Lord blessed by the elves

Chapter 33 Angry

Kruse's proposed solution was a compromise he had carefully considered: without seriously affecting spring farming, select a group of able-bodied men and women to undergo only two hours of intensive military training each day.

The "military pay" that the territory needed to provide was merely a meal to fill the stomachs of these young men. For serfs who had been living in a state of semi-starvation for a long time, this was an extremely attractive incentive.

Although Wilstone faithfully carried out the order, his brow remained furrowed, clearly filled with doubt: "Young Master, the men have been selected as you requested. They are all reasonably strong young men from families with some surplus labor, twenty in total." He paused, unable to resist expressing his concerns: "But... Young Master, please forgive my bluntness, but only two hours of training per day... that's barely enough time to familiarize them with the formation and teach them to charge on command. In a short period, it's impossible to improve their combat effectiveness much. Should we extend the training time, or..."

Kruze sensed the old knight's disdain. Instead of directly refuting him, he smiled and asked, "Wilstone, what do you think is the primary source of fighting power for a group of serfs who were toiling in the fields yesterday and couldn't even distinguish left from right? Is it teaching them a complex sword technique, or enabling them to hold a spear firmly, understand the simplest commands, and trust that those around them won't run away?"

He didn't need Wilstone's reply and continued calmly to explain his philosophy: "The purpose of these two hours is not to train them into elite soldiers who can take on ten men each. What I want is discipline, the most basic obedience, and to instill a sense of collective consciousness in them."

“Imagine,” Kruse said, his gaze sweeping over the imagined recruits on the open ground, “which group of serfs who can barely maintain their formation and thrust their spears in unison to the beat of the drums, or another group of serfs who scatter and only care about their own escape, will buy more time when the enemy charges in?”

Which will cause more trouble for the enemy? Even just a little more trouble might change the course of the battle.

“Moreover,” Kruze’s voice carried an undeniable determination, “this is just the beginning. First, set up the framework and establish the rules. Once they get used to these two hours of communal living and training every day, and experience the benefits of being well-fed, it will be much easier to increase the intensity of training or teach combat skills later.”

This hearty meal bought more than just two hours of their time; it bought them a basic sense of belonging and obedience. This is the most fundamental cornerstone of fighting power.

Wilstone listened quietly; he was old-fashioned but by no means stupid.

He carefully pondered the meaning of Kruse's words, especially his explanations of "discipline," "obedience," "collective consciousness," and "belonging." These words, when combined, opened a door to entirely new ways of thinking for him.

He originally only focused on personal martial arts skills and training time, but the young master saw something more essential and fundamental.

The doubt on his face gradually dissipated, replaced by deep thought and a hint of realization. He placed his right hand on his chest and bowed slightly: "Yes, young master! It was my oversight and short-sightedness. I understand. I will arrange today's training, starting with the most basic formations and obeying commands."

Watching Wilstone's resolute and thoughtful figure as he left, Kruze knew that the Silver Knight had begun to understand what kind of power he was trying to build.

Even though it is still very weak and rough.

They were not the main force to fight the enemy head-on, nor were they the surprise troops capable of turning the tide of battle.

They were his last line of defense, the bottom line for maintaining order in the territory and preventing complete collapse. His greatest expectation for these militiamen was actually very simple: when the enemy's swords were truly at their feet, they could stand firm and not panic and scatter in all directions.

As long as they can still remember the most basic things from their training—such as how to grip a spear tightly and how to mechanically and neatly thrust forward on simple commands—then this hastily organized group of serfs can barely form a pitiful, but real, fighting force.

Even if they were just like clumsy hedgehogs, collectively raising their spears, they might be able to scare away those equally disorganized, scattered soldiers who only wanted to pick on the weak.

After all, Kruze sneered inwardly. How strong and determined could someone be to come and seize Lion Fang Territory, a territory so poor that even rats were almost starving?

Most of them were a motley crew, no better off than them, driven to desperation by the famine.

Having clarified his thoughts, Kruse decided to take another look around the newly cultivated purple sweet potato field.

That is the hope for the future of the territory, the key to ensuring everyone has enough to eat, and there must be no mistakes.

Kruze walked towards the newly cultivated purple sweet potato field, pondering the next planting plan and defense preparations. However, the scene before him was like a bucket of cold water poured over his head, instantly turning the flame that had just ignited in his heart into anger.

In the fields, the serfs, who should have been busy working or at least weeding and loosening the soil, were mostly standing or squatting crookedly, their farm tools looking more like heavy burdens as they half-heartedly dug at the ground.

Their movements were sluggish and listless, their eyes were empty and numb, and the whole field was filled with a suffocating sense of lethargy and exhaustion, devoid of any vitality.

This is clearly blatant laziness and procrastination!
Kruse's face instantly darkened, and a surge of anger rose within him.

He went to great lengths to get seeds, find fertilizer, and even plan for the future, just to see these people do things so perfunctorily.

Butler Buffet, who had been keeping watch by the field, saw the young master approaching with a gloomy face. His heart skipped a beat, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He quickly jogged forward to meet him, his face showing undisguised embarrassment and difficulty, and preemptively explained:

"Young Master, please calm down! Please calm down!" His voice carried a hint of bitterness and anxiety. "It's not that they're deliberately slacking off, it's just... it's just that the territory's manpower is already at its limit, and we can't squeeze out a single bit of profit!"

Pointing to the sallow-faced, sunken-eyed serfs in the fields, he continued with a pained and helpless expression, "To complete the composting and preparations for the summer harvest, all the elderly, weak, women, and children in the territory who are still able to move have been sent to help. The men are being used like mules and horses, having to tend to the existing farmland and do the final preparations while also cultivating these more than 100 acres of new land..."

(End of this chapter)