The Lord Demon King is Unfathomable!

Sarve and Pete followed behind the carriage, their eyes constantly glancing at the tightly drawn curtain at the back, looking at the cargo boxes that occasionally peeked out, a sense of unease rising in their hearts.

What exactly is the master planning?

Unfortunately, no one answered their question.

Everyone was brought to a barren piece of land to the north of the estate, not far from a sparse forest, where it seemed a Black Bear had dashed past.

The cold wind swept through, slicing across the face like a knife. Sarve and the hundred or so peasants shrank their necks, unsure of what awaited them.

Until the Steward signaled the servants to uncover the curtain on the carriage.

It wasn't farming tools loaded on the cart.

There were no hoes, no axes, and no heavy plows for clearing the land; instead, there were neatly stacked Flintlock Guns.

The barrels, dark as pitch, exuded a chilling sense of foreboding under the late autumn sunlight, causing the farmers' hearts to sink heavily.

Is this... preparation for war?

"Step forward, receive a gun each." The Steward did not speak; this time, it was the carriage driver who loudly shouted the order.

The peasants stirred restlessly.

An older man mustered the courage to speak, looking nervously at the Lord's servant handing out the guns.

"Sir, does this mean... does this mean we're going to war?"

The servant evidently didn't know much either. As he handed over the gun, he gave an ambiguous reply.

"Not necessarily, just routine training. Recently, the north hasn't been peaceful, with bandits about, and the Lord is doing this for your own good. Those Green Turban-wearing fellows are all deadly..."

Hearing the servant's perfunctory words, everyone looked at each other, whispering among themselves.

They all thought the Baron must have gone mad.

Though they were peasants, they weren't deaf or blind.

Even before autumn arrived, they had heard from traveling merchants from the north that the trade route of the Rushing River had been restored. Princess Erin's army had defeated the Green Forest Army decisively, and those bandits had vanished long ago.

Where is the bandit menace in the north now?

On the contrary, ever since the Judicial Court went there, it's been incredibly safe!

They looked around, unable to find the enemy they might fight. Does the Lord want them to fight the Dwarves in the Ten Thousand Ridges Mountain Range?

However, the Steward's face was a picture of death, clearly not intending to answer any questions.

The peasants didn't dare to resist the authority of their Lord.

Here, the Baron's will was law, and the Steward's words were commands.

They could only suppress their fears and doubts, line up, and use their frozen, stiff hands to receive those heavy weapons from the box.

Training began promptly.

An imposing foreigner arrived, his face marked by a burn scar, speaking in a thick Ryan Kingdom accent.

It must be said, although the Ryan people weren't as formidable as the Campbell people in battle, this mercenary-like man was much more professional than the Baron's guards.

Within less than a quarter of an hour, he taught them obedience and discipline.

"Form into three rows! Quickly!"

"Raise your guns! Aim! Fire! They say you Campbell people are born shooters—is this really your level? Move faster!"

"First row, fall back and reload! Second row, step forward—!"

The scolding made Sarve temporarily forget his confusion, blending into the orderly formation with the other peasants.

They truly were born warriors.

In the Ryan Kingdom, farmers would need to start by learning to load and adapt to the sound of gunfire, but they could start maneuvering as soon as they had their guns.

In fact, they knew the formations too; they just needed someone to command them, to awaken their muscle memory after some time had passed.

The crackle of gunfire rang out.

The foreign instructor seemed quite pleased with their performance, exclaiming, "You guys really are damn geniuses," which was the first compliment Sarve had heard all year, bringing a smile to his honest face.

People often say the Campbell Duchy is the epitome of the Land of Knights, but he never believed that. Clearly, firearms were their pride.

In those distant old ages, it was said that the King's army had to muster a thousand spearmen and pay a heavy price to defeat a Silver Level Transcendent Knight.

But now, a hundred-man Campbell team was enough—a dense volley could make Silver Level Transcendents retreat.

And Gold Level and even Platinum Level Transcendent beings could be defeated with coordinated formations and artillery support.

Of course, if the enemy was a Mage, things would get tricky; it would test the Commander's strategic maneuvering and familiarity with various spells.

But those were the Commander's concerns, and as a soldier, he didn't need to worry about such complexities.

All he had to do was stand firmly, reload, then fire—

Until they won the war.

The tense and busy training lasted all day, only nearing twilight did the sweat-drenched peasants get a slight respite.

They tried to get close to the instructor, but he remained with a cold face, refusing to answer any questions, silent as the distant woods.

"Who are we fighting?"

"When do we set out?"

"What happened in the north?"

The instructor's sole response was—

"Shut up, mind your guns, practice earnestly if you want to live, and ask your master if you have questions."

They didn't dare ask their master.

The whole training ground was silent, everyone rather dispirited.

Maybe noticing their disheartenment, before they were driven back to their hovels, the instructor finally spoke again, leaving them with a single promise.

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