Using a mix of intimidation and bribes, Fanxing secured three hundred militiamen from several petty lords, including the Porcupine Knight.
None of them gave up the men willingly, but they had no choice.
Otherwise, if these ten paladins went berserk, they could easily slaughter everyone present and walk away without batting an eye.
There was no point lecturing Fanxing on mercy or rules. When necessary, black knights were the least bound by decorum; otherwise, how could the Ryan Empire have carved out such vast territory relying solely on paladins who acted like ascetic monks and saints?
The Porcupine Knight parted with eighty men with a heavy heart. Though Fanxing had paid handsomely, cash alone could not keep a fief running—population mattered most. The major battle had already claimed numerous lives, and now surrendering dozens more able-bodied youths made him worry for next year's farming.
He could only treat these people as already dead. After all, they were going to fight that terrifying lich; at best, they would serve as cannon fodder to deplete its mana.
Due to some peculiar whim of the Creator God, individual might trumped collective strength across most of this continent.
What circulated widely were heroic epics, not tales of a united people triumphing together.
Consequently, in many high-level conflicts, common foot soldiers played a negligible role, serving mostly to build atmosphere or provide a backdrop before mighty figures unleashed their full power.
The fate of the fief militiamen during the previous battle against the lich had proved this beyond doubt.
Yet the Ryan Empire was somewhat different.
Thanks to the traditions bequeathed by its founding emperor, the empire placed human interests on a pedestal nearly equal to their faith. With a population of hundreds of millions, the Ryan Empire could hardly rely on a handful of powerful figures to safeguard every mortal.
How to enable ordinary humans to make a difference was a question generations of Ryan citizens had pondered.
Different cultural traditions shaped different civilizations. While others strained their minds over how to elevate individual prowess, the Ryan Empire had already developed means for commoners to pose a threat to the powerful.
Mounted atop his celestial warhorse, Fanxing looked down upon the sallow, emaciated militiamen before him.
The lords had indeed surrendered the men, but though all were young, the lords had picked out the scrawniest among them—some had even thrown in serfs just to make up the numbers.
Fanxing did not mind in the slightest. To his eyes, even well-trained militiamen differed little from half-starved serfs.
An Aura of Vitality radiated outward, bestowing rare relief upon these suffering wretches.
Fanxing circled slowly around the crowd on his celestial warhorse, speaking as he went: "You should already know that I bought you from your lords to deal with that lich—the terrifying undead you faced before, the one you suffered a crushing defeat against."
At the mention of that despairing encounter, many felt their knees turn to water. Had the Aura of Vitality not sustained them, they would have collapsed to the ground long ago.
"Good. It seems I need not waste time explaining how frightening the undead are. But what do you have to fear? In the lives you have lived, does dying a little sooner or a little later make any difference? Backbreaking labor, perpetual hunger, agonizing torment repeated day after day—how are you any different from livestock?
"You have never lived as true humans. Your lives hold no meaning. To this land, the acres you plow cannot even rival those worked by an ox."
Fanxing's words seemed to carry a strange magic. Free of beatings or curses, a few airy remarks stoked fury within their long-numbed hearts.
Yet they merely kept their mouths shut tight and bowed their heads, not daring to direct their angry glares at him.
"Keep that anger, my fellow humans. Mankind was never meant to live like this! Today, what I offer you is the chance to become human again. So long as you survive this war, you will become citizens of the Ryan Empire. I swear in the name of the Holy Light: you will have land of your own, homes of your own, and lives of your own!"
Hearing this, everyone could not help but raise their heads, looking up at the paladin bathed in holy radiance.
Had other nobles spoken of bestowing land and houses, they would never have believed it.
Yet a paladin had just sworn by the Holy Light!
The simplest way to tell if a black knight was lying was to demand, "Do you dare swear by the Holy Light?!" Of course, doing so was very likely to invite an immediate Divine Smite.
Yet Fanxing had sworn clearly and unmistakably by the Holy Light. That meant this was very likely true!
Seeing the light kindle in the eyes of these downtrodden folk, Fanxing finally smiled. His goal was achieved; as long as hope took root in their hearts, they could lend him their strength.
And Fanxing had not lied. A paladin swearing by the Holy Light dared not harbor the slightest deceit, lest divine retribution descend at once.
If they truly survived the coming war, Fanxing would certainly bring them back to the Ryan Empire and grant them the land he had promised.
Fanxing spoke again: "Now, follow me into the city. You must eat your fill first, and then get some proper rest."
From amidst the crowd, a scrawny youth stood up and said agitatedly, "Rest? Lord Paladin, shouldn't we start training? If we march onto the battlefield like this, won't we just be a burden?"
Fanxing glanced at the youth in surprise. Though the crowd's emotions were already swayed by him, for someone to dare voice dissent took no small amount of courage.
Fanxing asked, "Boy, what is your name?"
"Geronimo."
The boy uttered a peculiar, tongue-twisting name, distinctly unlike common human names.
Searching his memory, Fanxing said in surprise, "A name from the era of the demonic dragons' rule... Are you a remnant of the pre-civilization?"
Before the founding of the Ryan Empire, the continent had been ruled by brutal demonic dragons. In the end, the empire's founding emperor had slain the arch-dragon and expelled all dragonkind, liberating the various races.
The carcass of the demonic dragon had even been forged into the Ryan Empire's supreme sacred relic.
Because the society and culture under the demonic dragons' reign differed drastically from the present Nine Kingdoms, that era was occasionally referred to as the pre-civilization.
Though humans had lived wretched lives back then, a tiny fraction of human lineages still looked back nostalgically on the age when dragons reigned supreme, preserving many cultural remnants of that period—such as worship and sacrificial rites dedicated to dragons, Draconic speech, and dragon script.
The boy's name carried a distinct Draconic cadence, which an erudite paladin like Fanxing could discern immediately.
Perhaps owing to their status as victors, the Ryan Empire maintained a tolerant stance toward these remnants of the pre-civilization. With the dragons driven away, these were still fellow humans who would be assimilated sooner or later.
Over the past millennium, the number of these dragon remnants had indeed dwindled. He had not expected to encounter one here.
Yet when Fanxing pressed Geronimo on his origins, he discovered the boy knew nothing of dragons at all. Aside from passing down this name, his parents had never taught him any dragon lore.
As for Geronimo's question, Fanxing explained, "The very first words I learned to speak were praises to the Holy Light. I began rigorous training at seven, and only now, twenty years later, am I considered a full paladin. Expecting to transform yourselves in a mere few days is simply impossible. But fear not—I will not throw you away as cannon fodder. Obey my commands, and I will ensure you prove your worth on the battlefield."
Fanxing kindly lifted Geronimo onto his mount, leading the youth and a flock of serfs newly imbued with hope toward the City of Alchemy.
Just then, a dense bank of clouds drifted in the distance, casting a shadow that prompted Fanxing to look up.
The weather had been foul for days, shrouded in heavy, dark clouds that gave Fanxing a creeping sense of foreboding.
Precisely because of this bad omen, Fanxing continually reminded himself to remain even more cautious and thoroughly prepared.
Still, today's haul ought to suffice. These three hundred men would become his greatest trump card.
Chapter 61