Chapter 17: Centralisation of Arm forces: Part 2 (Royal Army Formation)
The Royal Decree had hit like a meteor, and now the plains west of Aethelburg were alive with the chaotic hum of creation. Where once there was just grass and wind, a sprawling camp had risen—tents flapping in the breeze, forges spitting sparks, and training grounds echoing with shouts and clanging steel. This was the birthplace of the Royal Army of Leo, and Alexius felt like he was trying to code a new system from scratch while the old one was crashing.
Inside the command tent, Alexius, General Varrus, and Vice-Commander Cilia hunched over a table buried under charts and rosters. It wasn't a war map but a blueprint for an army that didn't exist yet. The System pinged in Alexius's mind, offering logistics breakdowns and training schedules, but it was the human stakes—the lives behind the numbers—that kept him up at night.
"The old levies were a mess," Varrus growled, jabbing a scarred finger at a chart. "No standards. One lord's 'elite' was another's half-starved farmer with a pitchfork. We're building this right—discipline, logic, unity."
Alexius nodded, a flicker of his old life surfacing. "Like… a Roman legion," he said, catching himself. "I mean, self-contained units, flexible but strong."
Varrus raised an eyebrow but grunted approval. "Legions it is."
They dove into the details, hammering out a structure with a speed that felt reckless but necessary. The Royal Armywould start with two Legions, each five thousand strong, with plans to grow to five as recruits and coin allowed. Each Legion split into ten Cohorts of five hundred, then five Companies of one hundred and 5 sections of ten men a clean, decimal system that let commanders adapt on the fly.
The units were specialized, a wild idea in a land where most soldiers just grabbed whatever weapon they had:
Heavy Infantry: The backbone, built from sturdy human farmers and a few burly orcs who'd taken Alexius's offer. They drilled endlessly on shield walls, wielding standard-issue shields, short swords, and throwing spears.
Pikemen: Cohorts trained to form an 18-foot wall of steel, unbreakable against cavalry charges.
Archers: Human longbowmen learning volley fire, mixed with elven sharpshooters from the Crown's Wards. Under Lillia's quiet guidance, the elves taught humans to read wind shifts in the grass, forging a deadly hybrid force.
Light Cavalry & Scouts: Cilia's pride, made of nimble beast-kin and fast human riders. They weren't for flashy charges but for scouting, flanking, and slicing enemy supply lines like a knife.
Royal Engineers: a unit for bridges, camps, and—someday—siege engines. They weren't fighters but the grease that'd make the army move faster and hit harder. Will composed of Construction workers and engineers in the futures.
The real game-changer was the command structure. No more nobles barking orders by birthright—every rank, from sergeant to cohort commander, would be earned through sweat and skill.
The training grounds were a chaotic mix of old and new. A former knight, used to lording over men, got schooled on shield tactics by a Royal Guard sergeant who'd been a baker five years ago. An elf archer patiently showed a human how to adjust for a breeze, amid the clang of practice swords.
One afternoon, one of the minor noble of the North Baron Festus, stormed into the command tent, his fifty guards following him. "General Varrus!" he snapped, his face red. "I'm here with my men, ready to lead them as their Cohort Commander, as is my right."
Varrus didn't look up from his roster. "Good to have you, Baron," he said, voice flat as a blade. "You'll get your cohort assignment after you and your men finish eight weeks of basic training. Enlist in it, and we'll talk about command."
Festus's jaw dropped. "Training? With commoners? And… beast-kin?" He sounded like he'd been asked to eat dirt.
Varrus replied with coldness. "Every soldier starts the same, my lord. No nobles, no commoners—just soldiers. If that's too much for you, go home. Although, your men seem happy to stay for the pay."
He nodded toward the paymaster's tent, where Festus's guards were lining up, grinning at the silver they'd earn—more than their lord ever gave them. Festus gaped and stormed off, leaving his men and his pride behind.
The new Ministry of the Treasury kept the objectives of Alexius fulfilling. Lord Corvus, introduced by former Prince's chamberlain now Chancellor of Leo, Elias recommended him, sharp as a whip, signed deals with blacksmiths for thousands of identical swords, spears, and shields. He immediately reform taxation system and implement Alexius's Royal Taxation decree. Especially, Royal Taxation commission, centralising the taxation collection system under the authority of the Crwon. Alexius's paper mills—a project he'd pushed hard—churned out training manuals with simple sketches of formations and rules. For the first time, every soldier would know exactly what was expected, down to the last signal horn.
After a month, Alexius and Varrus stood on a rickety platform, watching the First Legion drill. Five thousand soldiers—infantry, pikemen, archers—moved across the field like a living machine. They shifted from shield walls to attack columns, responding to horn blasts with a precision that sent a shiver down Alexius's spine. They weren't experienced yet, but they were a force that envasion his vision for Leo: unified, disciplined, and more importantly loyal to the Crown.
Varrus's voice was rough, almost reverent. "In all my years, I've never seen anything like this in Leo. We were a pack of stray dogs, snapping at each other. This…" He gestured at the field. "This is a pride of lions." He turned to Alexius, eyes glinting with a fierce hunger. "Your Majesty, with this, we don't just hold the north. We can burn those monsters out for good."
Alexius nodded, his chest tight with pride and fear. This army was his creation, born from a coder's logic and a prince's desperation. But as he watched the soldiers march, their boots kicking up dust under a gray sky, he knew the real test was coming. The north was bleeding, and his lions had to roar. Just as the feeling of accomplishment began to settle in his chest, a rider galloped into the camp, his horse lathered in sweat, dust clinging to his torn livery. It was one of Elias's men, his face pale with panic. He thrust a sealed dispatch into Alexius's hand. The seal was that of the Ministry of Internal Affairs—Duke Thorne's seal. With a sense of dread, Alexius broke it. The message was short and catastrophic. Marquess Dynan, nursing a personal grudge over the humiliation of his son and rallying other minor nobles disenfranchised by the new reforms, had raised the banner of rebellion in the East. Worse, he was not alone. Backed by the immense, shadowy influence of the Church of Human Supremacy, he had amassed a force of ten thousand: a core of household knights, a legion of mercenaries bought with church gold, thousands of his own peasants forced into service, and, most damningly, a contingent of the Church's own Holy Templars. They had declared Alexius a heretic and a tyrant, and were marching on the capital to "restore tradition." The war against the monsters in the north would have to wait. A civil war, born of a spoiled son's humiliation and a desperate Church's scheming, had just begun. (Continue…..)