Chapter 98: Head to the front lines

Fortunately, Arlya had been careless. Otherwise, if she had pulled out a pile of small tricks and tools, Phield’s head might have been knocked sideways.

As for her status panel—hard to put into words. It was utterly useless to the territory, the legion, and even to him personally.

What she said was true: the contract brought no benefit to the lord. If he had only one contract slot, it really would have been a waste.

“Let’s go, Daddy. The black dragon will be back soon.” Arlya’s tone had softened considerably, almost like they were speaking as equals.

Phield burst out laughing. “I was joking before. Just call me Phield.”

“Daddy, let’s go~” Arlya refused instead. “I, Arlya, keep my word. That is a dragon’s pride.”

It felt as though her favorability had inexplicably increased—there was even a hint of indulgence.

And that wasn’t an illusion. After observing so many Divine Chosen, Phield had noticed something interesting.

Divine Chosen truly possessed divinity. Put simply, they did not regard ordinary people as people.

The most obvious example was Rosalia. She treated corrupted beings as her own kind, yet slaughtered them without mercy—even devouring them as food. Sylvia, the pink cat-eared girl from before, had watched her teammates die in droves, yet quickly recovered and laughed and chatted with Phield. Even Ashina showed traces of it—she never sided with her own kind, treating humans and demi-humans alike with equal detachment.

Divine Chosen only cared about their lord. Everyone else barely earned a glance. Once the contract was signed, they would regard the lord as someone of the same tier.

The most intuitive sign was that their “favorability” rose—their speech grew noticeably gentler.

“So perhaps contracting first and building feelings later might work. A little despicable.” Phield stroked his chin. “But it’s hard to pull off. A Divine Chosen who doesn’t acknowledge you won’t cooperate in forming a contract. I should use violence less in the future—and more cautiously.”

“Arlya, can you take the three dragon corpses? They might be useful.”

Earlier, he had seen Arlya produce items out of thin air. He guessed she had spatial abilities.

“No problem.”

Space warped, and the three dragon corpses were collected by Arlya.

“Let’s leave this place quickly.”

“Mm-hmm. My army is probably getting anxious.”

Arlya grabbed Phield and moved at once, releasing another skill. “Dragon Roar—Purified Sky!”

Their scent and aura were cleansed within the swamp, preventing the black dragon from tracking them by smell.

After leaving the lake, they hurried back to the territory. By the time they arrived, it was already afternoon.

The soldiers were extremely anxious. Phield had no choice—the warhorse was gone. He couldn’t exactly ride Arlya back, so the journey had taken quite a while.

With Arlya’s addition, the First Legion’s combat power had doubled.

In the following days, Phield did not kneel and flatter Arlya. Instead, he focused on his own affairs—extorting every village they passed, while drilling the First Legion. Aside from running drills and formation practice, the rest of the time was spent purely on spear phalanx training.

More complex formations were beyond them. If they could skillfully form a defensive spear phalanx, they could already be considered combat-capable troops.

On the third day, Phield finally saw the first army heading to the front lines. Then a second. A third. More and more forces marched forward.

The dull thunder of hooves and the chaotic rhythm of footsteps made even the earth tremble faintly. Noble armies of all sizes poured in from the horizon, like surging rivers made of men.

“Good. We depart as well!” Phield mounted his horse. This spare mount was inferior to his previous one, but it would suffice.

“Yes, my lord!”

The guards tossed aside the chicken bones in their hands and burped contentedly. The food extorted these past days had been plentiful. They were living in paradise and felt deeply grateful to Phield.

“How many nobles are taking part?” Phield marveled.

Along the road, countless noble banners fluttered. Their clothing differed; even their accents varied.

They also shared common traits: the knights carried themselves with swagger, while regular soldiers and guards marched solemnly with weapons in hand. As for serf soldiers or slave troops, they trudged forward miserably under heavy baggage, faces twisted in pain, occasionally whipped or cursed.

There were many mercenaries as well. They carried all kinds of equipment and bore “trophies” on their backs. Mercenaries tended to have the worst discipline and rarely passed up any opportunity to loot.

In Morning Breeze Province, Phield extorted—but did not plunder. First, there were few high-value goods. Extortion alone guaranteed sufficient food. Second, his immediate superior would soon be from Morning Breeze Province.

These mercenaries would become the first wave of cannon fodder.

Phield could hardly wait to reach the front. He followed behind other noble armies, advancing steadily.

“Greetings, Sir Phield. I’ve heard your name.”

A young man dressed in sea-blue attire rode up on a white horse, smiling kindly. “My name is Laurent, from the North Wind family. A pleasure to meet you.”

Never heard of it.

But Phield feigned sudden realization. “Ah~ the North Wind family. I’ve long heard of your legendary deeds.”

Laurent beamed. “Wonderful! As expected of Sir Phield. Did you know? The entire Morning Breeze Province is spreading your title.”

“What the hell? Seriously?”

I’m famous?

“Is it Northern Lion? Or Demon Muscle Man?” Phield stood tall, unable to suppress a triumphant, invincible grin.

“Uh… not those. Your title is Baron Vigor Elixir—the man who brings happiness to men.”

“Pfft—what?”

Phield nearly fainted.

The random name he had come up with casually had turned into a boomerang and smacked him squarely in the face.

“Your army is formidable. I look forward to resisting the enemy alongside you.” Laurent gestured respectfully from horseback.

To Phield, the hastily trained First Legion was nothing but rookies among rookies. But in the eyes of nobles like Laurent, it was another matter.

Their formation was disciplined. Their steps were synchronized. Every soldier wore armor. That alone qualified as an upper-tier legion.

“My heavens—they aren’t straggling off or fleeing into the woods.”

“They can maintain formation the whole time.”

“Worthy of the Ross family’s elite.”

Minor nobles paused to watch, casting envious glances. Aside from themselves and their retainers, most only had a handful of serf soldiers armed with broken sticks and farm tools.

Of course, there were also unfriendly looks.

“Baron Vigor Elixir made quite a fortune. I heard he even made Simon cry poverty.”

“They say he’s soft.”

“Heh. We’ll see in battle.”

Phield ignored them and continued marching. Two days later, they finally reached the border fortress of Morning Breeze Province.

Vast swathes of armies were stationed there, stretching for dozens of miles. Campfires, huts, and chevaux-de-frise formed a dragon-like encampment. Trees had been felled in large numbers to build crude shelters. Tents spread endlessly—some for living quarters, others for housing the wounded.

“Ahh—ow! It hurts!”

“Please, don’t saw off my arm! I’ll scrape together money to buy a healing potion—please, ahhh!”

The wounded wailed. The unlucky ones were treated by bloodletting or had rotting limbs sawed off.

“What genius decided to place the wounded at the assembly point? Morale will collapse before the battle even starts.”

Phield’s mouth twitched. Turning, he saw his own soldiers wearing terrified expressions. No one wanted to become crippled—or a corpse.

“Baron Naslu has returned to the goddess’s embrace, slain by cultist encirclement.”

“Knight Seyftin has left us. He fell during the charge.”

Names of fallen nobles were continuously announced, recorded by appointed officials.

A group of nobles held a mourning ceremony. “Alas, all were warriors devoted to the Empire. May they rest in peace.”

“Did they die in enemy assaults?” Phield joined the mourning, lowering his head and whispering.

A kind-hearted noble traced a symbol over his chest before replying, “Some died during reconnaissance missions. Others while probing cultist fortifications. Some were killed in ambushes. Alas.”

No need to think. These hotheaded youths had arrived early—most passionate, most lacking in background.

The governor had assigned them dangerous tasks. They just happened to slam into the enemy at full strength.

Even Rosalia sighed. “They were all warriors of the Empire. My Starnight family also perished defending it.”

“They are indeed warriors. Pity the great nobles would rather see more of them die.” Phield let out a cold laugh. He had long seen through the schemes of the great houses.

“Why do you say that?” Rosalia was puzzled.

“The bigger the cultists’ rebellion, the more nobles die. The larger the cake to divide after suppression. The provinces, the lands, the wealth of fallen nobles—where do you think they go?”

“Into the bellies of certain nobles,” Rosalia answered clearly. “So will you expose them?”

“Of course not. We aim to be the ones who divide the cake—not become the cake, and not flip the table.”

Phield arranged for his army to set up camp, then headed toward the fortress to show his face.

This was a perfect opportunity to gain prestige.

Perhaps he could finally shake off that ridiculous title of Baron Vigor Elixir.

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