Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The troops once stationed by Ronald—now known as [the newly-formed Iron Peak County Infantry Regiment]—were led by Commander Montaigne towards the southwest of Revodan.

They marched on a country dirt road, their sight dominated by desolate wild fields.

Only Iron Peak stood solitary in front of them, like a friend.

The soldiers didn't know where they were headed, which made them somewhat anxious.

After their surrender, life had been relatively good for them. They hadn't been beaten nor starved, and no one had been executed.

So they docilely accepted the authority of the "Montaigne-stationed officers," like sheep acquiring a new master.

What else could it be? It was just someone else handing out bread.

...

After half an hour's march towards Forging Village with the [New Iron Regiment], Winters saw some signs of life again.

Hence, the troop stopped in front of a small hillside.

The centurions and sergeants ran and cursed among the ranks, shaping the formation into orderly lines.

Winters, mounted on his horse, inspected his troops.

Twelve hundred men, one hundred arrows. Not much, thirty times forty.

But also not a small number; twelve hundred warriors would be a force not to be taken lightly.

Once the formation was complete, it was time for the commander to give a speech.

Winters dismounted and stood on the hillside where everyone could see him.

"Among you, those without land," Winters didn't have to shout, but his words carried well to the soldiers, "take one step forward."

The soldiers looked at each other, and Tamas—now the centurion, formerly decurion, one of Winters's old veterans from Wolf Town, a long-term worker from the Bunting family—stepped forward with an expressionless face.

The others followed, taking a step forward.

"Among you, those who have ever tilled the land for others," Winters's voice echoed on the hillside, "take one step forward."

Tamas and the other centurions took the lead again, and the soldiers moved another step forward.

"Among you, those who wish to own and cultivate their own land—take one step forward."

All moved neatly forward, as though the forest itself shifted.

Winters hadn't rehearsed, nor had he colluded with his old subordinates; for a small scene like this, he didn't need to prepare in advance.

The New Iron Regiment was the unit he had poured all his efforts into; each soldier, sergeant, and centurion was carefully selected by him.

He deliberately shaved off soldiers from Revodan origin, deliberately excluded those from freeholder families, and deliberately didn't assign any old Dusack veterans into it.

The New Iron Regiment's one hundred arrows, its twelve hundred men, all came from landless peasant backgrounds.

Winters had even higher expectations for this regiment than for the three hundred-man units of Bard, Andre, and Mason.

"Sit," Winters waved his hand, "sit down to talk. If you all stand, those at the back will be blocked by those in front."

The old soldiers promptly sat on the ground, followed by the others settling down.

"Why are you unwilling to cultivate land for others?" Winters asked.

No one answered, which was expected.

Winters pointed to a soldier in the front row, "You, stand up, you speak."

The short soldier stood up, baffled.

"What's your name?"

"Peter," the short soldier replied nervously. He hastily added, "Peter Buniel... the one you named..."

Winters walked over to him and asked again, "Why are you unwilling to cultivate land for others?"

Peter swallowed, stammering, "Being a long-term worker, you only get... only wages..."

Peter's voice was faint, yet to his surprise, it carried loudly in his ears.

His voice clearly reached every person's ear, albeit slightly unstable, fluctuating in volume.

This was a spell technique once demonstrated by Colonel Field, not to amplify the spellcaster's voice but to provide a stable amplification for an external source of sound.

Winters couldn't quite achieve Field's finesse, but it was sufficient.

"Aren't good wages enough?"

Peter looked down, fixating on the tips of his shoes, "Hired workers can't save money."

"Why can't hired workers save money?"

Peter couldn't answer.

"I have seen such a thing happen," Winters let Peter Buniel sit down and spoke to the other soldiers, "A team of hired workers protected a caravan to Revodan. This was their only chance to save up for the whole year, so they willingly risked their lives. The manor lord kept his word, paying them their bounty and wages in Revodan."

The soldiers listened in silence, hearing of their own experiences.

"Tell me, what happened next?" Winters asked, "Did the hired workers save any money?"

No one responded again.

When silence fell upon the hillside, Winters calmly began, "No, not a penny. They spent all their money on drink and women."

As a cloud obscured the sun, some soldiers bowed their heads.

"Should we blame them for this?" Winters's gaze swept the crowd; eyes looked away wherever his gaze landed, "Of course! Whose fault is it that they couldn't resist spending the money as soon as they got it?"

An ever more oppressive silence fell on the hillside; one could almost hear the beating of hearts.

"But you must understand!" Winters declared, "This was precisely what the manor lords wanted! They knew the peasants labored all year, longing for even momentary pleasure! And yet, they deliberately settled the wages in Revodan! They intentionally let it come to this and then condemned the peasants' morality!"

"Haven't you gone through these things? Haven't you ever thought about it?" Winters pressed, spelling out each word, "What the manor lords want is for slaves to remain slaves generation after generation, for tenant farmers to remain tenant farmers generation after generation. For hired workers to stay hired workers their whole lives until, old and unable to work, they are kicked to the curb for younger, stronger ones."