sweat.
Albert still had nightmares about Michael, whose angelic face betrayed no emotion as he casually prepared torture tools.
Jean spat out Albert's hand.
"Ugh, gross. What are you so scared of? I was just joking. Sir Michael's one of the best nobles we could hope for. He feeds us, trains us, and even gives us good weapons. Do you know what it was like for penal soldiers before?"
Jean's voice dropped as he looked around conspiratorially, as if sharing a ghost story.
"Penal soldiers like us used to be practice dummies for knights learning how to swing their swords. They said we were too troublesome to manage."
Jean shuddered as he spoke but continued.
"If the successor had taken over just a bit earlier, I wouldn't have even thought about becoming a pickpocket. Do you know how much better life has gotten since he became the successor? Well, you wouldn't know, coming from somewhere else."