Chapter 23: Violence and Purpose

The campaign could not have been going worse.

Sir Jora brought his right hand to his face, the stress draining away his usual energy and enthusiasm. He stared at the scene with disgust while his heart pounded inside his chest.

What a disaster.

Thirty soldiers had disobeyed the newly appointed general’s orders. Instead of allowing another halfling merchant caravan to pass, they had attacked it and stolen its goods. The bodies had already been hastily buried. They had tried to conceal the crime so they could keep the loot for themselves, but they had not counted on a scout discovering them and reporting everything to Jora.

“What the hell did you do? You attacked the caravan even though I ordered you not to raid anyone?” The commander’s cold voice bore little resemblance to the arrogance he had shown Raiga only a few days earlier.

Responsibility was slowly extinguishing that spark within him, turning him into a practical man-at-arms.

“We’re at war! Why should we show mercy to the enemy? Those damned halflings were practically obese, loaded with food and riches that should have belonged to us.” The apparent leader of the looters was a relatively young sergeant, no older than twenty. He had gray hair and brown eyes, features typical of the northern provinces, the poorest regions of the kingdom.

His companions belonged to the same unit, all provincials from miserable places.

“That’s not how this works, soldier! Disobeying direct orders is a serious crime!” Jora exclaimed.

“Why won’t you let us loot? They pay us next to nothing! The gods themselves ordered this invasion. Why should we be denied our divine right to take spoils?” The accused man’s question resonated deeply with the soldiers witnessing the confrontation.

From a military perspective, Jora’s command made little sense.

Everyone knew that looting settlements, attacking caravans, and seizing enemy resources were common practices during wartime. Soldiers were poorly paid, and for decades the miserable wages of the royal army had encouraged desertion and banditry.

A military campaign was the perfect opportunity for desperate men who had no other way out of poverty. Denying them the only real pleasure they expected from the war was more than they were willing to tolerate.

The atmosphere in the camp grew tense.

Many of the witnesses agreed with the imprisoned sergeant.

The war had already begun, and the sooner the halflings realized it, the better.

“Are you challenging my orders?” Jora tried to sound more intimidating. He placed his right hand on the pommel of his sword while his most loyal men surrounded the shackled agitators.

“Yes! They make no sense! We’re at war! We should be looting halfling villages, not saving everything for the capital. The God Ares protects us. With his blessing, we’ll destroy every settlement until they feel fear in their bones. Are you really going to execute us for demanding our right to plunder?” the sergeant asked, resentment filling his voice.

They were being forbidden from attacking.

From looting and destroying.

Then what was the point of the military march?

Commander Jora felt the stares fixed on him from a distance. Deep down, they all wanted to take part in the looting, burn cities, seize wealth by force, and escape poverty.

It was a crucial moment.

Dozens of sergeants and captains entertained the same brief but dangerous thought:

What if they mutinied and chose a new general?

Jora was no fool. He could feel the hostile intentions of his growing number of detractors. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered Raiga. The Heretic was not a bad person. Jora had felt that when they crossed swords, and it was then that he first understood that the gods were not perfect.

They could make mistakes.

And if a deity did not possess all the answers…

What hope did Jora have of finding them?

He was nothing more than a mortal entrusted with the authority to bring death upon innocent people.

“You idiots. I never forbade looting… Did you really think that was why I arrested you?” The knight was forced to swallow his honor in order to survive. Otherwise, his violent and starving warriors would have torn him apart on the spot. “You tried to hide the loot and keep it all for yourselves. You know the damned rules. The commander gets first choice, then he passes the rest down to his trusted officers, and the spoils continue through the chain of command. Or did you think you were above everyone else?”

Jora’s speech completely changed the situation.

The soldiers who had supported the sergeant and his men only moments earlier quickly turned against them.

Once again, Jora used military regulations to his advantage.

Everyone knew that high-ranking nobles received the finest spoils. Skipping that deeply nepotistic step was grounds for execution without trial.

“He’s right! They tried to steal our share of the loot!” shouted one of the heavily armored knights present. His companions quickly joined the accusation and demanded that the executions take place immediately.

The angry, defiant expressions of the thieving soldiers turned to fear in less than a blink.

“W-Wait, Commander, we…” Their plea was cut short by a shout.

“You will be sentenced to death for theft. Bring the executioners!” Jora exclaimed, raising his longsword toward the sky. Immediately, a dozen knights in silver armor appeared and dragged the soldiers toward an improvised wooden platform.

The entire army gathered around the scaffold, shouting vicious curses. If there was one thing soldiers hated even more than the enemy, it was thieves from within their own ranks.

The execution was swift. There was no trial and no defense. Everyone agreed with the verdict. Jora demonstrated impressive control of the situation. Not only did he erase the sudden doubts about his leadership, but he also removed troublesome elements from his army.

“Attention!” Once the grim spectacle had ended, Jora climbed onto the platform and addressed his warriors. The shouting and whistling stopped the moment they saw him standing there in his imposing plate armor, golden hair shining above the crowd. “The stolen goods will be distributed according to military regulations. Everyone will receive the share they deserve. No exceptions… You have already seen what happens to cheaters who try to keep the best spoils for themselves.”

“Yes, sir!” the troops shouted.

“Very well. Then we will loot the next settlement. Once we do, the council will distribute every item according to experience, social rank, and contribution in battle. It is a slow process, but a fair one. Does anyone disagree?” the general asked while pointing toward the bodies hanging behind him.

“No one!” they answered in unison.

I’m sorry, halflings, but I can’t control this army much longer. I’ll have to let them loot innocent villages and distribute the profits in a precise and efficient order. Everyone will receive a share, even if they have to wait. When their own well-being is involved, soldiers can put aside their hatred for the enemy. After all, gold can be stronger than conviction.

Sir Jora lamented silently.

The most he could do now was slow the army’s advance through bureaucracy born from selfishness and the desire to hoard the best spoils.

This campaign will end badly. I’m certain of it, the commander concluded.

The level of violence continued to rise, as though Ares himself had joined the royal army.

And violent incidents were not limited to the campaign. In the streets, criminal groups operated more frequently than ever, from sophisticated mafias to alley thieves robbing merchants simply to find enough food to survive.

Darkness was rising on the horizon…

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Sir Lancelot emerged from his meditation.

He stood and walked toward the mirror on the dresser, where he saw a tired face staring back at him, paler than a ghost.

“N-No way. Then… I…” He never finished the sentence. He simply stared at his exhausted reflection without another word.

After returning to his room following his confrontation with the Prophet, he had entered a deep meditation in an attempt to contact the gods. He wanted to discover his place in the world and learn the ultimate mission he would be given as the most powerful Divine Champion.

And they did speak to him.

Never before had he actually held a conversation with a god. The exchange had been brief but direct. Terrifying truths had come crashing down upon him, nearly driving him insane. For just a moment, Sir Lancelot wished he could have been an ordinary person, someone completely removed from the fate of the world.

But that opportunity had vanished years ago, when he accepted the role of Divine Champion and received the grace of the gods.

He frowned bitterly, turned away from the mirror, and returned to the white bed waiting for him with its impossibly soft pillows and blankets.

“The truth… the truth… the truth… the truth…” he muttered.

His eyes remained fixed on the stone ceiling.

“I suppose there’s nothing I can do anymore,” Sir Lancelot concluded.

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The next morning, the Marshal of the Kingdom woke early, ate breakfast, and put on his armor as soon as the clock struck eight. The green recruits greeted him as he walked through the barracks. Everything appeared normal, nothing out of the ordinary.

And that was how it should have remained.

Until the sergeants noticed that their precious Marshal never arrived for training.

The King sent for him, but Lancelot did not answer.

Messengers went to his home and found it empty.

He had taken everything with him, from his grimoires to his weapons.

It was as though he had never existed in the first place.

Absolutely nothing remained of Sir Lancelot.

Not even his memory.