Three weeks.
That was what the scouts estimated. Perhaps two, or at the very least a week and a half. The enemy had retreated in disarray after losing their left-flank commander, but they weren't destroyed. Just disorganized. And chaos, Albert knew, could be reshaped into order if given enough time.
In his previous life, two weeks was sufficient to train fresh recruits into soldiers who could reliably hold a rifle without shooting their own feet off. But here, with spears and shields? With soldiers who had mostly seen combat but had never received serious, systematic training?
Albert sat on a rock at the edge of the encampment, gazing at the clear morning sky. In his hand, a feltwort cigarette—the first of the day. Smoke curled upward, dissipating into the humid air.
Two weeks... might be enough.
"Luise," he called without turning around.
The familiar shadow materialized beside him. "Yes?"
"Gather everyone. Everyone who can stand. Men-at-arms, levies, archers, even the lightly wounded. Eight o'clock, at the open field near the stream."
Luise frowned. "Everyone? There are two hundred and thirty-one people still fit to fight."
"I know."
"What for?"
Albert stubbed out his cigarette on the rock. "To learn how to fight properly."
***
By eight o'clock, the sun had climbed as high as the distant pine trees. The open field near the stream—really just a fairly spacious stretch of grassy land—began to fill with soldiers.
They arrived with a range of expressions etched across their faces. Curiosity, skepticism, exhaustion, boredom. The Valeran men-at-arms, with their polished armor—battle-scarred but still looking professional—stood in small clusters, whispering among themselves.
The Dornenholz archers, led by Hilda, sat at the edge, checking their bows with their usual methodical precision. The Götthain levies, already familiar with Albert, stood in slightly better order than the others—but still far from disciplined formation.
They didn't know what to do. They simply stood in irregular clumps, waiting for something to happen.
Albert emerged from behind a tent, walking through their midst. No horse. No ceremonial cloak. Just his brigandine, Wurzel at his hip, and that expressionless face that had already become notorious throughout the camp.
He stopped in the center of the field. Turned slowly, taking them all in.
"Do you know how many of you will die in the next battle?" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried strangely, reaching every ear with unsettling clarity.
No one answered.
"In the next battle, out of the two hundred and thirty-one people standing here—including all of you—only one hundred and eighty might survive." Albert walked slowly among them. "If we're lucky. If we're not? One-fifty, one-twenty. Possibly fewer."
A Valeran man-at-arms—a large man with a black beard—snorted. "We already know that, My Lord. War is always like that."
"You know it," Albert repeated. "But you're not prepared for it."
He stopped in front of the man. Looked him in the eye. "You. What's your name?"
"Klaus."
"Klaus, if the enemy attacks from the right in tight formation, what do you do?"
Klaus furrowed his brow. "Shout a warning. Then the men-at-arms on the right shift over, the levies behind move forward a bit—"
"And if you can't shout because your throat is dry? If your voice is lost in the chaos of battle?"
Klaus fell silent.
Albert turned away, looking at the others. "If orders can't be heard, you'll die one by one. You can't see the formation from within the ranks. You won't know when to advance, when to retreat, when to shift—unless you have signals. Unless you're trained to move together without needing to think."
A young levy—maybe twenty years old—tentatively raised his hand. "But, My Lord... we've already been trained. Ever since we were called up, we've trained."
"Trained to hold a spear," Albert said. "Trained to thrust at straw dummies. Trained to stand in a line. But not trained to move as a single body." He gestured around them. "Look at yourselves now. Standing in clumps. Men-at-arms here, levies there, archers at the edge. No formation, no ranks. If the enemy attacked right now, you'd be dead in ten minutes."
Silence fell over them. Several men-at-arms began to look uncomfortable. Klaus's frown deepened.
"So what are you going to teach us, My Lord?" Hilda asked from the edge. Her voice was flat, not challenging—just curious.
Albert met her gaze. "How to move together. How to march. How to turn without tripping over each other. How to divide your attention—listening for commands while staying alert to the enemy." He paused. "I have two weeks to teach you that. Maybe less. So we start now."
***
The first hour was chaos.
Albert tried to form them into ranks—straight lines, one step of distance between each man. The first three rows of men-at-arms, the next three rows of spearmen levies, archers on the flanks. Simple, basic formation.
But they couldn't do it.
The Valeran men-at-arms were too accustomed to fighting as individuals. They moved according to their own whims, advancing too fast, retreating too slow. The Götthain levies, who had trained together before, were slightly better, but still unsteady. The Dornenholz archers—they didn't know where to position themselves, since they usually fought from a distance.
"HALT!" Albert's shout cut through the chaos. Everyone stopped, staring at him.
He walked into the middle of the disorganized ranks. "Look at this. You—" pointing at a Valeran man-at-arms, "—you're three steps ahead of the line. Why?"
The man shrugged. "There was space in front. I thought—"
"You thought for yourself. There's no 'thinking for yourself' on the battlefield. Only follow the formation." Albert pointed to his original position. "Get back."
The man returned, still wearing an expression of uncertainty.
"Luise. Pick three people who grasp instructions the fastest. Make them squad leaders."
Luise nodded and began selecting. Klaus—the large man—was included. A Götthain man-at-arms named Stefan. An archer from Dornenholz named Hans automatically became the archer leader.
"From now on, you move in squads. Squads are led by these people. If you can't hear my commands, you follow them. If they die, you follow whoever's closest. No individual initiative unless I say so."
They started again.
The second hour was slightly better. Formations began to take shape—not neat, but at least resembling lines. Albert walked in front of them, correcting positions, adjusting distances.
"You, your spear is too low. Raise it a bit, tip at chest height."
"You, your shield is too far to the side. Cover the gap with the man on your right."
"You, stop fidgeting!"
By the third hour, they began to march.
Not the crisp, precise military marching of his old world—impossible to achieve in such a short time. But at least, they could move forward together without bumping into each other. They could stop together without anyone overshooting. They could change direction with reasonable speed.
In between, Albert taught them signals.
Hand raised above the head: halt.
Fist clenched: advance slowly.
Hand swinging forward: advance quickly.
Hand to the side: shift left/right.
Hand down: retreat.
Simple, but in the chaos of battle, these signals could mean the difference between life and death.
"UNDERSTOOD?" Albert shouted at the end of the fourth hour.
"YES!" they shouted back—not in unison, but loud enough.
"DO IT AGAIN!"
They drilled until sunset.
***
That night, after the evening meal and wound care, Albert sat in his tent with a map spread before him. In front of him sat Luise, Klaus, Stefan, Hans, and Hilda. Six people in total.
"We have maybe a dozen days left," Albert said. "Maybe less. Tomorrow we train again. First three days: basics. Next three: battle formations. Last three: simulations."
"Simulations?" Klaus asked.
"Practice with opponents. I'll split you into two groups. One group will play the 'enemy.' They'll attack, and you'll have to defend and move according to signals." Albert looked at them. "It'll be chaotic, and you'll be confused. But better to be confused here than dead on the battlefield."
Hilda nodded. "Where do the archers fit in this formation?"
"On the flanks. Your job is to rain arrows on the enemy before contact. But when the enemy gets too close, you fall back behind the main formation and shoot from higher ground."
"And if the enemy breaks through?"
"The men-at-arms and levies handle it." Albert pointed at Klaus. "If you need archers to fight at close range, it means we're already screwed."
Klaus grunted. "Sounds reasonable."
The discussion continued late into the night. Albert explained details, answered questions, considered suggestions. Hilda had a good idea about positioning archers on elevated ground—there was a small hill near where they would be deployed. Klaus knew the weaknesses of tight formations. Stefan remembered old tactics his father had taught him.
Slowly, they transformed from mere recipients of orders into people who actively contributed to planning.
Luise remained silent throughout the discussion, but Albert felt her gaze on him. Every time he explained something, he would glance over and find those violet eyes there—watching, recording, perhaps guarding.
After the others had left, Luise spoke. "Do you know what you're doing, My Lord?"
Albert looked at her. "Training troops."
"More than that. You're making them believe—not believe in you, they already do that. But believe in themselves. In their ability to survive." She shook her head slowly. "I've never seen a commander do that."
Albert didn't answer. He simply took out a cigarette and lit it. Smoke curled between them.
"Tonight's allowed," Luise said. "But only one."
Albert almost smiled. "Yes."
***
The following days blurred into an exhausting routine.
Wake before dawn. Physical training—running, push-ups, sit-ups. Albert translated modern military basic training into forms that could be done with limited equipment. The soldiers grumbled, complained, but they did it.
After breakfast, drilling in marching formation. For hours. Until their steps began to synchronize, until they could move without thinking, until Albert's signals were seared into their brains.
Other units stared at them strangely. They were probably wondering why these soldiers were training so hard instead of resting.
Noon, a short break, then formation practice. Men-at-arms in front, levies behind, archers on the flanks. Moving forward, retreating, shifting. Deflecting imaginary attacks, thrusting at straw dummies.
Afternoon, small-scale simulations. Albert split them into two groups, had them attack each other with wooden weapons. Chaotic, bloody—bruises, one broken finger—but they learned.
Night, briefing. Evaluation. Discussion. And sleep.
On the eighth day, Albert changed tactics. He led them to the actual terrain—the place where the next battle would likely be fought.
"Here," he said, pointing. "We'll hold the line on this slope. Archers up there." He pointed to a hill on the right. "Men-at-arms on the middle line. Levies behind them."
They drilled on that terrain all day. Moving up and down the slope, adjusting positions, finding the best spots for spears and arrows. Hilda calculated optimal firing distances. Klaus identified weak points on the left flank.
By the tenth day, they could move as a single body.
Not perfect—far from it. But when Albert gave a hand signal, they stopped together. When he clenched his fist, they advanced in reasonably neat lines. When he swung his hand to the side, they shifted without bumping into each other.
Luise stood beside him, watching.
"They've changed," she said.
"Not enough," Albert replied. "But it's the best we can do in such a short time."
On the twelfth day, the scouts returned with bad news.
"The enemy is moving. They'll arrive in three days."
Albert received the news with an expressionless face. Inside, he was calculating. Three days. Enough for final drills. Not enough for proper rest.
He gathered everyone in the field.
"You've heard the news," he said. "Three days until the enemy arrives. This isn't a small attack—it's a counteroffensive. They're angry. They want revenge."
The soldiers stood silent. Those faces—tired, tense, but also something else. Confidence?
"For the next three days, you rest. Fix your gear, tend to your wounds, eat properly. The day after tomorrow, we move into position. The day after that, we fight." Albert walked in front of them. "I can't promise you'll all survive. But I promise this: if you follow orders, if you remember this training, you'll have a better chance than the enemy."
Silence. Then Klaus—that big Valeran man—roared out, "WE'RE WITH YOU, THE BLACK SWORD DEMON!"
The shout echoed, followed by the others. "THE BLACK SWORD DEMON!"
Albert raised his hand, silencing them. "Enough. Rest, that's an order."
They dispersed, still burning with enthusiasm. Albert turned and walked toward his tent. Luise followed.
"You still don't like the nickname, My Lord?" she asked.
"I don't care." Albert grabbed his cloak—the nicer one, the one he kept for formal occasions. "I have to go to a meeting. The commanders and nobles."
"I'm coming?"
"No, you stay with the troops."
Luise nodded. "Be careful."
Albert left the tent, walking toward the main command tent in the distance.
Behind him, the encampment began to quiet down. Soldiers rested, checked their equipment, spoke in low voices about the coming battle.
***
In the main command tent, maps were scattered across the long table. Lord Harald sat at the head, surrounded by officers and nobles from various territories. Lady Mirelle was there, her expression tense. Earl William vin Valeran—Rodric's father—sat in the corner, his face hardened like stone.
Albert had just reached the tent entrance when—
Across the river, in the enemy camp, a man in a black robe stood before his commander's tent.
The Leandria commander—an old man with a scarred face and short white hair—was furious. Not ordinary anger. This was a burning rage that made his officers freeze in silence.
"ONE MAN!" he roared, his fist smashing down on a wooden table hard enough to crack it. "ONE YOUNG MAN FROM SOME MINOR TERRITORY MADE MY TROOPS FLEE LIKE FRIGHTENED CHILDREN!"
None of the officers dared to respond.
The commander drew a long breath, struggling to control himself. His eyes—grey, cold as steel—swept over them one by one. Then stopped on a man in the corner.
That man was large. Not large like Klaus—but large with muscles forged from years of brutal training. Long brown hair tied back. Neat beard. His eyes were pale blue, calm, as if his commander's rage hadn't touched him at all.
"Sir Aldric."
The man stepped forward. One step, then stopped. Waited.
"They're calling him Black Sword Demon." The commander's voice was low, vibrating with barely contained fury. "That Young Lord. The one who killed my left-flank commander. The one who sent my soldiers running in terror."
"I've heard, My Lord."
"I want him. Dead or alive—but preferably alive. I want to see his eyes when he realizes what we're going to do to him."
Sir Aldric didn't answer. Just waited.
"Take your best soldiers. Find him. Capture him. Bring him here." The commander stared at him. "Can you do it?"
Sir Aldric smiled thinly. A smile that held no warmth. The smile of a hunter who had just found his prey.
"I'll bring him. Alive."
He turned and strode out of the tent. Outside, the sky was darkening. Stars began to appear one by one.
Sir Aldric gazed westward, toward the enemy camp. Somewhere over there, thousands of soldiers were preparing for battle. Among them, a young man with a black sword and a strange nickname.
"Black Sword Demon," he murmured. "We'll see about that."
***
Albert stepped into the command tent. Around him, the nobles and officers began taking their seats. The meeting was about to begin.
He sat in his place, at the end of the table—the same position as two weeks ago. But now, as he sat down, several officers turned to look at him. Nodded. Offered silent salutes.
Two weeks changed many things.
The enemy was planning a hunt. Meanwhile, inside the meeting tent... he didn't yet know he was the target.