Chương 153: 153：No Man Left Behind

Whoosh! The freezing wind howled across the high-ground barricades of Greywater Village. The entire northern gate descended into a heavy, deathly silence that lasted for a full half-minute. It was an obsession so utterly raw, so incredibly humble, yet so profoundly tragic that it struck everyone present like a physical blow. Fina, the fallen noble daughter who had received the highest aristocratic education, was already weeping silently, both hands pressed tightly against her lips to muffle her sobs.

Beside her, veteran commanders like Kyle and Buck had bloodshot eyes. Their chests heaved as their breathing turned ragged and heavy. Soren stood motionless in the biting wind. He understood perfectly well what this moment was. This was the exact nexus where a man's faith collapsed—and where it could be reforged into something unbreakable. He didn't resort to any high-level political manipulation. He didn't spout any of the grand, empty, patriotic speeches he had heard in modern military academies.

Faced with the absolute rawest, most primal desire of those at the very bottom of the world... any extra, flowery bullshit would be an absolute desecration of their lives. Shing! To answer these fifty-three desperately heavy expectations, an unshakable, diamond-hard resolve erupted in Soren's eyes. His hand dropped to his waist, gripping the hilt of his refined steel longsword. He drew the blade in a single, fluid motion! The very next second! Soren dropped heavily to one knee.

Gripping the crossguard with his right hand, he violently drove the razor-sharp blade straight down into the dry, hard earth beneath his boots! CRACK! The steel sank half a meter deep into the dry soil. Soren raised his solemn face. His voice, steady, booming, and overflowing with absolute power, reverberated clearly into the ears of all seven hundred and thirty-six residents of Greywater Village!

"I, Soren!"

"Swear this oath before every single soul in Greywater Village!" Soren's hand gripped the hilt so tightly his veins bulged like writhing snakes.

"From this day forward, the moment you step through my gates, you are the brothers to whom I entrust my life and my death!"

"And you will not have to wait until you are dead! As long as I, Soren, still have breath in my lungs! If anyone dares to stand in the way of your return to this earth—whether they be green-skinned orcs or human lords!"

"Even if I have to flatten Warchief Blackstone's main encampment! Even if I have to tear the entire Misty Swamp apart until the sky falls!"

"I will bring every single one of your bones back, whole and intact!"

"I will personally bury you in the scorching, dry earth where the sun shines upon you every single day!"

"No man left behind! Never surrender!" BOOM! Accompanied by that sacred, earth-shattering oath... The fifty-three mud-caked, emaciated men violently shuddered. For the very first time in their miserable, trampled lives, they heard someone—a supreme Lord—declare that he would willingly risk his own life to defend their lifeless bones.

"My Lord! Lord Soren!" Darion threw his arms high into the air, his voice tearing from his throat.

"WE SWEAR FEALTY TO LORD SOREN!"

"FEALTY UNTO DEATH!" Right then and there, they officially swore an ironclad, blood-bound oath of absolute loyalty. This wasn't just submission. This was them tearing out their very souls and placing them directly into Soren's hands!

"Good!" Soren ripped his longsword from the earth and immediately issued his military integration orders before the entire army:"Darion! I hereby announce that you and the fifty-two brothers standing behind you are officially integrated into the regular army of Greywater Village!"

"Kyle! Step forward!"

"Your subordinate is here!" Kyle, acting as the Quartermaster and Phalanx Commander, stepped crisply out of formation.

"I am entrusting them to you." Soren commanded, "Immediately integrate Darion's squad into your second-line Macedonian Phalanx for tactical training and cohesion!" With the addition of these fifty-three men, the scale of Kyle's spear unit instantly doubled, bringing their total numbers to a staggering one hundred and four heavy spearmen!

Tactically, this meant that if they ever encountered another narrow chokepoint like Throat Valley, Kyle's battalion alone could completely plug the gap and hold the line for an entire day against impossible odds. Soren then turned his gaze up toward the bristling archer towers.

"Once these brothers have eaten their fill of wheat and meat in our village, and their bodies have recovered their strength, Ein's Longbow Battalion will evaluate their archery talent and draft them accordingly!" Finally, Soren's piercing gaze fell back onto Darion, who was still kneeling in the mud.

"As for you, Darion."

"I fully intend to promote you directly into the elite frontline vanguard that I personally command. But before that happens—even though you were their leader—entry into the vanguard is strictly dictated by combat merit!"

"Show me your skills. Go out there and chop off a few orc heads to prove your worth to me!" With Darion's [Poison Resistance] and [Aquatic Mastery] Talents, securing combat merit in the swamp would be as easy as breathing. This flawless display of the "carrot and the stick"—promising immense reward while demanding absolute results—made Darion completely, wholeheartedly submit. He slammed his head into the mud, accepting the order with explosive motivation.

With this blood-pumping integration ceremony concluded, Soren sheathed his sword with a sharp clack.

"Now, Kyle. Take our new brothers-in-arms..." Soren offered a faint smile.

"... And go do something that actually makes them look human!" The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"By your command, my Lord!" Kyle laughed boisterously. He strode forward and hauled the blushing, mud-caked Darion to his feet. He threw a heavy, brotherly arm around the skeletal man's shoulder and shouted to his Macedonian spearmen:"First Squad! Escort our new brothers to the washing sector immediately!" Kyle looked back at the filthy survivors.

"Let me tell you something, you mud-soaked bastards! We have massive cauldrons of boiling water waiting over there! I am going to personally scrub the foul stench off every single one of you!" As he spoke, Kyle led the utterly bewildered fifty-three recruits into the heart of the village. Along the way, the rich, mouth-watering scent of cooking fires grew thicker and heavier.

"After you wash up, every single one of you is getting a bowl of Swamp Tuber mash the size of a human head, boiled until it's meltingly soft!" Kyle deliberately hyped up the hunting spoils they had secured over the past few days, his voice dripping with temptation:"And don't panic! There's more! Every man gets three massive, fat-dripping, sizzling-hot roasted meat steaks!" Gulp...

Hearing descriptions of food they couldn't have even imagined in their wildest dreams, the fifty-plus survivors collectively swallowed a massive mouthful of saliva. A terrifying, feral glint of pure hunger erupted in their red-rimmed eyes. Barely half an hour later. In the plaza just outside the barracks.

When the fifty-three refugees assembled once again—having completely washed away the toxic mud, devoured piping-hot meat steaks, and stuffed their bellies until they were perfectly round—the martial spirit radiating from them was fiercely rekindled. Fina wheeled out two solid-wood handcarts, heavily loaded with territorial supplies. The distribution of this jaw-dropping gear was the true main event.

"Draw your armaments!" Kyle bellowed. Accompanied by the crisp, ringing sounds of grinding metal, the gear was handed out one by one. The heavy, dark [Black Iron Half-Plate] was expertly strapped onto the recruits by the veteran soldiers. The thick, solid weight of the iron perfectly contouring to their abdomens and protecting their hearts sent thrilling shivers straight down Darion and his men's spines. Immediately after, a three-meter-long [Black Iron Spear] was shoved into every man's hand.

Gripping the razor-sharp, expertly ground triangular iron spearheads, the recruits realized this gear was millions of times superior to the rusted garbage they had been swinging around. But what fascinated and shocked them the most was the special garment they were ordered to wear underneath the black iron plating. It was the very first batch of the newly manufactured inner armor: the [Cotton Armor]. This incredibly dense, tightly compressed, and thickly stitched cotton was astonishingly lightweight.

Yet, this thin, padded layer provided immense shock absorption, drastically multiplying their survival rate in a chaotic melee by cushioning the blunt-force trauma of heavy impacts. Through bathing, feasting, and finally being draped in iron and cotton, fifty-three filthy, repulsive refugees had shed their mortal coils. They had officially transformed into another elite, bloodthirsty unit ready to deploy under the banner of Greywater Village! The next morning.

When the very first pale grey light of dawn struggled to pierce through the thick miasma and spill across the floorboards, Darion slowly opened his eyes from within a cocoon of warmth. There was no freezing, toxic water soaking his back. There was no horrifying rustling of fist-sized Rot-Venom Spiders crawling right next to his ear. In a daze, he reached out his hand, gently stroking the dry, thick animal skin bedding beneath him.

He was currently lying inside a stilted wooden cabin suspended high up in the canopy of a towering ancient tree. This structure, elevated several meters off the ground, completely isolated them from the joint-rotting moisture of the swamp floor.

"It's real. We aren't dreaming." Darion's deputy—the man who had been nothing but skin and bones yesterday—was currently leaning back against the wooden railing. Both of his arms were wrapped tightly around his newly issued clothing. The fabric carried the fresh, clean scent of sun-baked soap pods. The man's eyes were completely red. It was the [Cotton Armor] that Chief Financial Officer Fina had personally ordered distributed. Darion sat up and pulled the densely stitched cotton tunic over his head.

An unprecedented softness and warmth immediately enveloped his chest. In past winters, the only way they survived the freezing cold was by stripping the rotting, tattered clothes off their dead comrades and wrapping themselves in them, shivering uncontrollably in the mud. But now? This lightweight cotton armor—capable of stopping a sword slash—finally made them feel the absolute dignity of being human beings. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle... A mouth-watering aroma drifted up through the gaps in the wooden floorboards.

It was the heavenly scent of starch pan-frying in sizzling animal fat. Darion and his fifty-two brothers practically scrambled over each other, tumbling out of the treehouse and sprinting madly toward the central cafeteria. There, several massive iron marching cauldrons were bubbling wildly, thick steam billowing into the air. The women managing the fires wielded long-handled wooden ladles. As the soldiers lined up, the women scooped massive, heaping portions of thick, golden Swamp Tuber mash into their bowls.

Inside the mash, they could even see traces of incredibly precious, finely milled wheat flour! But what made Darion and his men's eyes practically pop out of their skulls... Was that plopped right on top of every single man's wooden tray were two solid, palm-sized pieces of roasted dried meat!