Bang!Bang!Bang!
The command post door crashed open hard enough to rattle the hinges. Hank stormed through, slamming it shut behind him with a thunderous BANG that made the oil lamps flicker.
Kloze and Donnie stood frozen at the entrance, watching their captain's murderous silhouette. Neither dared to breathe.
Hank crossed to the command table—a massive oak slab covered with military maps of the region—and braced both hands against its surface. The wood groaned under his grip.
"Tactical briefing. Now."
He was always intense. But right now, to Kloze and Donnie, he seemed ten times more terrifying than usual.
"Rosenburg Guard is hereby elevated to Alert Level One. Effective immediately."
His head snapped up, sharp eyes cutting through Kloze like a blade through silk.
"Lieutenant Kloze. After this briefing, you will seal every gate except the south entrance. Then you will gather every guard member—active duty, on leave, even the ones cooling their heels in the brig. Five minutes. I want them assembled in the training yard."
Kloze blinked, struggling to process the sudden barrage of orders. "Captain, surely this is overkill? It's just some unrest in the surrounding villages. Do we really need to—"
Hank's gaze rose slowly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"This is Kael. Acting militia captain from Sharl Town."
He gestured toward the calm-faced young man standing beside him—the same one who'd arrived at the gates earlier that day.
"He's brought intelligence that may determine whether Rosenburg survives the week."
"Survives?" Kloze and Donnie spoke in unison.
Donnie's young face flushed with vindication. He stepped forward, voice rising: "I told you, Lieutenant! I said those skeleton movements were wrong!"
"They're not scattered raiders anymore. Their actions are coordinated. Purposeful." His hands clenched into fists. "Like an actual army!"
Kloze's expression soured. He hated Donnie's know-it-all attitude more than anything.
He shot a dismissive glance at Kael, then straightened to attention with his hands clasped behind his back—the picture of military propriety.
"Captain, with respect, military intelligence is paramount. But mobilizing our entire defense apparatus based on the testimony of one unknown militiaman seems... premature." His voice dripped condescension. "If the intelligence proves false, we'll cause panic among the citizens and waste resources we can't afford to squander."
He paused for effect.
"Frankly, sir, what insight could a civilian from backwater villages like Sharl or Parsen possibly have? They probably encountered a few skeleton warriors, panicked, and exaggerated the whole thing."
Nailed it. Kloze thought his speech sounded both authoritative and professional. Quite impressive, really.
The captain's approval he expected never came.
Hank just stared at him. Cold. Silent. The kind of silence that made the hair on Kloze's neck stand on end.
His mind raced. A terrible realization struck him, and cold sweat broke out instantly.
He remembered.
Captain Hank Corrot... before being knighted... had also been a commoner. A farm boy from some nowhere village who'd clawed his way up through the ranks with nothing but skill and determination.
His geographical prejudice had just precision-targeted the one person in Rosenburg he absolutely couldn't afford to offend.
"Hmph."
Hank's cold snort cut through the air like a knife.
"Drop the noble act, Kloze. This 'backwater civilian' has more insight and courage in his little finger than you have in your entire body."
Each word landed like a slap across the face.
Hank turned away from Kloze's ashen expression and asked directly: "Current deployable strength. How many men can we field?"
"Uh... the number is..." Kloze's mouth worked, but nothing useful came out.
The truth was, he'd gotten this position through his father—Baron Locke, the city lord. He'd taken the role because he thought having rank in the guard would be impressive. Most days, he spent his time strutting around town and figuring out how to make his uniform look more stylish.
Actual administrative duties? Those were for other people.
"Two hundred thirty... no, wait, maybe two hundred sixty..."
He stammered while Hank's expression grew darker by the second.
Donnie bit his lip, struggling not to laugh.
Hank's glare swept toward him. Donnie immediately snapped to attention, all traces of amusement vanishing.
"Report, Captain! Rosenburg Guard has three hundred twelve personnel on roster! Excluding wounded, sick, and those on extended missions, current maximum deployable force is two hundred eighty men!"
Two hundred eighty.
That few? Kael had expected as much, but hearing it confirmed still made him sigh internally.
Hank's fingers dug into the map, nails nearly tearing through the rough parchment.
Two hundred eighty men. Against two thousand undead and a dedicated caster corps.
For a moment, his eyes went distant. Kael recognized that look—the thousand-yard stare of a man remembering horrors he'd never fully escaped. Fifteen years ago. The blood-soaked fields. Comrades torn apart by things that should have stayed dead.
Then Hank's jaw tightened. The despair was crushed by iron will, shoved down where it couldn't interfere.
He decided not to reveal the enemy's exact numbers. Not yet. Once morale collapsed, there would be no hope left at all.
Kael was running his own calculations.
Throughout Vorn Province, only the capital had permanent legion garrisons. Every other city relied on local guard forces for defense—and those forces had been neglected for years.
But it wasn't just about numbers.
Kloze's nepotistic appointment. The lazy posture of the gate guards. The Duke's obsession with art over armaments.
This kingdom was rotting from the inside out.
Hank took a deep breath and pointed at the map.
"Kloze. Notify city defenses. Within two days, I want every heavy crossbow relocated to the south wall. Concentrated fire positions."
"Donnie. Divide the remaining guards into three shifts for south gate duty. Station at least five scouts on the bell tower for continuous observation. Reports every five minutes."
"Captain."
Kael's voice cut through Hank's orders—sudden but not disrespectful.
Everyone froze.
Interrupting the highest commander during a military briefing was technically a capital offense in the kingdom. Kloze's eyes lit up with schadenfreude, already anticipating the explosion.
But Hank only frowned. No rage. Not yet.
"You have something to add?"
Kael stepped forward, his finger tracing across the map as he spoke.
"Three recommendations."
"First—despite our manpower shortage, we need to detach thirty men. Form them into an independent strike team. Our most elite fighters, tasked with surgical assault missions."
"Second—empty the warehouses of all lamp oil and torches. Distribute them to every unit. Additionally, every man gets three pieces of flint."
"Third—restring all bows and distribute arrows to the second line. And the reserve healing potions in storage? Centralize them. Unified management and distribution."
Silence.
Kloze's expression looked like he'd seen a ghost.
What the hell?
They were already short on manpower, and this guy wanted to split off thirty men for some "strike team"? Was he trying to get them killed faster?
Torches and flint? What was this, a camping trip?
And the healing potions—those were lifesavers in critical moments. Everyone should keep their own supply. Unless... this outsider was planning to line his pockets during the chaos?
Kloze's hand drifted toward his sword hilt. If the captain hadn't spoken yet, he would have shouted "Arrest the spy!" right then and there.
Even Donnie looked confused. He trusted the captain's judgment, believed Kael was extraordinary—but these suggestions made no sense. They violated everything he'd learned about conventional siege defense.
But the most dramatic reaction belonged to neither of them.
Hank's cigar dropped from his lips.
It landed on the map with a soft plop, burning a small black hole in the parchment. He didn't seem to notice.
He was staring at Kael like he was looking at a mind-reading demon.
Torches.
Healing potions.
This young man. This self-proclaimed Sharl Town militiaman.
How does he know what's in our warehouses?
That inventory was classified. Aside from Hank himself and the quartermaster, not even Kloze knew the exact contents.
Who the hell is he?