"Do any of you still have objections?"
Seeing the shifting expressions below, Rowan asked the hall.
"..."
One by one, heads shook. No one spoke—neither Jean nor Seamus, not even Frederica. If the principals were silent, what right did the peanut gallery have to object?
"In that case, next decree: effective today, the Knights of Favonius will expand to a total force of 110,000."
"The Knights' military budget will be doubled. Individual knight pay will be doubled."
"But standards and personal competence must rise to match. I compiled this overnight."
"Frederica—review it."
Rowan had tailored the requirements from his homeland's formal army criteria—adjusted upward for Teyvat, where humans born amid abundant elements develop stronger bodies. The document laid out clear entry standards and a training regimen for the Knights.
He flicked the sheaf of pages; it drifted neatly into Frederica's hands.
As her eyes ran down the eight assessment items—starting with the "easy" one, basic physical conditioning—her face tightened.
"My king… this is asking too much."
It wasn't bluster. At these standards, Mondstadt might struggle to recruit even ten thousand, let alone 110,000. This wasn't hiring recruits; this was screening for ace knights. A majority of current actives couldn't meet these marks.
"Too much?" Rowan's voice cooled. "Then they're out."
"The Knights do not feed idlers. Starting tomorrow, all active personnel will test. Fail, and you're dismissed."
"If this already seems 'hard,' let me be blunt: where I'm from, these are baseline entry standards for beginners—not veterans, not special forces."
"If you cannot meet even this, how do you defend Mondstadt? How do you protect its people?"
Grumbling died in a heartbeat. Rowan hadn't even used the original, harsher version. If he had, even some titled knights would struggle. Mondstadt's bane was excess freedom—citizens and knights alike mistook leisure for virtue. Common folk dared to bark orders at the acting grand master. There was a lot to fix.
And this was only the military correction. If they were already whining, what would they do when civil life was reformed? Riot?
"Well then, your homeland's people must be admirable," a knight muttered—loud enough for all to hear.
The hall fell silent; eyes swung toward the speaker. He didn't flinch.
Rowan gave a short laugh. "Hate to disappoint you. My homeland has no elements, no special power. The average body is weaker than half a Mondstadter's."
"That… how is that possible?" Frederica blurted. She knew he wasn't a man to throw nonsense—but the page in her hand was brutal. For Vision-bearers, fine. For ordinary people? Very hard.
Even Venti frowned. Perhaps Mondstadt really had drifted too far into comfort.
"How?" Rowan's tone sharpened. "Because our soldiers know what it means to be vigilant in peace. They know that the backward get beaten."
"They know that if they don't train hard now, then when war comes, they'll be led to slaughter."
"Is Mondstadt so different?"
Spittle flashed in the torchlight as he spoke. Knights stared at their boots. The knight who'd snapped earlier looked stubborn—but the color had drained from his face.
Rowan rose, patience gone.
"And what have you done?"
"On night watch? You go drinking. You sleep. Mondstadt's safety is an afterthought."
"On duty? You show your face, then dump your work on someone else so you can play or drink."
"Have you no shame?"
"When I saw it with my own eyes, do you know what I thought?"
"How has a nation like this survived until now?"
"My guess: Barbatos."
"Barbatos is a god and will watch over Mondstadt. But must Mondstadt not strengthen itself?"
"Do you depend on Barbatos for everything? On Jean for everything? Are you children?"
"Or their pampered dogs?"
Dead silence. No one met Rowan's eyes. Venti glanced up at the furious king and said nothing. Istaroth, however, nodded, approval plain. Even as "mother" to the wind god, she had rarely meddled—Venti's independence made her proud. Of the Seven Nations she'd watched across ages, Mondstadt puzzled her most: brilliance at the top, complacency at the bottom.
The strong—Jean, Lisa, Kaeya—wore too many hats and did their duties besides. Most citizens were decent, did their jobs. But a few rotten apples lazed, begged favors, slipped off to "rest" or drink halfway through a task, treating indolence as a right.
Who would respect a Mondstadt like that? Morax would pinch his nose and leave. You can't carry the deadweight forever.
At last someone had come to change it—and they still quibbled? Some loads refuse to stand up, no matter who lifts them.
By the way… who was "A Dou," again?
(End of Chapter)
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