Chương 268: 268：Forging the Dark-Silver Armor

"Greywater Village has already mass-produced thick [Gambesons], which provide excellent insulation and exceptional anti-slash properties. Have the soldiers wear this new composite half-plate layered directly over their heavy gambesons!"

"I dare say, even if the most critical, highly-decorated military tactician were to inspect them, the overall defensive capabilities of our second-line troops have already reached the exact standards of the Holy Halycon Empire's main Royal Legions!"

"As for the name..." Soren pondered for a moment.

"Mithril-Black Steel Composite Armor is far too tedious of a mouthful."

"From now on, the fully-enclosed variant used by our frontline elites will be designated as [Dark-Silver Full-Plate]! The variant equipped by our second-line soldiers will be designated as [Dark-Silver Half-Plate]!"

"Your will be done, My Lord! Just you watch, the Goblin forge fires will hammer out the most impregnable defenses this world has ever seen!" Luger let out an ecstatic, high-pitched screech. Waving his hammer wildly, he immediately began barking orders at a swarm of Goblin laborers, aggressively hauling away the massive piles of confiscated Mithril Plate....

Having finalized the reforging of their defensive gear, Soren's gaze shifted toward the thousands of standard-issue [Heavy Repeating Crossbows] looted from the Ironpeak Duchy. Out in the freezing, howling wind, over a thousand former Steppe barbarian veterans were already lined up on the muddy training grounds in perfect, highly disciplined Greywater formations. They stared at the crates of beautifully crafted heavy crossbows being unloaded from the wagons.

Their eyes burned with raw, primal desire, yet bound by Soren's draconian military discipline, not a single man dared to break rank or scramble for a weapon.

"Distribute them all! One in every man's hands!" Soren waved his hand, issuing the allocation order. Hearing this, the generals standing behind him were collectively taken aback. Lyra, his personal guard, tilted her head slightly, voicing her confusion in a soft whisper:"My Lord... these thousands of heavy repeating crossbows, while impressive, lack the pure armor-piercing kinetic force of the custom winch-drawn repeaters used by your Black Steel elites.

And in terms of range and pinpoint accuracy, they fall far short of Lady Ilya's Magical Rangers and Commander Ein's Longbow Battalion."

"If we distribute them all to the Macedonian infantry—who already require both hands to wield their massive pikes—won't this cause a severe weapon redundancy?" Watching the scarred Steppe veterans excitedly receiving their new crossbows, a cold, supremely confident smile surfaced on Soren's face.

"Lyra, never measure the mechanics of war with the mindset of a one-on-one duel." Soren patiently instructed the exceptionally talented silver-haired girl.

"While these repeating crossbows might seem mediocre individually, they are the standard-issue weapons of human regular armies, refined through countless brutal, real-world meat grinders. What is their absolute greatest advantage?" Soren held up a single finger.

"It is that they require absolutely zero long-term training!"

"A simple peasant only needs to know how to pull a trigger, and in the blink of an eye, he can unleash ten refined-steel bolts! It forms an immediate, stable output of firepower!" Soren walked to the front of the massive phalanx, looking at the towering, heavily muscled soldiers. In his mind, he was perfecting a tactical doctrine utterly capable of upending this entire era of cold steel.

"The core of my tactical doctrine has always been brutally clear—Firepower Saturation."

"In my grand design, the primary function of a melee infantry line is never to trade their lives by frantically exchanging blade strikes with Orcs."

"Their role is singular: to be an unbreakable anvil. To act as a physical barricade that entirely halts the enemy's momentum!"

"The true core of our lethal output comes entirely from ranged firepower!" Soren maintained his cold, calculating rationality:"Imagine this. When the Orcs' Bloodbone Legion comes screaming and charging madly toward our positions, what welcomes them will not be the thrust of pikes."

"Instead, it will be over a thousand Macedonian pikemen raising their repeating crossbows in unison moments before the clash. A dense, inescapable cloud of ten thousand steel bolts raining violently down upon the enemy's heads!"

"Once the bolts are spent, they instantly hook the crossbows to their belts, level their three-meter pikes, lock their shields, and brace for the meat grinder."

"That is what it means to build an overwhelming offensive advantage purely on a foundation of interlocking fire!" Hearing Soren describe this sequence, Lyra and the surrounding generals were left in a state of profound, mind-numbing shock. Having heavy infantry moonlight as crossbowmen, unleashing indiscriminate, wide-area bombardment seconds before engaging in melee?!

Once this brutally efficient, devastating tactic was executed on a real battlefield, the sheer kinetic shock alone would completely shatter the momentum of an Orcish charge in a matter of seconds!... Shortly after, Soren took long strides into the warm, high-stilt command cabin. In the corner of the cabin, account ledgers were stacked into literal mountains. Kyle, the Head of Internal Logistics, was slumped over his desk.

Clutching a charcoal pencil worn down to a nub, he was frantically calculating something at breakneck speed. Hearing footsteps, Kyle snapped his head up. The once massively built, physically imposing man now had deeply sunken eye sockets and eyes that were completely bloodshot from sleep deprivation. His previously thick hair was visibly thinning due to overwhelming anxiety. His entire aura radiated sheer exhaustion; he looked like a man standing on the absolute brink of a mental breakdown.

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"My Lord..." Seeing Kyle in this state, a twinge of genuine guilt tugged at Soren's heart. Greywater Village was developing far too fast. After fully absorbing the remnants of the Steppe barbarians, the total population of the territory had violently exploded to 2, 019 people!

The logistical distribution of food for these two thousand mouths—including massive quantities of [Swamp Tubers], dehydrated sorghum, and monster meat—the coordination of construction materials for the defensive trenches, and the daily burn rate of firewood and medicinal herbs... This entire, crushing burden rested squarely on the shoulders of Kyle and Fina.

It had reached the point where Kyle, a man who was never inherently skilled at mathematics, had to force himself to take on a massive portion of the accounting. It was draining him of his very life force.

"Kyle, I am permanently transferring all thirty of those iron-plated supply wagons confiscated from the Ironpeak Duchy to the Logistics Department."

"They are placed entirely under your centralized management, designated strictly for transporting frontline rations and supplies during severe weather conditions," Soren said smoothly, pouring a cup of warm rum and personally handing it to Kyle.

"Thirty iron-plated supply wagons?!" A burst of intense, ecstatic joy flooded Kyle's bloodshot eyes. This was practically a godsend! With these specialized wagons, the treacherous, muddy roads of the Misty Swamp could no longer stall their food transports. However, after the brief surge of joy, Kyle looked back at the towering piles of ledgers and let out an agonizing, pained groan:"My Lord... the wagons are excellent. But... I really don't think I can hold on much longer."

"Tomorrow at dawn, I have to go to the training grounds to run the Macedonian Phalanx drills. In the afternoon, I have to inventory the new batch of gambesons from the tailors. At night, I have to cross-check the Goblins' daily rations... My head is splitting open every single day." Soren firmly patted Kyle's broad shoulder, his expression exceptionally solemn as he issued a major personnel adjustment:"That is exactly why I came to see you today."

"Kyle, effective immediately, you are relieved of your concurrent duties as the Commander of the Macedonian Phalanx." Kyle violently froze. His large hands began to tremble slightly. In any military hierarchy, being stripped of military command almost always signified a catastrophic fall from grace. But before the icy grip of panic could fully take hold of his heart, Soren's gentle, yet absolutely resolute voice continued:"Do not overthink this.

I am stripping your military command not because you did poorly, but precisely because you have performed too well."

"Greywater Village cannot afford internal chaos. If our rear is unstable, our front lines will inevitably collapse."

"From this day forth, you are permanently excused from all military drills and combat duties. You will exclusively oversee internal affairs and logistics! You are now the Grand Steward of Greywater Village. The life and death of all non-combat personnel, the allocation of every single copper coin and grain of wheat—it is all subject to your absolute, independent authority!" Hearing this monumental declaration, Kyle's eyes instantly welled up with red.

An overwhelming surge of profound gratitude, mixed with the immense relief of shedding his crushing burdens, nearly caused him to sob aloud.

"Thank you, My Lord, for your unparalleled understanding! I, Kyle, swear upon my very life: I will never let a single brother on the front lines fight on an empty stomach!" After comforting Kyle and securing his rear logistics, Soren immediately summoned the former Chief of the Steppe Barbarians, Talon. When the towering, heavily muscled warrior stepped into the command cabin, the already cramped space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

"Talon, reporting to the Commander!" Talon dropped heavily to one knee, his right fist resting solemnly over his heart. His eyes were utterly brimming with absolute reverence for this young lord.

"Rise." Soren critically appraised the fierce veteran before him and cut straight to the point: "Kyle has officially resigned from his position as Commander of the Macedonian Phalanx."

"Effective immediately, you are the newly appointed Commander of the Phalanx! Darion will retain his position as Vice-Commander to assist you in your duties." Hearing this, Talon's eyes widened to the size of saucers in sheer disbelief.

"My Lord! This... how can this be?! I have only just joined Greywater Village! This is a main battle phalanx of over a thousand men! You... you're entrusting this entirely to me?!" Though Talon possessed a burning ambition to earn military merit and forge a legacy, this sudden, astronomical leap in rank and the unfathomable trust placed upon him left him feeling profoundly intimidated. Soren merely smiled faintly. This decision was far from a sudden impulse.

Of the newly expanded thousand-plus Macedonian pikemen, a staggering 783 of them were Steppe veterans who used to fight directly under Talon's banner! A commander who knows his men breathes life into an army. This was the only way to forge absolute unit cohesion in the shortest possible time. If he didn't put Talon in charge, factional friction and alienation between the old and new recruits would inevitably fester and rot the core of the unit. Soren was a master of absolute political and military management.

Employ a man and trust him; doubt a man and do not employ him. As the official appointment was issued, Soren silently activated the system's scanning function in his mind, pulling up Talon's talent panel to verify his absolute worth.