"Holy Sun! Solarius save us!!!"
An old peasant screamed at the top of his lungs as he caught sight of a Bovinid for the first time. Panic rippled through the village. Parents bolted like startled hens, leaving their wide-eyed children behind to stare at Hans, who—completely unfazed—smiled and waved both hands cheerfully like a lost tourist.
Remind me to organize a parenting workshop one of these days.
"As you can see," Karl declared, beaming in front of the crowd of villagers, "they are what used to be called Beastmen. Now, we don't use that term anymore. It's considered outdated, inaccurate, and highly offensive. Referring to them as such is a criminal offense under Tharros Vale law and will be punished accordingly."
"But… you just said the word, sire…" said a particularly dense-looking villager.
Karl paused, turned to me sheepishly, and asked, "Did I just commit a crime, Leo?"
I slapped my forehead. Then waved at him to just—keep going.
"This particular Bovinid is a loyal subject of Count Gareth Ironwill," Karl continued, "and thus falls under his protection. As part of the integra… integra… interoga—uh…"
He turned to me again. I sighed. It's not that hard a word.
It took two more interruptions, three mispronunciations, one snack break, and a five-minute argument with a village idiot about the difference between turnips and carrots before Karl finally finished a five-sentence speech. The villagers just stood there, slack-jawed. The Bovinids, on the other hand, looked thoroughly confused.
Hans glanced at me, clearly seeking an explanation.You and me both, Hans. You and me both.
Fifteen villages. That's how many we had to do this song and dance with. The plan was simple: the Bovinids would send a few of their own to live among the villagers. They'd be watched over by some of Ziegler's men—not that they needed it. I doubt even the strongest farmer could take on a centaur, let alone a minotaur.
They were to live in makeshift tents, forage their own food, and contribute to village life however they could.
That was three and a half weeks ago.
And, surprisingly… it worked.
Centaurs now pull ploughs with laughing children riding on their backs. Minotaurs carry buckets of water slung from their horns, nodding politely to grinning villagers. Goatkin and sheepkin herd livestock like pros—and taught the humans a thing or two about farming techniques no one here had ever even considered.
Apparently, lifetime of eating only plants made them exceptional agriculturalists.
Hans, ever the curious type, quickly picked up Common speech and writing, and even started teaching the Bovinid language to the villagers. Kids love him. So do the grannies. One of them even knit him a wool hat with holes for his horns.
Gerhart was over the moon with the news. I guess he really did know his people after all.
One day, a report came in from the outskirts. Bandit activity had started to pick up again. Apparently, they were organizing into some sort of united bandit front—realizing that with Bovinids now living among the villagers, easy pickings were no longer an option. An unintended solution, but hey—who's complaining?
"Their number stands at 300 swords. Our combined army stands at 135 swords—and if we rally our veterans too, we can push it to 183. I think we can take them."
Someone needs to teach Ziegler how to count.
"No... it would be unwise to send our men. We need them to defend the land. Zieg, Franz, Karl, Leo—ride with me. We're meeting them personally."
Five of us against three hundred? Someone really ought to teach Gerhart basic logic.
We rode at first light toward the woodlands. Gerhart and his merry little cabinet were clearly overexcited about the whole thing. I asked Ziegler why we didn't just pick the bandits off one by one while they were still scattered.
"Too much work visiting them one by one," he said nonchalantly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Someone seriously needs to teach this bunch basic survival instinct.
We arrived by midday.
The bandits, to their credit, were remarkably organized—for a bunch of drunk outlaws and washed-up mercenaries with more scars than teeth. They had tents, a crude banner, and even a quartermaster yelling at people to "get in formation." Which is hilarious, considering most of them couldn't stand in a straight line without tripping over each other.
Gerhart dismounted with the flair of a theatre actor, straightened his coat, and marched up the hill overlooking their camp like he was about to deliver a sermon instead of a death threat.
"Boys!" he shouted.
Three hundred heads turned.
"I am Count Gerhart Ironwill of Tharros Vale. You are hereby trespassing, conspiring, and intending to commit violence against the people under my protection."
Pause.
"You now have two options," he continued. "Lay down your weapons and be conscripted into something useful—or stay idiots, and die like one."
Another pause.
"Choose quickly. I skipped breakfast." Karl added trying to be intimidating.
…Was that it? That was the plan?
I looked at Ziegler, who looked at Franz, who was playing with his knife, who looked at Karl, who was chewing a flower stem like we were on a picnic, who then looked at me like this is fine.
It wasn't.
Then someone from the bandit side laughed. A big, burly man with an axe the size of a door.
"That's it? Five of you? You came to bluff us with five?"
Gerhart took a step forward. "Did I say five?"
Right on cue, the woods behind us stirred.
Hooves thundered.
Trees parted.
And out walked Hans—horns shining under the sun—followed by a full formation of Bovinid warriors. Thirty of them, maybe more. Minotaurs. Centaurs. Goatkin.
Oh, and they were singing.
A deep, rhythmic Bovinid chant that sounded like ancient war drums made of bone and thunder. Some bandits immediately dropped their weapons. A few others tried to run but tripped over tent ropes or their own courage.
Gerhart crossed his arms, waiting.
"You have until the song ends," he said.
They surrendered before the chorus.
We returned from the border with three hundred former bandits. Some with bruises, some with shattered egos—but all alive.
"So… what do we do with them now?" Ziegler asked, removing his helmet and dropping it onto the council table with a dull thud. "Three hundred mouths to feed. That's no joke, Count."
"Yes, it is indeed… it is indeed…" Karl muttered, shuffling his ham nervously, as if someone might try to steal it. He clutched it like it was a newborn.
"Put them to work," Franz said, expression unchanged. "They turned to banditry because they were hungry. We've got land, they've got hands. Simple." He groaned loudly as he sat down, rubbing his lower back like the floor owed him an apology.
"Land takes time," Ziegler countered. "We need defense now. Just enlist them. We boost the army—easy. Back when we were mercs, we ran with numbers like that."
Franz shot him a glare. "And who's paying for them, Zieg? Back then, we fought for gold. Now we're paying not to fight? Doesn't add up."
I watched the discussion unfold with vague amusement. I mean, I get it. These guys think like mercs because that's what they used to be. Old habits die hard.
"Why not both?" I said, leaning forward.
All heads turned toward me.
Ziegler squinted. "Meaning?"
Here we go again. I was a Corporate Secretary in another life—not a war strategist, not a warrior, just a guy with too many spreadsheets and too many meetings. Explaining cross-division staffing models to this ragtag bunch felt like trying to teach calculus to a pack of wolves.
Still, I tried.
I stood, gesturing with a slice of apple like a lecturer with a pointer. "They're farmers first, soldiers when needed. Or we rotate them—morning in the field, evening drills, night patrols. Train them, build them up—but don't rely on them full-time. Citizen militia."
Franz scoffed. "And you think they'll go along with that? These guys were bandits, Leo."
"They were," I replied, flashing a grin. "Now? Just unemployed men with bad reputations. Give them a better job title."
Karl blinked. "Do they get lunch breaks?"
Nobody answered. Karl went back to his ham.
And as always, it was Gerhart who closed the debate—his voice calm, heavy like a stone door swinging shut.
"We give them two things: dignity… and work. Both are often stolen from men like them."
Silence.
Gerhart turned to the window, watching the former bandits pitch ragged tents just beyond the village edge.
"We don't want power in the hands of those who have no stake in our land. So we train the people. Anyone who wishes to stay must belong. They will be farmers. But when enemies come, they will be our shield."
Ziegler sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, Count. But we'll need structure—training schedules, logistics, oversight…"
"Lunch breaks..." Karl added.
Gerhart turned, grinning wide like a child told to build his own pillow fort.
"Make one," he said.
I said between bites:
"Valewatch."
Gerhart nodded once, grin still plastered across his face.
"Valewatch it is."
.