The air in Vinter’s Hollow reeked of sweat, smoke, and opportunism.

  By the second day, it was clear to Karl that something had to change.

  They had crossed into Thalgrenn. Technically. But it meant nothing without power. The land was still dangerous, still fractured. Patrols loyal to the Empire roamed the outer hills. Bandits ruled the valleys. And their “army” was still little more than thirty players with sharp sticks and stolen sabers.

  He stood at the edge of a muddy alley, watching a group of players trade insults with a one-eyed man who looked like he hadn’t bathed since the last monarch died. The man spat, then grinned, revealing only five teeth. He extended a hand. The player slapped a few silver coins into it.

  The man joined them.

  Karl rubbed his forehead.

  This wasn’t an army.

  It was a damn carnival.

  ---

  That evening, he stood in front of the campfire, cloak wet, boots caked in mud.

  “I can’t fight a war with just you lot,” he told the assembled players. “We need bodies. Fighters. People who know this land and how to kill in it.”

  He paused, then added:

  “You want your own squads? Go get them.”

  A few players blinked.

  “Wait… you’re letting us recruit?”

  “I’m telling you to recruit,” Karl said. “This town is crawling with deserters, mercenaries, drunks with a death wish. You want to be a captain? Find your own men. Convince them. Bribe them. Beat them in a barfight. I don’t care how.”

  He pointed toward the town.

  “Just make sure they’ll fight.”

  ---

  The reaction was instant.

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  Half the players bolted toward taverns and alley corners, scattering like scavengers on a battlefield. The others hung back, whispering furiously.

  One tall player grinned. “Time to build my own legion.”

  Another muttered, “Finally. I’m done being someone’s sword-fodder.”

  Even the pervert looked inspired. “Can I form the 69th Tactical Cuddling Division?”

  “No,” Karl said flatly.

  But it was too late.

  The recruitment frenzy had begun.

  ---

  By mid-morning, the camp was louder than ever.

  Players returned in groups—sometimes dragging, sometimes escorting their new “squads.” Most of the recruits were rough men with scars and missing fingers. Others wore bits of old armor or bore the faded insignia of long-forgotten regiments.

  Some brought former imperial troops: a trio of ex-grenadier from the south, still carrying their powder horns and battered short-carbines. Others had tracked down mountain war veterans—hard-faced men from the Empire’s once-proud Mountain Corps, now disillusioned and jobless.

  And then came the surprise.

  Nine grizzled men, dressed in patched but recognizable royal-blue cloaks, approached Karl directly. They wore the insignia of the fallen Thalgrenn royal guard.

  The eldest among them stepped forward.

  “We heard the prince had returned,” he said. “We hoped the rumor was true.”

  Karl looked at them, unsure how to respond.

  “I was,” he said quietly. “Still am.”

  The man knelt.

  The others followed.

  ---

  That night, Karl officially appointed them as his personal guard—nine loyal men, veterans of a lost war, now reborn into a new one. They took positions near him without ceremony. Silent, alert. A symbol of something real.

  As for the players… chaos, of course, but with structure forming.

  Each player who recruited a group was dubbed “Captain” by the others, sometimes jokingly, sometimes not. They began forming squads of five to ten men, training them in alleyways and courtyards. A few even painted crude banners or named their units ridiculous things like “Crimson Bananas” or “The Death Taxes.”

  But it worked.

  When Karl did a rough headcount before sundown, the camp held nearly three hundred bodies.

  Three hundred.

  With spears. Sabers. Muskets. Clubs.

  An army? Not yet.

  But the bones were there.

  ---

  He didn’t give them formations.

  He didn’t write a manual.

  Instead, he sat on an overturned crate, cloak draped over one shoulder, watching the madness unfold.

  A player jogged past, shouting something about formation drills.

  Another dragged a half-drunk recruit toward the water barrels.

  Someone was cooking potatoes in an old helmet.

  Karl didn’t stop them.

  Because for the first time… they were building something.

  And it wasn’t his to control.

  ---

  Tanir stood beside him, arms crossed.

  “You’re just letting them organize themselves?”

  Karl nodded.

  “They’ll figure it out.”

  Tanir raised an eyebrow. “You’re really not the commanding type, are you?”

  “I’m not a commander,” Karl replied. “I’m just the reason they’re here.”

  Tanir smirked. “And sometimes, that’s all it takes.”

  ---

  And somewhere across the muddy square, a group of recruits were shouting:

  “LONG LIVE THE PRINCE!”

  Others joined in.

  Karl said nothing.

  But his heart beat faster.

  Because it was starting.

  Not the war.

  But the belief.

  And that was even more dangerous.