After a long wait, it was finally Daemon's turn. First to vote was Captain Mont.
"I think this young man is still too green. He needs a couple more years of experience."
With that, he fell silent.
Mont wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but he felt Young Lord Solon shoot him a subtle glance, one that made him feel uneasy. Still, he brushed it off, perhaps it was nothing.
Next was the vice-captain of the First Squad. He was no stranger to Daemon. He had first met Daemon after the bloody battle at Gondor Heights, when Daemon had arrived at the newly established military camp, drenched in blood. Had he not been wearing a clearly identifiable Storm uniform, the archers might've shot him on sight before he reached the gates.
At the time, the vice-captain was a squad leader himself, stationed at the gate. Daemon, accompanied by a young man about his age, had approached him and asked, "Ser, is this the Second Battalion of the Eagle Legion?"
Upon hearing confirmation, Daemon collapsed. The vice-captain had immediately ordered his men to take Daemon to a medic. The memory left a strong impression on him.
Perhaps it was that moment of goodWillas, but from then on Daemon had shown him great respect, often greeting him and even bringing small spoils from the battlefield. Just a few days earlier, Daemon had gifted him a bottle of wine and a small silver pendant with a distinctively Northwild design. Not expensive, but heartfelt.
"I think the young man has what it takes. He may be young, but he's driven. I'll support him for now," said the First Squad's vice-captain.
He had spared Mont's dignity by not fully endorsing Daemon, but his support was clear. Mont, now looking at Daemon in a new light, thought, If even my battle-brother supports him, maybe this kid really has potential.
Next came Joshek and Karl, both of whom unsurprisingly voiced support for Daemon. After all, he came from their unit, it would be disloyal not to back their own.
But gunning for a squad captain position wasn't that easy. Daemon had just three votes so far. Even two earlier candidates had gotten at least three, and the frontrunners, Narmer and Jensen, hadn't even been voted on yet.
"I think Daemon still lacks some management skills. He needs more training," said the vice-captain of the Fourth Squad, casting a clear no vote.
That wrapped up the round. With just three votes, Daemon's chances looked slim.
"I think Daemon is a fine candidate, strong, capable, more than enough for a squad captain."
The quiet tent was suddenly broken by the voice of Young Lord Solon.
The tent fell into brief silence again. It was Joshek who reacted first. "Yes, yes! I watched Daemon grow up, he's capable in every way. You're right, Young Lord Solon."
The others quickly followed suit:
"That's true. Daemon's got real strength."
"His leadership isn't lacking either, his squad's casualty rate is the lowest in the whole camp."
"He's a solid young man."
Even those who had previously voted against him began praising Daemon.
So Daemon's secured Solon's backing, thought Joshek.
And he wasn't alone. The same thought ran through everyone else's minds.
Baron Kenning looked at his son with surprise. Solon usually didn't weigh in on such matters. Is Daemon truly exceptional, the Baron wondered, or…
The Baron studied his son thoughtfully. Perhaps it's time to start testing him.
After a brief commotion, the voting resumed. Daemon now had the most votes, four.
The six captains, seeing Solon's unexpected endorsement, recalibrated. If Solon had chosen Daemon, then Daemon was guaranteed one of the two available squad captain slots. That meant they couldn't allow anyone else to get more than four votes, only two candidates could surpass that threshold.
Solon abstained from further votes, cementing this impression.
Though the vote was presented as democratic and fair, everyone present was ultimately a vassal of Baron Kenning, and likely future vassals of Young Lord Solon. True fairness didn't exist. Once the Young Lord made his choice, they followed suit.
In the end, the results were:
Daemon: 4 votes
Jensen: 4 votes
Narmer: 3 votes
Others: Not worth mentioning.
Had Solon not intervened, Jensen, with his seniority, strength, and leadership, would've likely received more than four votes. Narmer certainly wouldn't have been stuck with just three. But reality was reality, and everyone had to accept it.
"Then Daemon and Jensen Willas fill the two vacant squad captain positions," said Baron Kenning, finalizing the decision.
He looked calmly at everyone in the tent. His long-standing authority kept the room silent, not through brute strength, but personal presence.
"There's one more announcement," he continued. "The Third and Fourth Squads Willas be merged into the new Third Squad. All squads are to transfer seasoned veterans into the Fourth Squad. Jensen Willas serve as Fourth Squad captain. Daemon as vice-captain."
Then he looked at Solon and, softening his tone, said, "Solon, the Fourth Squad is yours to oversee. You'll also take on the position of deputy commander of the cavalry unit. Don't disappoint me."
Only when speaking to his son did the icy, unreadable baron show a hint of warmth, a father's love.
"Yes, Father," Solon replied with a slight bow.
"That's all. Dismissed. Willas, you'll handle Battleforce training for the new captains. As for plans for the assault on Faircastle, we'll meet again at noon tomorrow."
"Yes, my lord," the others answered respectfully, all standing, except for Solon.
With the meeting adjourned, the captains and Solon left the tent. Only Baron Kenning and the silent old butler remained. The guards entered, moved the table to the side, and respectfully withdrew. Two maids entered quietly, refilled the baron's tea, and left without a sound.
Now in his forties, Baron Kenning had come to enjoy this refined drink from the capital, tea. It helped him relax his long-tense nerves. He sipped quietly, thoughts drifting.
Eventually, he set the cup down.
"John, you've been with me all these years. Any regrets?" he asked.
"My lord, I was once a slave. Thanks to your grace, I became your steward and have served at your side. I have no regrets."
"Ah, twenty years gone in a blink. The kids have all grown up…" the baron sighed. Even the austere, commanding Kenning was still a father at heart. "You, an intermediate Squire, lowered yourself to serve as my steward. I won't treat you unfairly."
"Thank you, my lord," the old steward said, kneeling.
"Get up. After all these years, you still cling to those old formalities. You're not young anymore. Kneeling like that Willas wears you down," the baron said with understanding.
"My body is still strong. I can still protect my lord and ease your burdens," the steward said with his head lowered.
The baron chuckled and asked, "John, which of your two sons do you favor more, George, in the cavalry, or Warner in logistics? George is already at the peak of apprentice knight level, right? With luck, he might break through further, his future could be bright."
"George has talent. If all goes well, he could reach elementary Squire by thirty," said the steward.
"Then he'll be a great asset to House Kenning," the baron said.
A Elementary Squire was already a considerable force. So far, Baron Kenning's elite force included:
Ser Willas – High Squire
John, the steward – Intermediate Squire
The baron himself – Elementary Squire
Mont – Elementary Squire
Others – Entry-level squires at best
Additionally, the baron kept another Elementary Squire stationed back at his domain to handle bandits and maintain order during the prolonged war. This was necessary, as Storm's army was stretched thin.
This elite core of one High, one Intermediate, and three Elementary Squires far surpassed most baronies. For comparison, Baron Kashir, a peer of Kenning's, only had one Intermediate and two Elementary squires. Just Ser Willas alone could wipe out Kashir's high command.
That was the strength of Kenning's military power.
"Warner is a clever one, too. He's done a great job managing the supply depot," the baron continued, commenting on the steward's second son.
"Yes, Warner is a good boy," John said. For the first time, the expressionless steward smiled faintly upon hearing praise for Warner.
The baron noticed instantly, his steward clearly favored the younger son.
"John," he asked, "George has greater achievements. Why do you favor Warner?"
The old steward was silent for a long moment before answering:
"Because… he's more filial."
The baron said nothing.
...
"One, two, thrust!"
"Brighton! Did you skip your meal? Straighten your back!"
"Eyes forward, slash!"
...
All across the military camp, squad leaders were shouting commands as they drilled their soldiers. Everyone was on edge. Even the usual troublemakers were quiet today, they knew their leader's future was on the line. Any screw-ups now could bring disaster.
From time to time, everyone's eyes drifted toward the dark green tent in the center of the camp. At last, the tent flap opened, and several squad captains filed out one after another.
A few sharp-eyed young men quickly stepped forward to greet them.
"Uncle Mont, you're out!"
"Good afternoon, Captain!"
...
But the captains, preoccupied with thoughts, barely acknowledged them. The soldiers, not wanting to overstep, quickly returned to their squads after offering greetings.
Ser Willas was the last to emerge. He walked directly into a group of training soldiers and casually pointed at two of them. "You two, go bring Jensen and Daemon to the training grounds behind the camp."
The two soldiers understood instantly and took off at full speed.
When the breathless messenger delivered Ser Willas's command, Daemon knew right away, he'd made it. With knowing glances from his fellow squadmates, Daemon set off alone toward the rear training ground.
The rear training ground was a mysterious place in the minds of the rank-and-file, only squad captains and above had access. The area was massive, nearly as large as the main training field used by hundreds, yet reserved for just a few individuals.
By the time Daemon arrived, Jensen was already waiting at the gate. The two greeted the gate guards and entered. The soldiers on duty had clearly been informed already.
"Ser Willas is already inside," one of them told them.
Jensen was in his mid-thirties, a seasoned veteran with experience on par with Uncle Joshek. He had a sallow complexion, was tall and lean, and carried a solid reputation within the camp. His promotion hadn't come as a surprise to Daemon.
"Daemon, I'm not at all surprised you were promoted, who in this camp hasn't heard your name?" Jensen said warmly.
"Come on, Jensen, don't tease me. You got promoted too! Do you know which squad we've been assigned to?"
Both had come from different units, Daemon from the Second, Jensen from the First, so it was unlikely they'd stay in their current squads.
"No idea, Daemon. I figure the official notice Willas come this afternoon," Jensen replied.
"Yeah, that makes sense. Let's hurry, can't keep Ser Willas waiting." said Daemon.
Technically, by age and service length, Daemon should have addressed Jensen as uncle. But since Jensen had taken the initiative to call him by name, Daemon responded in kind. In the army, strength spoke louder than age. Jensen wasn't necessarily stronger than Daemon, and both now held the same rank of squad captain.
They chatted as they walked to the center of the grounds. This place wasn't just for training, it included numerous tents and towers. At the center was a wide open space, fenced into several sections. Ser Willas stood in the largest one.
Daemon and Jensen respectfully approached.
"Ser Willas."
Ser Willas gave a flat nod.
He gestured around them.
"From now on, this is where you'll train. I'll drop in now and then to instruct you. Just don't break anything. Use anything you want, but don't damage it."
Scattered around were spears, swords, and even suits of armor.
"You probably already know why I've called you here. The official appointments Willas be announced shortly, so I won't repeat myself. Today I'm going to teach you Eagle Battleforce." Ser Willas said calmly.
Though he was a noble knight, and by tradition should keep his distance from commoners, both men were now squad captains. Still, Ser Willas carried a faint air of condescension. Daemon wasn't stupid, he picked up on it. Jensen, a seasoned soldier, sensed it too. Though they didn't know the reason behind Ser Willas's attitude, both kept their heads down. After all, they were the ones seeking knowledge.
"Eagle Battleforce is the standard battle energy of the Eagle Legion. Everyone from the Legion commander to the rank-and-file practices it. It's a rare manual capable of advancing all the way to knight rank. But before you begin, you must swear not to share it with anyone." Ser Willas continued.
"Yes, sir!" the two replied in unison.
"Now I'll teach you how to regulate your breathing and condense your Battleforce seed. Listen closely..." Ser Willas got straight to the point.
Daemon spent the entire afternoon training under Ser Willas's guidance. By dusk, the clouds finally parted to reveal a splash of sunset red. Both Daemon and Jensen were shirtless, flushed red, holding firm stances as they focused.
This was the first step in cultivating Battleforce: condensing the energy seed.
The optimal age for beginning knightly Battleforce training was between 12 and 14. Unfortunately, both men had missed that window. But they were mature, driven, and had risen from the ranks to become squad captains, while not the most gifted, they were far from untalented.
Condensing the Eagle Battleforce seed usually took between one to three days, not due to talent, but rather willpower and bodily control. Although their appointments hadn't yet been announced, neither man was willing to back down. They were both determined to push ahead.
Finally, just as the last rays of the sunset faded and the sun dipped below the horizon, Daemon let out a fierce shout, his face twisted in concentration.
"Condense, now!"
A pale light flickered in his lower abdomen, no larger than a grain of rice.
Perhaps spurred by Daemon's breakthrough, Jensen followed soon after. He roared, eyes wide and bulging, and a faint white glow emerged from his abdomen as well.
Ser Willas, who had been waiting nearby, stepped forward.
"Not bad, both of you managed to condense it on your first day. That's what I expect from battle-hardened soldiers. Rest well tonight. From now on, follow the Eagle Battleforce flow paths I taught you. If you have questions, come here to find me."
With that, he turned and left.
Daemon and Jensen, both panting heavily, looked at each other, then burst into laughter. They both knew: they had stepped into the world of the strong. They had finally taken control of a part of their fate.
Soon after, two guards arrived to help them back to their barracks, clearly sent by Ser Willas.
Normally, as new squad captains, they would have joined the baron's dinner table. But it was already late, and without official titles, they headed to the camp mess hall instead.
The cook, Corey, had clearly been tipped off. He had already prepared a "feast" for the two of them.
Of course, a "feast" by army standards meant white bread and meat stew. But for Daemon, it was his first time eating white bread. The long, pale loaves were crisp and slightly sweet, nothing like the hard, stone-like black bread they usually ate. Only "upper-class" folks got to enjoy something like this.
Daemon devoured it greedily, one in each hand. Jensen wasn't much better. Cook Corey had done them right, six loaves of white bread and a big pot of stew. The exhaustion of the day melted away with the meal.
After dinner, the two parted ways.
Aside from patrolling officers and a few scattered torches, the camp was quiet, most had retired to their tents. Daemon slowly walked back to his own squad's tent, stomach bloated. He'd eaten meat before, but mostly pork. Today's meal was a rare delight.
Thankfully, the heavy meal hadn't interfered with his newly formed Battleforce seed. Otherwise, he might've cried.
Just as he approached the tent, a sharp-eyed sentry named Peter spotted him.
"Daemon's back!" he shouted into the tent.
In an instant, a swarm of men came rushing out.
Minutes later, Daemon stood there, face dark as thunder.
The excitement of his subordinates had inflicted a psychological "10,000-point damage" on him. Imagine being tossed into the air repeatedly by a group of burly men, on a full stomach. It was pure torment.
But the darkness of night hid his grim expression. The others, too caught up in their celebration, didn't notice his anger. They peppered him with questions, like curious kids.
Daemon had no choice but to patiently recount the events of his afternoon.
"Daemon, now that you've mastered Battleforce, are you stronger than before?" Hugo asked excitedly.
Daemon thought for a moment, then gave a vague reply: "Probably."