Ten days later, Phield stood on the second floor of the grand winery, watching the drills in the distance.
Squads of soldiers ran in formation, jogging while shouting cadence—"One-two-three! One-two-three!" The dust they kicked up often made the slaves watering the fields stop and stare.
Whenever someone fell out of line, the guards would crack their whips through the air, the sharp snap alone enough to terrify.
Phield had incorporated the military training routines from his university days in his previous life. Ten days were nowhere near enough to forge a truly capable army—but making them look battle-ready was achievable.
During these days, no slave uprisings had occurred. The unfathomable combat strength displayed within the territory filled the slaves with fear. And for ten consecutive days, every meal had exceeded their wildest expectations—hot soup at every sitting, three loaves of bread a day.
