Daemon was a second-class soldier in the Storm Kingdom. Having enlisted at the age of 14, he was now a veteran with four years of service. Today, he was in a good mood, payday. A second-class soldier received three Silver Stags a month from the kingdom. In addition, Baron Kenning personally provided his troops with two extra Silver Stags. Daemon would receive four in total. Why not five? Because the military always skimmed off the top, it was just how things worked.
He couldn't wait to get his hands on those four Silver Stags. Three of them he planned to send home through the Baron's trade caravan.
He hoped his sister could finally buy a ribbon she liked so she wouldn't have to keep tying her hair with rough linen. He also wished his aging parents could afford a couple of meals with white bread this month. The remaining Silver Stags would be used, as always, to treat his squad to drinks. As a moderately capable second-class soldier, Daemon led a ten-man squad.
He knew his men weren't doing well either. Third-class soldiers earned only two Silver Stags a month; servant soldiers got just one. They had to stretch every copper coin, supporting their families while covering personal expenses. It was never enough. To build unity and to earn the loyalty of a few who'd take a hit for him in battle, Daemon never hesitated to treat his men.
His squad consisted of five third-class soldiers and five servant soldiers. Except for three new additions from two months ago, the rest had fought together for at least half a year. Most of them were Daemon's age but had less experience, new recruits with just one or two years of service. They all looked up to Daemon. Their squad leader was generous, loyal, and always bought a round after payday or a battle. More importantly, many of them had received help from Daemon during combat. Those small acts of protection meant their squad rarely lost anyone after the initial battles. Over time, they became more cohesive and their survival rate rose.
This reputation spread through the camp. Whether newbies or veterans, anyone Daemon's age or younger would respectfully call him "Brother." It was a recognition of his strength. Besides, word had it that Daemon killed quite a few savages from the Kingdom of Northwild in a battle two months ago, he was close to earning the rank of first-class soldier.
Daemon headed to the supply camp. Besides being the place to collect pay, it doubled as a marketplace. You could find anything here, fragrant ale, sharp steel swords, sturdy warhorses, or even beautiful women. Everything had a price. Baron Kenning made sure his soldiers' desires were well catered to. But only if you had money... or power. As a second-class soldier, Daemon barely qualified to shop here. Still, he rarely spent much. Like most soldiers with families, he didn't waste money, not because of discipline, but because their Silver Stags couldn't withstand careless spending.
"Hey, Daemon! Your pay!" came a gruff voice. A burly, bearded man tossed him a coin pouch. Daemon opened it, three gleaming Silver Stags and a hundred copper coins.
"Uncle Joshek, how about a drink this afternoon?" Daemon asked with a grin.
"How many times do I have to tell you, call me 'Squad Leader' in camp! You little brat! One drink? At least two!" Joshek barked back with a teasing smile.
Daemon invited Joshek not just to be polite, but also because he wanted help with his promotion. He was close to becoming a first-class soldier. That was a crucial rank, the dividing line. Once promoted, the Baron would grant him a basic meditation and breathing technique, the gateway to becoming a Knight. A first-class soldier could also be promoted to vice squad leader. Old hands like Joshek, already first-class, had been directly made squad leaders.
Joshek agreed not just out of kindness. He saw promise in Daemon, and they were from the same hometown, Minertown. In fact, most of the troops in their battalion came from the Kenning Barony. Joshek had looked after Daemon since he was a servant soldier, guiding him all the way to second-class. You could say he'd watched Daemon grow up. He genuinely wanted to help. He planned to give Daemon some real advice during their drinks today.
"No problem, I'll come find you later!" Daemon replied, pocketing the coins and leaving.
Around him, finely crafted armor, gleaming swords, and seductive women vied for his attention, nearly making him jealous. A basic set of armor cost at least 100 Silver Stags, or one Golden Dragon. A decent sword, ten Silver Stags. A night with a good-looking woman? Not less than one Silver Stag. Daemon couldn't afford any of it. His current gear consisted of damaged leather armor, a chipped yet still sharp iron sword, a spear, and a short dagger hidden in his boot.
Returning to his squad's tent, he saw his men lounging around, playing cards and chatting. The relaxed mood rubbed off on him. He gave a playful kick to Karlon, who was loudly shouting over a card game. Karlon was the squad's scout, a cool-headed ambusher in battle but a loudmouth in daily life. Karlon, Daemon, and Hugo, the shield-bearer, were the closest trio in the squad, comrades of over two years.
"Drinks this afternoon. Now get your asses up and go get lunch! Stop messing around!" Daemon barked at his squad.
"Hey, boss, can you stop kicking my butt? What if it swells and I get spotted on a recon mission?" Karlon replied with a grin.
"No worries. I'll borrow a mint patch from the Richie brothers to help with the swelling. You'll be fine tomorrow," joked Yard, the squad's spear-wielder and another third-class soldier. The Richie brothers were notorious in the camp, two openly gay men known for getting info out of tough enemy prisoners. The mint patch? A personal supply for after... certain activities, useful for easing soreness.
"Get lost, Yard! You wanna mess with Karlon the Great? I'll teach you a lesson on the training field!" Karlon shot back, though his tone was more playful than angry.
This kind of banter was their daily joy, cards, jokes, teasing. Everyone had a sharp tongue. Daemon welcomed it; it strengthened their bond.
"Enough chatter, go get lunch. And bring mine too," Daemon said with a smirk. "Karlon, don't touch my meat, or no drinks for you later!"
"C'mon, boss, I swear no one'll touch it! Anyone tries, I'll chop their hand off! Hugo, let's go!" Karlon swore before dragging Hugo along.
In this army, reward systems were designed to encourage bravery and honor. Even meals showed the hierarchy. Servant soldiers ate chestnut cakes and potato soup. Third-class soldiers got black bread and potato soup. Second-class soldiers got wheat cakes, a piece of meat, and potato soup. First-class soldiers? They dined in the central camp with the Baron and the high officers, feasting on white bread and meat stew. That was a luxury few could afford. Out of 500 soldiers, fewer than 15 had that privilege: four infantry squad leaders and their assistants, the knighted cavalry commander Will, the battalion commander Baron Kenning, his eldest son Solon, and their steward.
Daemon longed for that white bread.
Soon, his men returned. Karlon handed over Daemon's meal.
"Boss, that fat piece of meat's too much for you. Want me to take care of it?" Karlon joked.
"Piss off." Daemon took the food, gave him a light kick, then turned to the rest. "Hugo and I are heading to the supply camp later. If any of you need to send money home, give it to Hugo. We'll take care of it."
Maybe the word "home" hit too close. The mood quieted briefly. Most of the men nodded silently.
In other squads, a captain asking for soldiers' pay could cause mutiny. But not in Daemon's. When any of his men needed a loan, he never hesitated to help.
Four years of war had trained Daemon to eat quickly. After finishing his meal and wiping his hands, he turned to Hugo and said, "Hugo, let's go."
Daemon made his way back to the supply camp. It was noon now, most people were either napping or hanging around the tavern. Daemon went straight to the post station behind the supply depot. He took the money pouch from Hugo and stepped inside.
"Warner! Warner!" Daemon shouted.
"You trying to kill someone?! Damn you, Daemon! I heard you the first time, can't even take a proper nap, you bastard!" Warner, who handled communications at the post station, walked out grumbling from a side room.
"Sending money home again, right? Alright, hand it over!"
"Here, this is mine, and these are from my squad. Don't mix them up," Daemon warned.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Not my first time sending your stuff. No other squad is as fussy as yours," Warner complained, still annoyed about being woken from his nap.
"If you screw this up, I'll deal with you myself," Daemon growled through clenched teeth.
Warner was what you'd call lucky. As head of the post station, he got the salary of a third-class soldier and, most importantly, had a safe job. Everything in war could break down, except logistics. And here, he didn't have to kiss up to anyone. Most squad leaders wouldn't dare mess with Warner. But there was no room for promotion in that role. He'd been running the post since Daemon was a third-class soldier. Now, over a year into being a second-class soldier, Warner was still there. Rumor had it he was related to the baron's steward, so he probably had connections for future advancement.
"Right, anything else? A message maybe?" Warner asked. He'd dealt with Daemon many times before and knew he always sent words home along with the money.
"Yeah. Tell my parents to take care of themselves. And tell my sister not to keep scrimping, if she wants something, just buy it. I don't need that little money anymore." Daemon had long thought this through. He knew his sister would understand what he meant: he wanted her to buy a silk ribbon for her hair, his quiet obsession.
"Got it. The caravan heading back to House Kenning's territory leaves tomorrow. It'll first stop in the occupied Peters region of the eastern Tyre Province, then go to the capital city, Florens, and finally return to our southern Delt Province. It'll take 20 days max," Warner said. After a brief chat, Daemon said goodbye, he didn't want to cut further into Warner's nap. Things were quiet now, but by afternoon, the place would be buzzing. After all, it was payday.
Leaving the post station, Daemon and Hugo walked back to their squad's tent.
"Hugo, what do you think the village is like now?" Daemon asked along the way. They were from the same village, next-door neighbors.
"Probably the same. The maple tree at the village entrance must be even bigger. My older brother had another son this year, I've got three nephews now. The family's fields will be in good hands. The harvest was good this year. The village even slaughtered a pig for the soldiers' families, every household got a share…" Normally quiet, Hugo couldn't stop once he got going, chatting all the way back to camp.
"This war's been going on for four years… It's gotta end soon. I really want to go home," Daemon said with a sigh.
When Daemon and Hugo returned to their squad tent, everyone was napping except for Janos, the servant soldier on duty. Any seasoned fighter knew: full energy gave you better odds of surviving battle.
Daemon climbed into bed after taking off his jacket, but he didn't sleep. He was thinking about how to move up to first-class soldier.
The Storm Kingdom's military had its own promotion system:
Servant soldiers were cannon fodder, drafted after two months of basic training.
Third-class soldiers were the main combat force, requiring two years of service (one year during wartime) and the ability to handle three servant soldiers.
Second-class soldiers, like Daemon, commanded 10-man squads. They needed three years of service (two in wartime) and the strength to take on three third-class soldiers.
First-class soldiers were elite forces. They led 100-man companies and needed four years of service (three in wartime) and the ability to defeat three second-class soldiers. That's right, defeat. First-class soldiers were granted the right to learn combat techniques, opening the path to knighthood.
As for promotion beyond that, to full-fledged knight? The army didn't say, those at that level wouldn't share it publicly.
Daemon knew his own strength. In a desperate situation, he could handle three second-class soldiers for a short time. His military tenure also met the requirement. But he wasn't confident. There were plenty of men in the camp with strength similar to his.
Two months ago, their unit suffered heavy losses, one-third of the troops were killed. The third company captain and the fourth company's vice-captain both died, leaving two open slots. But with many competitors, the fight for promotion was fierce.
Daemon shuddered, remembering that battle. It was second only to the bloody siege at Gondor Heights. The goal was to seize the Felmer Gorge, a strategic gateway to the enemy's heartland. The kingdom's three main legions had thrown themselves at the objective, heedless of losses. Wave after wave, they stormed the gorge. The enemy, reportedly just one legion strong, fought to the death.
Daemon remembered enemy soldiers, fatally wounded, launching berserk counterattacks after being surrounded. He asked himself: Would I do the same if Storm were invaded? He recalled what his army had done after defeating the main Northwild army and occupying the Peters region last year: pillaging, slavery, and worse. Property owners were enslaved, beautiful women became concubines or army whores. Daemon thought of his honest parents and kind sister, he understood the rage of his enemies. If he were in their shoes, he'd fight even more ruthlessly.
He respected those bloodied, desperate foes. But that didn't stop him from killing them. It was war. His own comrades were dying too.
It took nearly a month for the three legions to break through at Felmer Gorge. Daemon's unit belonged to the Eagle Legion, Second Infantry Regiment, Fifth Battalion. The third and fourth companies of their battalion led the charge. Daemon, who had been in reserve, still heard the constant screams, shouts, and clashing steel from the rear. Fireballs and lightning bolts flew through the sky, magical warfare stained the sky red with blood.
When Daemon's company and the first joined the fray, the third and fourth companies had already lost half their men. It was chaos. But Daemon, a battle-hardened four-year veteran, suppressed his fear. In war, fear killed faster than blades.
He led his squad past waves of magical bombardment. He didn't confront the enemy head-on, suicidal zealots were the worst to fight. Instead, he advised Squad Leader Joshek to flank the gorge. The cliffs and rocks offered cover from arrows and spells, and the enemy forces were lighter there, soft targets. Holding the flank's high ground was also a strategic win.
Still, they lost two men. Gree, a strong shield-bearer and third-class soldier and Garr, a witty servant soldier just 16 years old.
Daemon himself killed a lightly wounded second-class soldier, one third-class soldier, and five or six servant soldiers. He paid for it with a stab to the chest and several minor injuries.
Their squad's total kill count:
1 second-class
5 third-class
Over 10 servant soldiers
Their success came not only from favorable odds but also from their unity.
Enemy identity tags (worn around the waist) could be turned in for merit points:
Servant soldier: 1 point
Third-class: 5 points
Second-class: 10 points
Daemon now had about 50 points. In the camp, merit was valuable:
Promotion – 100 points could get you first-class rank.
Currency – More accepted than Silver Stags.
Cash – 1 merit point = 1 Silver Stag
Most soldiers chose the third. Storm had suffered two years of drought. Food prices were sky-high. Most men joined the army to feed their families. The military couldn't skim from merit-based payouts, that money kept families alive.
Daemon used to convert all his merit into cash. But after surviving the bloodbath at Gondor Heights, he changed.
What's the point of money if you're dead?
In that brutal battle, the lowest ranks, especially servant soldiers, died the fastest. Even Daemon, then a strong third-class, survived by collapsing in a pile of corpses.
After that, his skills grew. With the help of the many tags he'd collected and support from Joshek (now promoted to company commander), Daemon became a squad leader, no longer just a grunt.
Now, Daemon figured he was mid-tier among those vying for promotion. His merit might not be the highest, but it was above most. And with Joshek backing him, he just might have a real shot.