I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 334 Tranquil Peace is a Luxury
There is a battle going on outside. The Reteria army is fighting the Minisian army, the Bagnian army is fighting the Reteria army, and the Bagnian army is fighting the Minisian army.

Lawrence Darnell knew, but he had no desire to deal with such nonsense right now, because he was tired of the war and felt that his life was good now.

The baron leaned against the door frame of the tent assigned to them, his rough fingers unconsciously stroking the thick, durable, grey-brown cotton overcoat that was uniformly issued to them.

In the distance, faint horn sounds could be heard, as if Leterian scouts were trying to approach the camp for a reconnaissance mission, or perhaps a Bagnian cavalry unit was returning victorious.

Lawrence was too lazy to argue, and refused to argue, as the matter had little to do with him.

Leteria, Minicia, Bagnia... these names rolled on his tongue, leaving only the bitter taste of rust and ashes.

The bloody storm ignited by the Retalian invaders, which swept through his lands and his people, had long since burned away any remaining thoughts of loyalty, honor, and homeland in his heart.

Lawrence was furious. He could understand Bagnia's invasion and knew that Anvil Fortress was completely unable to stop it, but the appearance of the Retalians could only mean one thing... someone deliberately redeployed the border guards to let the invaders in.

Because the border between Minicia and Leteria is completely different from the border between Minicia and Bagnia.

The latter is situated on a high vantage point, with numerous paths leading down the mountain. The Anvil Fortress only blocks the largest of these paths, rendering it completely ineffective against the others.

The former is different. The border between Minicia and Retalia is separated by the Casro Mountains, and there is only one place that the two sides can cross. Both sides have built a group of fortresses on both sides that are easy to defend and difficult to attack.

The professional mercenaries hired from Bagnia are guarding this place day and night. As long as their wages and food continue, these highly ethical individuals will hold out until the very end.
The outbreak of civil war and the invasion of the Leterians spoke volumes and left Lawrence disheartened.

So, at this moment, he only wanted to be a stone, a mindless, indifferent rock that had sunk in this refugee camp under Prince Chris's rule.

A gust of cold wind blew in his face, and Lawrence shivered, but he didn't want to go back to the tent. Instead, he stayed outside and watched the camp.

His gaze fell upon a cluster of tents arranged in neat rows, resembling giant gray mushrooms.

The cold wind whipped up fine snowflakes, lashing against the canvas with a dull thud, but the inside of the tent was surprisingly warm and dry.

This was thanks to the thick double-layered canvas and the carefully compacted moisture-proof mat inside, which was far better than the drafty barns or abandoned farmhouses he had taken refuge in during his escape.

Prince Chris's men, the soldiers in dark green uniforms with black double-headed eagles embroidered on their armbands, called this "standard barracks" and strictly regulated the number of people allowed in each tent and the ventilation requirements.

Lawrence had no objection to this, and even felt a long-lost sense of relief.

The strict order, once the defining characteristic of aristocratic life, has now become a protective wall in this land of exile.

Military control? Yes, you need a wooden tag to enter and exit, there is a curfew at night, and supplies are distributed at fixed times and locations.

But compared to the chaos and plunder, these rigid rules actually gave his terrified soul a corner to curl up in.

Lawrence even felt that he was resisting Bagnia's invasion of Minicia... He, along with his wife and son, was working hard to "destroy" the Bagnians' logistical supplies!

How can this not be considered a form of resistance and combat?

Survival, here, is simplified into the most basic yet most reliable equation.

Every morning, while his son was still asleep, he would get up and, together with his wife, take the provided earthenware bowls and wooden signs and join the silent but orderly procession.

The ration station was filled with the warm aroma of food.

Barley is thrown into a large iron pot to cook a thick porridge, which is filling and a common breakfast.

For lunch and dinner, soldiers often had a type of golden tuber called "potato," which they would either boil or roast. It was soft and tender with a rustic, earthy sweetness, and when paired with well-cooked pork and chicken, it was always a dish that received rave reviews.

Lawrence had never seen this crop before; on his land, the honor of the aristocratic table belonged to fine white bread, venison, and trout.

pork?

How can such a fishy and smelly food be served on the table?

Surprisingly, this unassuming "potato" turned out to be exceptionally delicious, especially when roasted until the skin was crispy and the inside was soft. With a little coarse salt, it became a rare delicacy in the eyes of his wife and children.

Occasionally, the rations would include some diced pork in flat tin boxes.

The meat had a distinct, pungent odor characteristic of pigs, far superior to the fine hams that he used to have carefully prepared in his castle kitchen.

However, the taste of these fats and proteins seems so real and precious in the cold wind, after heavy physical labor, or sometimes after helping to clean the camp or repair facilities.

It's edible and provides calories, that's enough.

He chewed silently, swallowing the fishy smell along with the past delicacy... The hunger that had nearly starved his family to death had made Lawrence no longer picky.

The camp's management exudes an almost ruthless efficiency, yet it also demonstrates a strong commitment to ensuring survival.

The public toilets were placed downwind, and were cleaned and sprinkled with quicklime daily. Although the pungent smell was unpleasant, it effectively suppressed the stench of the filth and greatly reduced the possibility of disease outbreaks.

Lawrence wholeheartedly agreed with this, having witnessed far too many plagues spread by filth as a member of a military aristocracy.

What surprised him even more was the medical station in the camp.

It wasn't a luxurious place; it was just a few large tents connected together, but it was clean and orderly, filled with a pungent yet reassuring smell and the aroma of boiling bandages.

Women wearing white aprons and with serious expressions, known as "medical staff," were busy at work.

These women were recruited from among the refugees. In return, they not only had better living conditions and more refined food, but I heard they also received a salary, which is truly enviable.

Lawrence planned to have his wife become a medic, but unfortunately, during the assessment, the instructor said she was too careless and failed the test. In the end, she could only regretfully become the captain of a female soldier team in a refugee camp.

This isn't bad either; at least it counts as joining the army, which is in line with the status of a military aristocrat... Lawrence thought with a bittersweet smile.

Lawrence had a good impression of the medics and the medical station because he had been taken there for treatment after accidentally cutting his arm with a hoe wielded by a coworker while digging a trench.

At the medical station, his wounds were cleaned, a strangely smelled ointment was applied, and then he was bandaged with clean white cloth strips... The whole process was quick and professional, a stark contrast to the hasty treatment by quack doctors in the countryside or the tragic scenes of wartime medical care that he remembered.

His wife caught a cold during training a few days ago and received a hot, strange but effective herbal remedy and a three-day supply of canned meat.

Food, shelter, hygiene, medical care... Prince Chris seems to treat these refugees' most basic needs as a project that must be completed precisely.

His wife, the strong female knight who had once practiced swordsmanship in the castle training grounds, was now dressed in the same coarse cloth and carefully heating a pot of potato soup on a small tin stove in the center of the tent with the rationed charcoal.

The stove was cleverly designed with a flue that led directly outside the tent, ensuring warmth without being choking.

Their son, Elliott, wrapped in the same thick cotton coat, sat quietly on a makeshift bed covered with hay, drawing on a piece of wood with a small piece of charcoal pencil, learning the characters and language called Chinese.

There was even a small area in the camp that was set up as a temporary "schoolhouse" where literate refugees were teaching children to read.

This scene, against the backdrop of war and displacement, appears both fragile and precious.

calm.

Yes, a fragile peace built on strong guarantees and scarcity.

Baron Lawrence Darnell took a deep breath of the crisp air, feeling the familiar, lingering pain in his lungs, a pain akin to an old wound.

Who are the Retelian army fighting? And who are the Miniese army fighting? Are the Bagnians eyeing new lands again?

These messages, like the howling wind outside the camp, would occasionally reach his ears. Lawrence knew about these things; his background and experiences made him better able than ordinary refugees to piece together the underlying threads of those vague intelligence reports.

But now he has absolutely no desire to care.

Regardless of who wins or loses, regardless of how the territory changes, he only wants to guard this tent that shelters him from the wind and snow, the potato soup heating by the stove, and the remaining breaths of his wife and children.

Prince Chris's order provides just such a hard shell, allowing him to bury his broken self along with those bloody memories deep within.

The fighting outside is a matter for another world; it's "trivial stuff."

Lawrence was merely a ghost who had miraculously crawled out of hell, seeking only a corner of peace until his mutilated body completely turned to dust.

After the wind had blown enough, he turned and went into the tent, carefully closing the curtain to keep out the cold wind and the frenzied world outside.

The firelight illuminated his sharply defined profile, and in those eyes that had once reflected the splendor of the castle and the bloody carnage, there was now only a deep, still silence, and the most humble focus on the bowl of hot soup before him.

The pungent smell of canned pork mixed with the aroma of potatoes wafted through the air, and for a moment, he vaguely smelled the aroma of the smokehouse on his family's estate, only to be overwhelmed by an even stronger smell of rust.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard... Peace and tranquility prevailed.

The fire licked the bottom of the tin can, and the aroma of potatoes and pork filled the small tent, carrying a lingering, complex scent.

Lawrence had just scooped up a spoonful of hot porridge with a wooden spoon when the heavy curtain of the tent was suddenly flung open, and a blast of cold air, carrying snowflakes, rushed in.

"Hey! Darnell, are you hiding in the tent with your wife, incubating the eggs?"

A loud voice, thick with a Baghian accent, rang out.

Lawrence looked up, saw who it was, and his tense shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly for a moment.

It was Haske, the old Bagnian mercenary he had met in the refugee camp. He was a refugee, but thanks to his chestnut hair, he had gained the trust of the camp administrators and was a minor leader.

Haske was also wearing the issued gray-brown prince-style cotton-padded jacket, but he was still very tall and strong, and his weathered face had his usual, almost rude, hearty smile.

He squeezed in without any hesitation, rubbing his hands, which were red from the cold, as he approached the fire.

"Hask".

Lawrence nodded, put the spoon back in the jar, and gestured for his wife to get another bowl.

"It's windy outside, want something hot?"

"Thanks, buddy, but I'm not here to freeload today."

Haske grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by cheap tobacco, but his sharp eyes swept over Lawrence.

He lowered his voice, with an excitement of sharing a secret.

"Listen, Darnell, something good has happened!"

"His Highness Chris is forming a new army called the 'Banner Army,' specifically to recruit us Minisians... well, those without a master, and those deserters and skilled fighters who no longer want to serve their former masters."

Lawrence's heart skipped a beat, but he remained outwardly calm, simply gesturing for Haske to sit down.

Little Elliott, standing in the corner of the tent, looked curiously at the loud-voiced uncle.

Haske plopped down on the hay mat, leaning forward, his voice lower and more seductive.

"They are recruiting, especially people who know a bit about military affairs and can manage things."

"I've landed a centurion in a hundred-man squad!" He puffed out his chest, a hint of pride in his eyes.

"Brother, my deputy position is still vacant, and I thought of you, deputy centurion, you can command fifty men... How about that? Much better than digging in the dirt here in this refugee camp!"

"The Banner Army?"

Lawrence repeated himself, his brow furrowing slightly. He looked at Haske's excited face and remained silent for a moment.

Only the crackling of the fire and the faint howling of the wind remained in the tent. He took a deep breath and decided to stop hiding it; the heavy secret had weighed on him for long enough.

"Hask".

Lawrence's voice was deep and serious.

“I appreciate your trust, but… I must tell you one thing: I am not an ordinary Minisian refugee. I am Lawrence Darnell, a Baron of Minicia, and a former knight of Minicia.”

He uttered the last few words with difficulty, his eyes fixed on Haske, waiting for the other's shock, vigilance, or even possible anger.

He didn't want to drag down this friend he had made during his hardships.

“My identity is a problem. I can’t join your banner army. It would implicate you, and even the entire centurion.”

To Lawrence's surprise, Haske showed no surprise or nervousness. He paused for a moment, then burst into a loud laugh that almost lifted the tent roof, laughing until tears streamed down his face, and slapped Lawrence's shoulder hard.

"Hahaha! Your Excellency, my dear Darnell!"

Haske laughed and gasped for breath.

"Do you think this is some kind of secret? Do you think we're all blind?"

Look at yourself, your posture, the way you walk, the calluses on your hands—those are from holding a sword and reins, not from digging the ground!
And the way you speak and act with such refinement, and your wife's skills..."

He gestured toward the Baroness, who was quietly stirring the soup pot.

"Who in the camp doesn't know you're a fallen nobleman? Everyone just doesn't say it out loud... Do you think His Highness doesn't know? Of course he knows, but he doesn't care!"

As for why Prince Chris knew, and why Haske knew the former didn't care, that's a secret... Haske reported the Lawrence family, thinking he'd get a reward.

Lawrence was completely stunned. He had always thought he had hidden himself well, living like a true down-on-his-luck vagrant, carefully erasing all traces of his past.

It turned out that, in the eyes of those soldiers in dark green uniforms with black double-headed eagles embroidered on their arms, and in the eyes of those observant refugee neighbors, he was as conspicuous as a firefly in the dark.

Prince Chris... actually knew? And didn't care?
Haske stopped laughing, his eyes becoming serious and eager.

"Listen, His Highness said that he only cares about one thing: whether you can fight and whether you can help him manage his troops."

"Past titles and allegiance are irrelevant. To His Highness, anyone willing to serve him now is a useful person. The Blue Banner Army, with its blue scimitar as its emblem, is giving us Minieses a chance to take up arms again and earn our own future!"

Lawrence secretly curled his lip. You old Bagnian mercenary, what are you talking to me about "us Minisians"?
Haske was unaware of Lawrence's thoughts and didn't notice the latter's subtle movements. He moved closer, his voice filled with seduction.

"Do you know what it means to become this deputy centurion? His Highness said that a hundred-man squad of the Banner Army will be allocated a large tract of land! Right in the places we have reclaimed or newly developed!"

Centurions and deputy centurions are the managers who can take one-third of the land's output, and the remaining two-thirds are distributed to their soldiers as their pay!
The land is cultivated by tenant farmers, and the equipment is distributed by the military affairs department above. We only need to focus on training, sharpening our blades, and fulfilling our military obligations to His Highness. This is a hundred times better than you receiving rations here!
If you find the work uninteresting and don't want to continue, you can quit. However, after leaving the banner army, you will no longer receive any of the land's yield. If you don't quit, you can receive it for life, and when you get old and can no longer fight, your son can take over your post.

Lawrence's heart began to pound.

Land...manager...one-third of the output...soldiers' pay...tenant farming...

Hereditary system... isn't this just a variation of the aristocratic fief system?!

A centurion is a knight, while a lieutenant centurion is clearly a knight's squire or a lower-ranking vassal.

Prince Chris is rebuilding loyalty and military power in a new, more efficient, and more enticing way, using land and resources to firmly bind these “masterless” soldiers from Minicia!
In an instant, countless thoughts swirled through Lawrence's mind: the despair and despondency brought by the bloody storm, the quiet survival in the refugee camp, the utter disillusionment with the past glory and the system...

However, the prospect that Haske painted—the familiar, blood-rooted land and the allure of power—was like a stone thrown into a stagnant pond, creating huge ripples.

He was no longer the baron with a castle and lands, but it seemed... he could become a lieutenant of a hundred men with lands and men under his command.

How will Prince Chris regain his footing in the new order of this emerging power?

A place where one no longer needs to worry about their past identity, but can instead make use of their remaining military skills and aristocratic management experience.
The firelight danced in Lawrence's deep, unfathomable eyes.

He glanced at his wife, who stopped stirring the soup and looked at him calmly. In those eyes that had once been sharpened by swords, there was no opposition, only a hint of inquiry and a firm expectation of his decision.

She glanced at her son again; the little guy was still diligently drawing the Chinese characters on the wooden pieces.

Outside, the distant bugle call seemed to sound again, clearer and with the sharpness unique to the battlefield.

Are they Leterians? Bagnians? Minisians? ...Who cares!

The "troublesome issues" still exist, but it seems... a new path has been laid out before us.

A path that would allow him to go beyond simply "destroying" Bagnians' supplies, and truly regain power to secure a stable future for his wife and children.

That long-dormant instinct belonging to the military aristocracy quietly awakened under the call of the land and responsibility.

Baron Lawrence Darnell took a deep breath, the pungent smell of canned pork mixed with the aroma of potatoes filling his nostrils once again.

This time, he didn't feel uncomfortable; instead, he sensed a kind of... raw vitality, a mixture of soil and rust, that belonged to new life.

He turned to Haske, his face no longer showing numb silence, but rather a long-lost, decisive sharpness.

"Hask,"

His voice was steady and clear.

"Where exactly is that piece of land? And..."

He paused, his gaze hardening like tempered steel.

When do we start training?

Haske's smile widened instantly, like a victory flag.

“I knew it, my good brother! The land is right next door, a newly reclaimed piece of land that’s ours. There’s no need to worry even though it’s not productive yet. The prince said he’ll cover all the expenses of the Banner Army for the next three years, after which it will be converted into land… As for training?”

He suddenly stood up, his burly body almost touching the top of the tent.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll come find you. We'll go select new recruits. Bring your skills and expertise to choose the best fighters for our hundred-man squad!"

He patted Lawrence on the shoulder forcefully, his laughter filled with pride.

"Let's brothers work together to carve out a new world for His Highness!"

Haske hurriedly lifted the curtain and left, taking away some of the heat from the tent, but leaving behind an even hotter flame burning in Lawrence's heart.

He sat down again, picked up the wooden spoon, scooped up a large spoonful of warm potato and pork paste, put it in his mouth, and chewed vigorously.

The familiar fishy smell was still there, but now it was strangely mixed with a long-lost taste called "hope".

He swallowed slowly, feeling the warmth spread from his throat all the way to his cold limbs.

The firelight illuminated his sharply defined profile, and in his deep, pool-like eyes, the dormant ice had shattered, revealing a warrior's renewed radiance, a light that had found its course once more.

Peace and tranquility? Perhaps another form of battle has just begun.

……

The Flag Army is an experiment by Chris, a replication and exploration of past history.

As for who it imitated, you can tell from the name... In fact, the original version that Chris copied wasn't even the original version; it was also a product of plagiarism.

That's how the world is; you copy him, I copy you, it's all about copying.

Copying homework is not surprising. The key is to make modifications to adapt the copied content to suit your own taste.

Chris didn't know what the Flag Army he copied would eventually become, or whether it would die in the womb. He was uncertain about all of this; it was just an experiment for him.

The Blue Flag Army was created by Chris to address the issues of belonging and loyalty among the Miniese refugees, as well as the large number of young and able-bodied men among them. The Blue Flag Army was essentially a puppet army.

Unlike the regulars and militia of Bagnia, the officers and soldiers of the Banner Army did not receive military pay; land was the only form of compensation Chris provided for them.

The military farms of Bagnia's regular and deputy militia were created by Chris to legally distribute land. A soldier could not get much land; the main income of soldiers was their pay. The military corps was just a tool to keep the soldiers' families busy.

With only fifty acres of farmland in Bagnia, it would be difficult to support a family. Making a living might be possible, but getting rich would be wishful thinking.

Therefore, unlike the regular soldiers of the Banner Army, the land allocated to them was collective, with a unit of one hundred men. The land belonged to the army, and the output of the land was their income from serving in the army.

Military pay?

Well, Chris might give it to you, he might not; he himself isn't sure whether he'll give it to you or not.

The number of refugees gathered at Anvil Fortress is increasing rapidly due to the onset of winter. The previous 10,000 or so refugees are not all of them. In the fall, many Minisians stubbornly stay at home or "play" wilderness survival on the plains.

In fact, as long as the weather is not cold, the Tavitsky Plain is rich enough to support quite a few people.

Hidden grain cellars that were lucky enough to escape discovery by the Leterians, small fish and shrimp in streams and rivers, certain edible wild grasses, fruits in bushes, mouse holes by farmland, winter food for squirrels in tree holes, etc., all contained food that could fill their stomachs.

Then, when winter came, those who were unwilling to leave their homes had no way to survive. Not wanting to starve or freeze to death, they could only spontaneously gather at the Tavitsky Deputy Anvil Fortress, knowing that running there would save them.

As a result, the number of refugees rapidly swelled from 10,000 to over 20,000 after winter began, and this number continues to rise at an alarming rate.

Chris's Flag Army will recruit from the refugees who are already well-trained, well-clothed, physically fit, and more disciplined—good candidates to be dogs.

As for the new refugees... they are the tenant farmers in Chris's Banner Army plan, who are the Banner Army's pay and welfare.

Chris plans to recruit 5,000 bannermen and 50 centurions. Half of the Tavitsky Plain will be their military farm, and the remaining half will be distributed among the meritorious Bagnian soldiers and players.

When spring arrives, it will be the time for this Blue Flag Army to complete its training and preparations and be officially formed.

Chris didn't care whether he could train them or recruit the planned 5,000 men, because it was just an experiment. Success would be great, but failure wouldn't cost him anything; he could just treat it as training militia.

However, just as Chris was planning to spend the winter peacefully and take over and assimilate Tavisky, his quiet time was interrupted by requests to join the battle from chapters such as Ultramarines, Overlords, and Han Tang Warriors.

"What? You've discovered an opportunity to defeat the Leterian army and drive them away?"

(End of this chapter)