Free Web NovelChapter 114: Chapter 113: A Rare Banquet
After getting a clear picture of his soldiers’ current combat strength, Robson glanced at Huang Na. His command panel showed that the little one was in the midst of a breakthrough.
Confirming that all was well, Robson buckled on his sword and headed for the great hall.
This great victory today wouldn’t just shock Valentino; it would likely stun the entire Western Front! fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
This wasn’t like Prince Noah’s charge against goblins with nearly a thousand Extraordinary Knights. This was a true combat record, hard-earned by the officers and men of Qimo Fortress.
Even without any embellishment, it was a rare and resounding victory.
The military honors from this would be more than enough for Robson and all the nobles of Qimo Fortress to feast on, and even Valentino would reap the benefits.
The political impact that followed would be immeasurable.
You could tell just by looking at the nobles of Qimo Fortress. While the Frank Kingdom had a tradition of feasting, people normally wouldn’t indulge with a formidable enemy at their doorstep.
And yet, here they were, actively gathering in the great hall. Clearly, everyone was incredibly satisfied with the outcome of this battle.
Since everyone was so satisfied, Robson naturally wouldn’t be absent.
He hadn’t even reached the great hall yet, but he could already hear the distant sounds of loud laughter and boasting. It sounded like they were goading each other into drinking games, likely a contest.
After reaching Gold, Robson’s instincts had grown much sharper.
Their eagerness to celebrate wasn’t because they lacked the patience to wait for the war to end.
This was a custom of the Frankish Army: celebrate immediately after a victory. Seize the day, for no one knew what the next moment might bring.
"The Sir’s here! The Sir’s here!"
"You brats! Knock it off! The Sir is here!"
"Stop drinking! The Commander-in-Chief is here..."
As Robson reached the entrance to the great hall, the boisterous scene instantly fell silent. Everyone, as if by unspoken agreement, stopped what they were doing and looked toward the doorway, where Robson stood flanked by two guards.
Just then, the morning light streamed in from outside, suddenly lending the scene a sacred air.
The sudden silence certainly wasn’t born of any ill will toward Robson. When you can make a group of rowdy lords shut up—especially lords who have walked through hell and back—it’s an expression of respect and admiration.
That’s right, respect.
Ever since Robson’s arrival at Qimo Fortress, they had achieved one victory after another with almost negligible losses.
Who wouldn’t love a commander who could carry them to victory with virtually zero cost?
In any world, truly prestigious commanders are forged in the blood and fire of battle. This was especially true in a border nation like the Frank Kingdom, where renowned generals commanded the greatest respect.
Grantham was just like that, having risen through the ranks step by step.
This was now Robson’s situation. On the Western Front, he had earned some renown, but in the grand scheme of the kingdom, he was still a nobody.
But here and now, in Qimo Fortress, his word was essentially law.
Robson walked forward, and as he passed, every noble lord clenched a fist and looked toward him—a gesture unique to the Frankish Army.
Robson scanned his surroundings. Practically every noble in the fortress, young and old, had gathered here.
None of them had changed out of their armor, and their hands still rested on their sword hilts. Some still had blood matting their hair and staining their faces. It was hard to tell if this was a disregard for etiquette or a sign of their rugged nature; it was simply a unique tradition born from years of constant war.
At this moment, Viscount Fuman stepped forward.
"Sir, according to a preliminary estimate, our spoils of war fall into these categories."
"Of course, the specific details will require a more thorough inspection," Viscount Fuman said, stepping forward and producing a list.
Robson took it; it was basically the usual stuff.
Besides the Beastmen themselves, there were also their equipment and supplies.
The Beastmen in this wave weren’t just the low-level races like Kobolds and goblins. There were also Gnolls, the Fox Race, the Northern Bear Race, and the Centaur Clan—none of whom were easy opponents.
Since the enemy had dispatched so many elite units, their equipment was of a correspondingly high standard.
Take the crossbows of the Snow Mountain Fox Clan, for example. They were practically quasi-magical items, crafted from a special type of wood found only on the Beastman Grassland.
They could be drawn and fired from hundreds of meters away—and at night! It’s easy to imagine how absurdly powerful those things were.
Then there was the Gnolls’ leather armor. Made of exquisite cowhide, it also bore traces of Magic. After all, no matter how poor the Beastmen were, they wouldn’t cut corners on equipment like this.
’Excellent. After this battle, my army is due for a major upgrade. This is the perfect chance to get my boys re-equipped.’
’The soldiers of Lord Robson deserved only the very best.’
The spoils also included Magic Crystal Cannons and grain. Robson, however, paid the cannons no mind. When it came to Beastmen-made Magic Crystal Cannons, you could never be sure they would actually hit the enemy.
Even if he wanted to use them, Robson would have to expend great effort to modify them all. freewёbnoνel.com
The grain was actually the most important thing. The next Beastmen offensive was bound to be ferocious, and acquiring supplies would no longer be as easy as it had been.
"Bruce Priest, have our wounded been properly cared for?
Collecting the spoils can wait. The loot isn’t going anywhere. Tend to the wounded first.
Don’t be stingy with the Divine Water or Magic Power," Robson said, looking at Bruce. "The young men who defend our homes and our kingdom deserve the best care."
The matter of the wounded has always been a critical issue for an army. The leadership’s actions are watched closely by the ranks; if handled poorly, it could trigger a collapse in the entire army’s morale.
"No problem, Sir," Bruce replied, nodding a bit nervously after being put on the spot. "We’ve already had... er, the fortress’s original garrison get to it. All the wounded soldiers are being properly settled and cared for."
He had been about to say ’auxiliary troops,’ but considering the pride of the nobles present, he thought better of saying it directly.
Receiving this firm reply, Robson nodded and walked into the celebrating crowd.
The men looked at him, somewhat puzzled.
Although everyone present now held Robson in high esteem, it was an undeniable fact that when a leader joined the party, it could sometimes dampen the atmosphere.
This was especially true for a leader like Robson, who possessed both great power and prestige. The men didn’t have a good read on his personality yet. If he turned out to be a stern commander who disapproved of such rowdiness, the celebration would be over before it began. No one would dare object, even though most of them were older than him.
Robson, of course, was aware of this. In a nation structured around nobility, one had to learn to mingle with the masses, to dim one’s own light and join the common dust.
He wasn’t about to let the prestige he’d worked so hard to build go to waste by letting the party die. True respect, he knew, required both veneration and familiarity.
Walking to the center of the hall, Robson picked up a cup.
’Finding one of these on the front lines was no easy feat.’
He calmly filled it to the brim. Standing in the center of the hall, Robson raised his cup to the dozens of assembled noble lords.
Seeing their leader’s action, the men in the hall let out a collective sigh of relief. As one, they raised their own cups and bowls—some even hoisting entire wine jugs—to return Robson’s gesture.
"Long live the brave and fearless Franks!"
With that, Robson drained his cup in one go.
