The casualties were too high.
Solomon sat in the only house in the village that still had a roof, staring at the casualty report. His brows knit together.
Three hundred men against forty. An absolute numerical advantage. The enemy was sick, poisoned, and desperate.
Yet, he had still lost over twenty men, with many more wounded.
Solomon rubbed his temples. The headache wasn't just physical; it was structural. His method of command was flawed. Using gold as a stimulant worked, but it was like giving a man a Berserker potion—effective, but reckless.
The levies had fought like starving wolves, yes. But they had also fought without discipline. They had scrambled over each other to claim the "prize," leaving openings that the dying Burned Men had exploited. Some had even abandoned formation to secure a corpse, resulting in unnecessary deaths.
Money buys swords, Solomon thought bitterly. It doesn't buy cohesion.
Moreover, these three hundred men were not his. They belonged to House Datings. Once this campaign was over, they would return to their fields. They were borrowed assets.
I need my own men.
Lady Roslin had given him permission to recruit, but which peaceful farmer wants to trade a hoe for a sword? The town officials were already making excuses.
Solomon's mind turned to the refugees. The displaced, the desperate, the starving.
I'll take the men, he plotted. Send their families to Mirekeep. I have no land to give them yet, but I can give them promises. And in this world, a promise from a man with a sword is worth more than a deed from a man without one.
The pressure was suffocating.
Bang!
Solomon slammed his fist onto the table. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.
At the door, Lushen jumped. He had been standing guard, despite his injuries. Hearing the noise, he rushed in, hand on his sword hilt, eyes darting around the room for an assassin.
Seeing nothing but Solomon sitting at the table, Lushen looked confused. He scratched his head with his free hand.
"What are you doing, Lushen? Hahaha!" Solomon pointed at him and burst into laughter.
The tension in his chest evaporated.
It was just... Lushen looked ridiculous. He was wrapped in so many bandages he looked like a mummy. Only his eyes and mouth were visible. Yet there he was, hand on his sword, ready to fight a ghost.
Solomon had once heard that talent could be found in the humblest places. In this era of cold steel, a peasant could indeed be a general.
During the assault on the granary, Lushen had drawn his sword and charged first. Follow me! That level of bravery had shocked Solomon. He believed officers should be seen, not necessarily the first to die. But Lushen had gone in knowing he might not come out.
That was why the men followed him. He was harsh, yes. But he bled first.
He had taken a dozen wounds, yet he was still standing here, guarding a door.
A true man of valor, Solomon thought. Without me, he would have died a farmer.
Lushen, embarrassed by his lord's laughter, took his hand off his sword.
"My Lord Solomon," he mumbled through his bandages, "I heard a noise. I thought there was a savage hiding in the rafters."
Solomon waved his hand, his smile softening. "No, no. No savages. Just my own frustrations. I hit the table."
He pointed at Lushen again. "But seeing you rush in looking like a giant roll of linen... it was funny."
Lushen scratched his head again, a goofy grin spreading beneath the gauze. "If my clumsiness makes my lord happy, then these wounds are worth it."
He laughed too, a simple, honest sound.
But Solomon's smile faded. A pang of sadness hit him.
He looked at this bandaged giant. A man who had walked through hell for him. A man who, despite bleeding from a dozen cuts, had rushed to his side at the first sign of trouble.
Solomon had always tried to keep a distance. He told himself he was a modern man, a player in a game, and these were just NPCs.
But looking at Lushen, he couldn't lie to himself anymore.
I don't want him to die.
The thought of Lushen falling in battle, of this loyal, goofy, brave man becoming just another corpse in the mud... it made Solomon's heart heavy.
Lushen noticed the shift. He stopped laughing. He fidgeted, wondering if he had done something wrong.
"Lushen," Solomon asked quietly. "Why did you charge in first?"
He didn't know how else to ask.
Lushen lowered his head. "I... I was afraid the men would hesitate. I was afraid they would delay your victory, my lord. If I went first, I knew they would follow."
"I am sorry, Lord Solomon. I was wro—"
A hand landed on his shoulder. Heavy. Warm.
Lushen looked up. He saw sorrow in Solomon's eyes.
"Don't die, Lushen," Solomon whispered. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. "I intend to enjoy riches and glory, and I want you there to share it with me."
Lushen froze.
His mind went blank. The world went silent.
He wanted to speak. He wanted to say the proper thing: It is an honor to die for you.
But the words stuck in his throat.
He wasn't a knight. He wasn't a lord. He was a peasant named Lushen. No highborn had ever cared if he lived or died. To them, he was a tool. A beast of burden.
But Solomon... Solomon wanted him to live.
Lushen began to tremble. Not from pain, but from a surge of emotion so powerful it nearly knocked him over.
He dropped to his knees with a thud. He reached out, wanting to grasp the hem of Solomon's cloak, but stopped himself, fearing his bloody hands would soil it.
Solomon tried to pull him up, but the man was immovable, anchored by gratitude.
"Lord Solomon..." Lushen choked out, tears soaking his bandages. "I... I will listen to you!"
His voice was thick with sobbing, his words slurred.
But Solomon understood him perfectly.
"I will... I will live! I promise!"