Two months slipped by like arrows. The barracks rang each dawn with boots and orders, and by dusk the drill grounds were a haze of dust and sweat. The recruits had finished their basic training—rifle handling, marksmanship, marching, formation changes, and field discipline. It was not fancy, but it was firm. Under steady instruction from veterans, even farm boys now moved like iron.
The army of the Ross Kingdom had grown to more than 12,000 soldiers. Gavin Ward reorganized them as a single division with six regiments, each with its own command staff, signals, logistics, and medical teams. To make the chain of command clear to all, Gavin named himself Division Commander and—plainly, without ceremony—awarded himself the rank of Major General. Rank followed duty. That was enough.
These two months had been more than drilling. With the help of the system's master craftsmen, the first generation of motor vehicles had left the shops. They were not elegant, but they were strong. Two hundred military trucks now stood ready in depots around Rose City. Their frames were simple, their engines loud, their bodies boxy. Each truck could carry thirty soldiers if seated tightly—two hundred trucks meant six thousand men moved at once when the roads allowed. In the past, such a march would take days and wear out the feet of thousands. Now, it could take hours.
The factories were the other drumbeat of these months. Arsenals, textile mills, steel mills, chemical works, glassworks—a ring of smoke and steam circled the capital like a wreath. Rose City's population had swelled to roughly 450,000, and nearly everyone of working age had a post. The clatter of looms, the hiss of forges, the thump of presses—these were the sounds of the new kingdom.
Yet as he stood over maps and production tables, Gavin felt a tug he could not ignore. The population was still too small. Machines could raise output, but machines also demanded hands: machinists, drivers, loaders, clerks, repairmen. If Ross wanted to keep growing, it needed people. Food security had improved, wages were steady, and order was strong. The kingdom could absorb more citizens fast—if it had them.
So the next step, in Gavin's mind, was obvious.
Annex the Nord Kingdom.
Nord's total population was about three million, six times Ross's. Its main force had already been shattered; the rest of its troops were scattered, hungry, and disorganized. If Ross moved quickly—before distant dukes and slow empires understood what was happening—the north could be taken, city by city, road by road, without letting a counterattack form.
He set the plan in simple pieces. Two regiments would be carried forward first, supported by mobile guns and mortars. The trucks would shuttle them in waves. Other vehicles would carry ammunition, rations, tents, medical supplies, and fuel. The goal was not a heroic single charge, but steady, layered pressure—cut rail, seize depots, secure bridges, then roll.
He was thinking through the loading sequence when the servants announced visitors.
---
The Seven Merchants
"Your Majesty, good day!"
Seven familiar merchants entered the reception hall in Rose City, all smiles and careful bows. They looked healthier than before—rounder faces, brighter eyes, finer clothes. Prosperity showed in their belts.
Gavin reclined on the sofa, one leg over the other. "Gentlemen," he said, amused, "you've all put on weight."
A ripple of laughter answered him.
"Business has been good, Your Majesty."
"Only thanks to your grace, Your Majesty—without you, we are nothing," chirped the fattest of the seven, a bearded man whose rings flashed in the light.
Others quickly echoed him. Their smiles were large; their foreheads were a little damp.
At that moment, Lina entered with a silver tray: one cup of hot black tea. Gavin took it and, with the other hand, ruffled the small, soft tuft on Lina's head. Her silver eyes fell shut in contentment, and her little tail flicked back and forth.
"Enough flattery," Gavin said mildly. "You came for something. Speak."
The fat bearded merchant leaned forward with both palms rubbing together. "Your Majesty, today we have come to send money to the crown—and to increase our purchase order. Demand is exploding in the markets, but our supply is short. We hope to buy in bulk."
"How much?" Gavin sipped the tea.
The fat man raised his chin a little, trying to be brave. "Twelve million."
Gavin set the cup down and smiled. "Twelve million crowns' worth of goods? In two months, between the seven of you, that means your net worth has at least doubled."
Cold sweat formed instantly along seven hairlines.
"Your Majesty," the fat man squeaked, "all of it is your blessing—your work, your—"
They remembered too clearly the conference room and the merchant who had crossed the crown—how his forehead had opened in an instant, how brains and blood had splashed the table—how Gavin's expression never changed. No one wished to be the second lesson.
Gavin did not press them. "Very well," he said. "I approve the twelve million order. Pay half now. Pick up in ten days, then pay the remainder."
Relief broke across seven faces at once. "Thank you, Your Majesty!"
"But," said the fat bearded man, eyes lighting, "we also wish to show you something."
Gavin raised a brow. "Oh?"
At a wave of his hand, a servant entered with a wooden box and opened it on the table. Inside lay a blue crystal sphere, faint light swirling in its depths.
"What is this?" Gavin asked, genuinely curious.
"Your Majesty, this is a Knowledge Orb—a magic creation from the Central Region," the fat man said carefully. "It can copy more than 80% of a person's knowledge and transfer it to another. The price is… a side effect. The donor's knowledge level will never rise again. Frozen at the moment of transfer."
Gavin's eyes sharpened. A dozen calculations flicked through his mind. Mass-produce skilled workers. Explode the number of technicians, foremen, engineers, teachers. Lift the floor of capability in one season instead of ten years. He could seed factories with ready skill—then use schools to cultivate the next wave who would surpass the "frozen" donors.
It was exactly the bridge Ross needed.
"How much for one?" he asked.
The fat man spread his hands. "1,500 gold coins… but for Your Majesty, we can barter. One Knowledge Orb for twelve electric lamps."
The other merchants nodded vigorously.
Gavin's smile thinned. "And where did you obtain these?"
The fat man swallowed and told the truth. "From a magician friend in the Central Region. He is no great caster, but he is gifted at magic crafting. He invented this Orb—but other mages hate him for it. They say he ruins the future of their kind, freezes growth, cuts off the path to the divine. He has been pushed out, lives poorly. I… wish to help him."
Gavin understood at once. For magicians, knowledge was not a tool; it was a ladder to a higher realm. To freeze it was to lock the ladder and stop the climb. Of course they saw the Orb as a sin.
For a modernizing kingdom, it was the opposite. It was a blessing—if used wisely.
"Good," Gavin said. "When you next visit him, carry my greeting. Then go to the treasury with my writ. Stephens will give you one hundred thousand gold coins—as a grant for the inventor of the Knowledge Orb."
Seven jaws fell open.
Gavin's voice was calm. "If the magicians don't want him, I do. And I want him alive, safe, and working. If he needs equipment, send the list. If he needs a workshop, we'll build it. If he needs apprentices, we'll provide them. And if anyone tries to harm him, bring me their names."
The merchants bowed to the floor. "Your Majesty is generous beyond measure!"
Gavin nodded once. "We will take fifty Orbs at the barter rate to start. Lamps will be delivered from the East Depot. After that, I may order hundreds. We'll integrate the process—education for the young, Orbs for the middle generation, and research for the top."
The plan was already forming: take trained heads from friendly guilds and foreign towns—freeze them at a strong level and multiply their knowledge through transfers to reliable citizens. Those citizens would run lines, teach classes, and train replacements. Meanwhile, new schools would produce children who would one day outgrow the frozen masters.
The bridge to the future did not need to be beautiful. It needed to hold.
---
The March That Comes Next
When the merchants left, Gavin returned to the maps. He penciled routes in simple strokes.
Wave One: Two regiments by truck. Secure the closest Nord towns along the frontier. Raise the flag. Signal the peasants—food for surrender, protection for order, wages for work.
Wave Two: Follow with engineers and logistics. Fix bridges, repair roads, set up field depots, wire telegraph lines.
Wave Three: Bring mortars and field guns, then pressure the county seats. Demand terms; avoid wasteful fights. If garrisons refuse, surround and bombard, then accept surrender.
Administration: Slot in local councils under Ross oversight—keep familiar faces where possible, but tie tax, courts, and police to Rose City.
Population: Offer bread, jobs, light, and safety. Move willing workers to factories; leave farmers on land with seed and tools.
He paused at the southeast of the map, tapping once. Kiswell Kingdom remained friendly and busy with the Orc front. They would not move against him while their own border burned. The Tongsley Empire would look down its nose and argue about doctrine before it acted. That bought time.
Time, trucks, and a division that could move.
"We annex Nord," he said at last, closing the folder. The aides around the table looked up together.
"Issue marching orders in the morning. Training shifts to combat drills and convoy discipline tonight. Armories release full kit by regimental roster. The rest…" He looked toward the window, where smoke from the mills drew a gray ribbon across the evening sky. "The rest we will handle on the road."
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