The family meeting ended fairly quickly, but Philip remained seated in the room for a while longer.

  The baron had left first, and his two brothers had also gone out to check the autumn tax records. The room was left with only a few chairs, the large wooden table, and the pale gray light coming through the window.

  Philip looked down at the tabletop.

  To be honest, the situation still felt a little strange to him.

  In his previous life—or rather, in the memories of that previous world—he would absolutely never have been allowed to participate in meetings like this.

  Matters related to the military, politics, or relations between territories were usually discussed only by his father and his two older brothers. Philip at that time… how should he put it? He had been more like an outsider than a true member of the family.

  No one had ever said directly that he was useless.

  But no one had expected him to do anything important either.

  So the fact that today he had sat here, listened to the entire letter from Re-Robel, and in the end even received command of the troops… from his former perspective, it was almost impossible.

  Philip rested his chin on his hand, thinking.

  Perhaps the difference lay with himself.

  In his previous life, he had not paid much attention to training, nor had he taken the initiative to build a group of followers. Now, however, he had started training attendants within the territory several years ago.

  Not because of any great ambition.

  Simply because he was afraid of dying.

  The thought made Philip let out a quiet breath.

  It sounded rather ridiculous if stated plainly, but many of his decisions up until now had come from that rather simple reason.

  However, there was still one point that caught his attention.

  In his old memories, the events around Re-Robel… did not seem to have happened at all.

  Philip’s recollection was somewhat vague. Although he had been isolated from the family’s decision-making in the past, he was certain he had never heard anyone mention a rebellion connected to the Zurrenorn organization.

  That made him begin forming a few hypotheses.

  The first hypothesis was fairly simple: his memory might not be entirely reliable. It was quite possible that the experiments he had undergone in that place had affected it. He clearly remembered seeing them conduct experiments involving memory and souls on many priests and other people. It was possible that someone had used some kind of memory-altering technique on him as well.

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  The second hypothesis was slightly more complicated: his own change had caused the world itself to change.

  If he remembered correctly, in the old timeline Montserrat had never sent a force led by the baron’s son during this period.

  His rebirth… might have altered certain events.

  And if small changes accumulated over time, they could sometimes lead to completely different outcomes.

  So could it be that the things he experienced in his previous life would not repeat themselves? That being he once encountered—would it no longer appear? Or perhaps it would appear earlier than before?

  Philip was not sure which hypothesis was correct.

  Perhaps both were partly true.

  He did not know whether that was good or bad. But perhaps he should prepare for both possibilities.

  The next morning, he went to the training yard quite early.

  Twenty men had already gathered there.

  Just as the baron had said, all of them were farmers. Most were more accustomed to holding hoes than spears.

  One of them looked at Philip, clearly uneasy.

  “My lord… do we really have to go to the battlefield?”

  Philip thought for a moment before replying,

  “Probably.”

  The answer did not make anyone feel more reassured, but at least it was honest.

  Philip looked over the twenty men.

  To be honest, he had no intention of turning them into powerful warriors within a few days. That was nearly impossible.

  Even professional soldiers required years of training.

  So what was a more realistic goal?

  Philip thought for a moment and then said,

  “In the next few days, we will train three things.”

  One man asked,

  “What three things?”

  Philip raised three fingers.

  “Formation.”

  “Movement.”

  “And discipline.”

  Another farmer scratched his head.

  “That… doesn’t sound much like combat training.”

  Philip nodded.

  “That’s right.”

  He spoke very frankly.

  “We don’t have time to become elite warriors.”

  He looked around at the group in front of him.

  “But we can look like an elite unit.”

  The statement left several of them confused.

  Philip elaborated.

  On the battlefield—especially in large engagements—the first impression could sometimes matter more than actual strength. A unit that moved in order, kept formation steady, and did not panic often made opponents hesitate more than a disorganized crowd.

  Even if the true strength of both sides was not that different.

  At least, that was something he had once read in a few old books.

  In Montserrat there was a man who had once served in the army.

  An old soldier named Geralt. He had previously been a mercenary in the army of the Kingdom of Re-Estize. After injuring his leg, he left the army and lived in Montserrat as a part-time blacksmith.

  Several years earlier, Philip had occasionally sat and listened to his stories.

  Not out of any special passion. It was simply that the stories of mercenaries tended to be more practical than the speeches of knights.

  Geralt had once said something Philip remembered quite clearly:

  “Nobles like to talk about courage.”

  “But on the battlefield, the thing that keeps you alive is a solid formation where a hundred men move as one.”

  It was a rather crude statement.

  But it sounded reasonable.

  Philip drew a line in the dirt with the tip of his sword.

  “Ten men stand here.”

  “Ten men stand behind them.”

  One farmer asked,

  “How do we fight?”

  Philip thought for a moment before replying,

  “We don’t fight alone.”

  He pointed at the front row.

  “If they retreat… you retreat with them.”

  “If they advance… you advance with them.”

  Another man asked,

  “And if everyone runs?”

  Philip answered calmly.

  “Our families cannot run.”

  The training lasted until noon.

  At first the formation was chaotic. Twenty farmers stepped out of rhythm, bumped into one another, and occasionally even turned the wrong direction.

  But after several hours, things began to resemble… a unit.

  Philip stood outside the formation and watched.

  Twenty men.

  No iron armor.

  No battlefield experience.

  But from a distance, under the afternoon sunlight, they at least looked like a group of organized soldiers.

  And for the next few days, that would probably be enough.