"Remember this well," I said, smoothing the sleeve of my white shirt after the cliff wind had ruffled it out of place. "Never judge a person by appearance alone."
The field was still heavy with the aftertaste of silence. Only moments ago, the mercenaries had been laughing freely, their rough voices rising over the open ground as if my words were nothing more than a noble boy's daydream. Now, none of them dared to laugh. Some were still on one knee. Others stood frozen with pale faces and trembling fingers, their weapons hanging uselessly at their sides.
The dark pressure from Intimidation Aura had already vanished, but the fear it left behind remained.
I let my gaze pass over them slowly. Not too quickly, not too harshly. I wanted them to feel seen, measured, and judged. These men were used to looking down on anyone weaker than them, but their pride had collapsed the instant they felt a power they could not understand.
Good.
That made them easy to reshape.
"I bought your contracts," I continued, my voice calm enough to make the words feel heavier. "And whether you understand it now or not, you should be grateful for that."
A few mercenaries lowered their heads. The thin man with the rusty sword who had mocked me earlier stared at the ground as though the dirt had suddenly become fascinating. Sweat ran down his temple and gathered at his jaw before dripping off his chin.
Drip.
I began walking in front of their line, my boots pressing softly into the packed earth. The former slaves watched from the other side, quieter than before. They had seen my promise of freedom. They had seen Albert challenge me. Now, they had seen the mercenaries, men with weapons and armor, reduced to shaking knees by nothing but my presence.
That was dangerous, but useful.
A leader in Constantia could not be seen as merely kind. Kindness without strength invited greed. Strength without kindness created another Leonard. If I wanted these people to follow me, then both had to exist at the same time.
"Let me be honest with you," I said, stopping before the mercenaries. "Rank E mercenaries like you would not be welcomed in any proper military operation. At best, you would be hired as disposable scouts. At worst, you would be thrown into a ditch, die nameless, and be replaced before anyone bothered to ask where your body fell."
The words struck them harder than flattery ever could.
One of the mercenaries clenched his jaw, but he did not argue. Another swallowed, the sound clear in the tense air. They hated hearing it, yet none of them could deny it. Their armor, their weapons, their posture, even the way they stood in a line without discipline—all of it told the same story.
They were not soldiers.
They were men who had survived by taking cheap jobs and avoiding stronger opponents.
"But in Constantia," I said, raising my voice so it reached not only them, but also the former slaves standing nearby, "things will be different."
A few heads lifted.
The wind swept across the field again, carrying the smell of damp soil, cut timber, and distant smoke from the village hearths. Behind the gathered crowd, the settlement looked unfinished and fragile. Half-built frames stood beside old huts. Stacks of stone waited near the road. Canvas, rope, and planks were scattered around the construction site like the bones of a future town not yet assembled.
It was not impressive.
Not yet.
But because it was unfinished, it could still become anything.
"In this land," I continued, "every person will be treated by the same principle. I do not care whether you were slaves, farmers, or low-ranking mercenaries. I do not care whether you arrived here with clean hands, empty stomachs, or rusted swords."
The thin mercenary's fingers twitched near his weapon, then immediately pulled away as if he remembered who he was standing before.
I looked at him for a moment before speaking again.
"Your dignity here will not be decided by Rank. It will not be decided by your birth, your previous owner, your former employer, or how loudly you boast in front of men weaker than you. In Constantia, your worth will be decided by your contribution and your loyalty."
This time, no one laughed.
The former slaves listened with uncertain eyes. Some looked afraid to believe me, as if hope itself might punish them if they reached for it too quickly. The mercenaries looked different. They were frightened, yes, but beneath that fear was calculation. Men like them understood hierarchy. They understood rewards, punishment, and survival. If I gave them a ladder to climb, some would take it. If I gave them discipline, a few might even become useful.
I paused and let my words settle into them.
Silence was not empty. In the right moment, it was a hammer.
Hans Carter stood near the far end of the mercenary line, his glasses sitting crookedly on his pale face. His body looked as though a stiff breeze might knock him over, and although he had managed to stand again, his knees were still shaking terribly. He clutched his magic staff with both hands, not like a weapon, but like a walking stick that happened to be keeping him from collapsing.
His lips moved soundlessly, perhaps reciting a calming spell, perhaps praying to whatever gods he believed would protect him from me.
The sight almost made me sigh.
An Intelligence SS mage with a body that can barely handle intimidation. What a ridiculous imbalance.
Still, weakness was not useless. A sharp mind could be worth more than a strong arm, if placed properly. The problem was whether Hans himself understood that.
I turned my attention back to the gathered group.
"Now, all of you," I said, letting authority settle naturally into my tone, "former slaves and mercenaries alike—go meet Oderick."
At the mention of Oderick, several villagers standing near the side exchanged glances. Some nodded faintly. Oderick had already been informed in advance, so there should be no confusion as long as everyone followed instructions.
"I have ordered him to handle your arrival," I continued. "He will guide you in building the temporary camp and assigning basic arrangements. You will receive food, but do not mistake mercy for permission to be lazy."
My gaze moved from the former slaves to the mercenaries.
"If you want to eat tonight, then work properly."
That line worked better than any speech.
The former slaves reacted first. Hunger was a language they understood too well. The moment they heard food was tied to orderly work rather than punishment, their stiff bodies began to move with cautious urgency. Some looked toward the village chief's house. Others waited to see which direction the villagers pointed before following.
The mercenaries were slower, but only by a few breaths. A man helped another rise from one knee. The thin mercenary with the rusty sword wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers, then gave me one fearful glance before quickly looking away. Someone picked up a dropped spear. Another muttered something under his breath, but this time, there was no mockery in it.
The line began to break apart in a surprisingly orderly manner.
Boots scraped against dirt. Worn sandals shuffled forward. The former slaves and mercenaries, awkwardly forced into the same stream of movement, headed toward the direction of the village chief's house. Their pace was uneven, but no one dared wander off. No one dared complain loudly either.
Hans Carter moved faster than most.
For a man whose legs had almost betrayed him moments ago, he suddenly discovered an impressive will to leave my presence. He hurriedly adjusted his crooked glasses with one hand while fumbling to straighten his magic staff with the other. The staff nearly slipped from his grip once, and he caught it with a small, panicked jerk.
Tap!
The bottom of the staff struck the ground a little too hard.
Hans flinched at his own noise, then quickened his steps as if afraid the sound alone might draw my anger.
I watched him go for two seconds.
Then I called out.
"Stella Leslie."
The flow of people slowed.
Stella stopped almost immediately. Her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn around at once. Her hands, thin and rough from hardship, curled lightly against the sides of her worn skirt.
"Arad Youssef."
The white-haired mercenary halted next. Unlike the others, he did not panic. He turned his head slightly, his pale hair shifting in the wind, and looked at me with guarded attention. His expression was controlled, but his eyes still held the memory of the pressure he had endured. He had resisted better than the rest, and he knew I had noticed.
"Ivan Gregor."
The broad-shouldered former slave stopped near the edge of the group. His jaw tightened. For a moment, his gaze moved toward Stella, then back to me. He looked wary, protective, and uncertain whether being called by name was an honor or a threat.
"And Hans Carter."
Hans froze.
His entire body locked in place as if an invisible hand had grabbed the back of his collar. The staff in his hand trembled. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward me. His face had gone so pale that even his lips seemed to lose color.
With Intelligence SS, his mind was probably moving faster than anyone else's in the field.
Unfortunately for him, that intelligence was now being used to imagine the worst possible outcome.
Am I being dismissed? Did he notice how weak my body is? Is he going to throw me away? No, no, maybe he's going to send me to the forest. I'm dead. I'm completely dead.
His expression said all of that without him needing to speak a word.
I looked at the four of them in turn: Stella Leslie, with hope buried beneath years of caution; Arad Youssef, with talent hiding behind the status of a low-rank mercenary; Ivan Gregor, with strength restrained by suffering; and Hans Carter, whose brilliant mind was currently busy terrifying itself.
"You four," I said firmly, "follow me now. We will speak in private."