Chương 259: 50. Logistics Before Battles 1

Three days. When Ignicia dropped that number on me, her tone was as casual as someone saying don't let dinner go cold, not announcing the countdown to an expedition capable of dragging the fate of two kingdoms, several fortified cities, and whatever remained of my reasonably stable life straight into the fire. March out in three days. In other words, I now had exactly three days to accomplish several tasks, any one of which, taken alone, would have been sufficient grounds for faking a terminal illness.

Write to Olivia. Send Hans and the others ahead to Cliffhold. And take this current pile of people, horses, dragons, equipment, supplies, and orders — which at present only qualified as generally willing to go to war — and forcibly compress it into something that could actually march. The best part?

Yesterday I had just barely crawled out of the Ancestral Lands alive — a place where the very air felt like it was auditing your soul for missing pieces — with a dragon scale on the back of my left hand that had developed a mild fever, and a head still ringing with echoes of the Dragon Soul I hadn't finished processing. By any reasonable standard, a man who'd just clocked out of a mythological event deserved at least half a day off. No such luck.

War has never been the sort of thing that checks whether your mental state is stable before proceeding. It's more like a debt collector with impeccable timing — the kind that knocks precisely when you most want to lie flat, and politely informs you that what you owe isn't money. It's your life. So the next morning, I woke into a state of distinctly uncharitable consciousness. Strictly speaking, I hadn't actually slept. Every time I closed my eyes: those dragon eyes hanging in the cavern dark.

Every time I rolled over: Pangu, sitting like an old man sunning himself in an alley, casually pressing the Dragon Soul into my palm and tossing the rest of my life into hard mode as an afterthought. Some people's dreams are rest. Mine, apparently, were unpaid overtime. When morning light slanted through the curtain gap, I lay flat staring at the ceiling, and the first thought that surfaced wasn't what needs to happen first today — it was: Ah. I really didn't die yesterday. Not an auspicious thought.

But an honest one. I raised my left hand and looked at the scale. Still there. Fine-lined, quiet, its edge carrying a faint dark red like the deepest core of a dying ember. It didn't shout. It didn't announce itself. But its mere presence was enough to confirm that yesterday hadn't been a fatigue-induced hallucination. I stared at it two seconds, then let my hand drop.... Right, then. Since I wasn't dead, time to get up and keep paying installments on being alive.

I'd barely thrown my coat on when a knock came at the door. Not Ignicia's knocking is a courtesy, I'm coming in either way rhythm. Not Jessi's two taps and I'm already opening it myself while insulting you style. This was formal. Palace-formal. The kind of knock that carries the specific energy of trouble has finished dressing and is standing politely outside. I opened it.

Two inner-court attendants and a clerk clutching a wooden case stood outside, all three ramrod straight, expressions so composed they bordered on merciless — exactly the sort of people suited to sorting wartime documents, deployment rosters, and bad news into neat folders. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it The clerk in the center gave a small bow.

"Lord Cedric. Her Highness has instructed us to deliver the first batch of mobilization documents."... Here we go. I looked at the case. A very specific dread bloomed.

"The first batch?"

"Yes, my lord." His expression didn't waver.

"The march draft, preliminary supply manifest, current Dragon Cavalry formation, adjutant coordination notes, available inner-court resources, and the royal stable requisition chart. All enclosed." I went quiet. In that moment, I understood something clearly: what ultimately crushes a man isn't necessarily the Yanxia Empire's grand army. It might just as easily be a stack of paper delivered in a wooden box.

"... Where is Her Highness?" I asked.

"The Princess is currently at the training grounds with General Lei Lian, confirming the headcount for immediate deployment," the clerk answered, precise as a script.

"Lady Alvira has taken over the archers' morning drill in the outer yard. Vice-Commander Hans is in the west courtyard, organizing the escort's return column." Wonderful. Everyone was up early. Everyone except me — standing here like some unlucky bastard fate had just slapped awake inside his own coffin. I stepped aside and let them carry the case in. The moment the lid came off, I nearly closed it right back.

"This is the first batch?"

"Yes, my lord." Not a flicker.

"If Her Highness finalizes the equipment and transport numbers before noon, there will be a second batch this afternoon." A second batch. Fantastic. The ancestors had stared at me for so long yesterday, I'd half-hoped they'd at least bless me with exemption from paperwork. Apparently their jurisdiction stops at alive, not comfortable. I sat and flipped open the top draft. The ink was neat enough to induce despair.

It wasn't just formation lists — there were margin notes: which unit could move first, which needed to wait on saddles, which dragons were showing instability, which inner-court supplies could only be released at half quantity, which horses had to leave with Hans's group. Two pages in, one truth had already become painfully clear: war's real teeth are always hidden in the numbers.

From outside came the faint sound of the training grounds — Lei Lian's commands, short and hard as a hammer driving nails; further off, Alvira's voice, sharp enough to physically trim a whole row of archers' ears into shape. As for Jessi — I didn't need to see her to know she was up, and almost certainly somewhere simultaneously insulting someone and finishing their work for them. Some people are built for peacetime. Jessi is not one of them.

She's the type who, once war actually arrives, rolls up her sleeves and complains that everyone else is too slow. I was on page three when hurried footsteps sounded outside. No need to guess. The rhythm alone — move or I'm taking the door with me — told me exactly who it was. Sure enough, Jessi's head appeared in the doorway.

"Morning, my lord. You're up?" One hand on the doorframe, the other holding a half-eaten flatbread, her tone as sweet and oily as hot syrup poured directly into your ear — eyes sharp as ever. She glanced at the pile of documents, brow arching.

"My, starting already? I figured you'd at least get a proper stare at the ceiling first."

"So did I," I said, entirely sincere.

"Reality doesn't seem to support my imagination." She laughed, bit into the flatbread, spoke around it.

"Well, obviously. You're an expedition commander now. You've lost your right to just lie there and decompose." Very her. First the jab. Then the reminder. Then, as a bonus, she kicks you off the floor and tells you to keep walking. I didn't bother arguing, just raised the roster.

"Hans?"

"West courtyard." She dusted crumbs from her hands.

"Busy strapping people, horses, crates, and a few delegation gentlemen who look ready to throw a fit at any moment into a single column headed back to Cliffhold." Then, as if remembering something, she produced a distinctly ominous smile.

"Oh, right. Matthews is there too. That letter for Lady Olivia — you'd better write it fast." I looked down at the desk. Sure enough, beside the military documents someone had very thoughtfully laid out blank paper, sealing wax, and a pen.... How considerate. Truly touching. On one side: the Dragon Kingdom's expedition prep, marching in three days. On the other: the letter I had to write, bound for Cliffhold and House Eisenberg. And Hans's group had to leave today. Wonderful. Today was shaping up to be very full.

Full enough that if I survived it, I probably wouldn't even have the energy left to have nightmares tonight. I pulled the blank paper toward me. Before the pen touched it, Jessi had already settled against the doorframe, wearing the expression of someone who'd bought front-row tickets.

"So, my lord. First line yet?" I looked at the paper. Silence. A long, quiet sigh.

"No."

"That's rough," Jessi said, delighted.

"Because this letter — write it well, it's troop requisition. Write it badly, and it's courtship. Quite the difference." I looked up at her.

"Could you, for once in your life, not frame things in the most catastrophic way possible?" She blinked, all innocence.

"I'm just previewing the worst case for you in advance."... Honestly, some days she's more exhausting than the entire Yanxia Empire.