Back in Varnhollow.
"Ouch."
Ross slammed into the dirt outside the sparring ring, coughing as dust filled his mouth. Again.
"Mary wins," Roa announced flatly, scribbling something in her ledger without looking up.
Ross groaned, clutching his ribs. "I still don't understand… why are we learning hand-to-hand combat? Isn't that the combat team's job?"
"Because you're all still three generations behind," Konos replied, reclining lazily on a broken training dummy like it was a chaise lounge.
"Hey!" Mary protested, wiping sweat from her brow. "We're pretty effective."
"In that backwater fifth continent, sure," Konos said, adjusting his crooked spectacles. "But in every other place, wars are fought entirely by golem armies, and the human combat? Handlers. All handlers. There's no distinction anymore. You're not allowed to be just a button-pusher."
"Sounds tough," Peter muttered, glancing at his oil-stained gloves.
"You bet," Konos said, pointing a wooden stick at Peter as if accusing him of personally inventing underachievement. "And frankly, even if all of you trained like maniacs, you still wouldn't win."
Ross blinked. "Wait… are we that bad?"
"No, you're just tragically under-equipped. The smallest noble army out there can field a thousand golems. And not the patched-together junk you've got—we're talking full metal horror shows with air support & dedicated logistics relays. You lot have twenty golems. Twenty. Or forty, if you count the ones still missing arms, legs, or moral direction."
"But we have Thornjaw!" someone called out.
"And Craterhoof!" another added cheerfully.
"Kindling, too! And those twin Aegis units that don't talk but somehow scare children!"
There was a long pause.
"Huh…" Konos rubbed his temples. "You're all hopeless. This is why I drink."
"You don't drink," Roa pointed out.
"I think about drinking, Roa," he snapped. "Which is worse. Now shut up and bring me the chalkboard."
An apprentice scrambled into the courtyard with a cracked board and a stick of chalk already worn down to the size of a toe.
"Class is in session!" Konos declared, slapping the board. The chalk immediately broke in half. He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.
"First rule of war outside the Fifth Continent: Production Scale." He drew a stick figure with a sword, then added fifty angry golems surrounding it.
"If the death of one elite—say, Thornjaw—marks the collapse of your operation, you're not leading an army. You're playing collectible figurines. And you're losing."
Peter raised his hand. "So… we're not supposed to cry when our golems die?"
"You can cry. Just don't cry near me," Konos said. "Second: Chain of Command." He drew a pyramid. "This is why Master Fornos locked you all into chain-link command structures with the control collars. Harsh? Yes. Effective? Also yes. Plus, they beep when you lie. I think that's hilarious."
"I thought that was a myth," Mary muttered.
"Try saying you're sober after drinking the maintenance-grade brandy Martin keeps under the fuel barrels," Konos replied.
"Wait, how did you—" Martin began.
"Third!" Konos shouted, cutting him off. "Logistics. It's not glamorous, but it wins wars. Movement, maintenance, supplies. If your army eats better than you do, that's a good sign."
"I already live on leftover hardtack and optimism," Martin whispered.
"Then you'll do great in a real war," Konos said brightly.
He finished with a dramatic underlined "WAR = MATH + SWEAT + SADNESS" and dusted his hands.
The entire group stared at him.
"...That was actually kind of helpful," Ross admitted.
"I still feel vaguely insulted," Mary added.
"Good," Konos said. "That means you were paying attention."
Ross blinked. "Wait… how do you even know all this stuff? Were you a soldier or something?"
"I was. Two years in the Southern Splitback Front. Then I decided golem crafting was cooler. In my forties."
"You're joking."
"No. That was literally the thought: 'This is cool, but golems are cooler.' Then I faked a heart murmur and went home."
The group exchanged uncertain looks.
"And now," Konos continued, producing a thick, horrifyingly dense folder from under his coat, "onto business."
"What is that?" Martin asked warily.
"Our instructions until Fornos returns," Konos said, slapping the folder down on a nearby crate with a puff of dust. "Straight from the master himself. All three hundred and seventy-two pages. And yes, there are doodles in the margins."
"Why do you have them?" Roa frowned. "I'm supposed to be second-in-command."
"Well, the command structure was changed." Konos flipped open the first page. "Now, you're not."
He cleared his throat and read aloud:
Effective immediately, until my return, the command structure of the Ash Company will be as follows:
To be reminded that this is a temporary arrangement & will be changed.
– Drawing of a smiling devil face –
Konos, acting Coordinator and Advisor.
Martin, Head of Logistics.
Peter, Head Field Engineer.
Both are to collaborate with Konos on developing a new line of mass-production units.
Roa, Park, and Mark are to train all combatants and handlers into proper soldiering units.
(Yes, Park and Mark. Even if they never speak. You understand them. Somehow.)
All operational disputes are to be resolved by majority vote, unless time-critical.
Day-to-day supplies will be purchased in the Varnhollow markets.
New recruits are to be procured from the Varnhollow slave markets.
(See page 87 for acceptable criteria and behavior guidelines.)
Konos handed out sealed folders to each group lead, muttering, "Don't read these all at once. The boredom might kill you faster than any relict."
Mary squinted at hers. "There's a page here titled 'How Not to Explode Yourself While Repairing Kindling.'"
Peter looked up. "That one should be mandatory reading."
"You're welcome," Konos said smugly.
As the company dispersed, grumbling and muttering, Roa lingered.
"You know," she said quietly, "for all the insults… that wasn't a bad lecture."
Konos smirked. "I'll try harder next time."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's what I'm afraid of."