Work Text:
The news arrived before the horse did.
A central command envoy was coming to evaluate the 444th Platoon. Specifically, they were coming to evaluate Encrid.
It was routine on paper. High Command liked to send noble-born inspectors every few months to audit independent units—checking supply logs, reviewing battle readiness, and ensuring that low-ranking officers weren't getting above their station.
In practice, it meant some second son of a baron with a shiny breastplate and zero dirt under his fingernails was coming to look down his nose at them.
When Sir Benedict arrived at the camp, he didn't even bother dismounting before issuing his first complaint.
"This is the unit?" Benedict sneered, pulling his leather gloves tight as his gaze swept over the muddy perimeter. "It smells like wet wool and blood. Where is the officer in charge?"
Encrid stepped forward from where he had been oiling a whetstone. His hair was damp with sweat from his morning drill, his standard-issue tunic worn thin at the elbows. He saluted—clean, functional, without an ounce of flourish.
"Platoon Leader Encrid, Sir."
Benedict looked down at him. Truly looked down, his eyes lingering on Encrid’s plain boots, his unadorned scabbard, and the lack of any family crest on his chest.
"You're smaller than the reports suggested," Benedict said dryly. "And vastly under-equipped. I was told you were managing a unit of unruly veterans, but you look more like an ironmonger's apprentice who stumbled into a coat of mail."
Encrid didn't blink. He had been called worse by better men. "We have the required kit, Sir. Supplies are accounted for."
"We'll see about that," Benedict snapped, finally swinging himself off his horse. He tossed the reins toward Encrid like he was handing off a leash to a stableboy. "Walk my stallion to the troughs. Ensure he gets oats, not grain. And clear out the head tent. I require proper quarters to review your logs."
Encrid reached out to take the reins. It was standard protocol for a lower-ranking officer to accommodate a visiting inspector. He didn't mind. A horse was a horse, and walking it wouldn't take more than ten minutes away from his form practice.
He never got the chance to touch the leather.
A massive, calloused hand clamped around the reins inches from Encrid's fingers.
"The Lord teaches us to show hospitality to travelers," Audin said smoothly, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow over the inspector. His smile was serene, almost gentle, but his grip on the reins was tight enough to make the horse whinny in distress. "However, our Captain's hands are reserved for the sword. Allow me, brother."
Benedict recoiled slightly, taking a half-step back at the sheer size of the monk-turned-soldier. "Who allowed you to speak, soldier?"
Before Audin could reply, Rem materialized on Encrid’s left side, his hand resting casually—almost carelessly—on the pommel of his massive battle-axe. He spat into the mud, missing Benedict's polished boot by less than an inch.
"He speaks because he's a man of God," Rem growled, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on Benedict's throat like a wolf calculating the distance to a deer's jugular. "Me? I'm short on patience and shorter on mercy. The Captain doesn't fetch for silk-wrapped parasites. Tend your own damn beast."
Encrid frowned, glancing between them. "Rem, he's a central officer. It's fine."
"It's not fine, Cap," Rem snapped back, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a venom that made Benedict freeze in his stirrups. "You've got three hundred swings left on your sets today. Don't waste your damn time playing groom for a parade-ground pony whose armor's never seen a drop of real blood."
By midday, the atmosphere in the camp had turned so thick you could cut it with a dull dagger.
Sir Benedict had commandeered the primary strategy tent—the one Kreise usually used to count copper and complain about the budget. Benedict had laid out his silk maps and set up a folding chair, demanding full ledgers of the unit's recent engagements, supply requisitions, and personnel files.
Encrid sat across from him on a plain wooden crate, answering questions with his usual brief, blunt honesty.
"Your kill counts are absurd," Benedict said, tapping a quill against a parchment page. "A squad of six men taking down a demonic scout unit twice their size without a single fatality? Are you fabricating these numbers to secure higher ration allowances, Platoon Leader?"
"No," Encrid said simply. "They died. We didn't."
"Do not take that tone with me," Benedict warned, leaning forward. "You are an unranked commoner placed in charge of a frontline unit by sheer administrative oversight. You lack the tactical refining of a proper knight. Quite frankly, I find it laughable that Command allows a man of your... limited pedigree to dictate orders to men who outmatch you in raw martial ability."
Encrid blinked. He didn't find it offensive because, in his mind, it was largely true. Ragna was a swordsmanship prodigy. Sachsen was a ghost with a blade who could slip through a battlefield undetected. Rem was a terrifying force of nature with an axe, Audin possessed the crushing, immovable strength of an iron mountain, and Kreise had a mind so sharp it was a weapon in its own right. Encrid knew he was the weakest link in terms of pure natural talent; he survived only because he had died a hundred times learning how not to.
"They're stronger than me," Encrid agreed neutrally. "That's why we win."
Benedict sneered. "A captain who admits his inferior talent to his own superior officer. Pathetic. If it were up to me, I’d strip you of command today and put a proper noble at the head of this squad. Someone they can actually respect."
Outside the tent, a faint sound echoed through the canvas.
Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk.
It was the steady, rhythmic sound of steel meeting a sharpening stone.
Benedict paused, frowning toward the entrance. "What is that noise?"
Encrid glanced back. "Sachsen. He sharpens his blades when he's waiting."
"Tell him to do it elsewhere. It's distracting."
Encrid stood up to step outside, but as soon as he pulled back the tent flap, he stopped.
The entire squad was standing within five paces of the opening.
Sachsen was sitting on a crate directly facing the flap, running a whetstone down the edge of a throwing knife with deliberate, excruciating slowness. His dark gaze was cold, fixed entirely on the space where Benedict sat inside.
To his side, Ragna was slouched lazily against a wooden support beam, arms crossed and eyes half-closed as if he were mid-nap. But despite looking completely asleep, his posture was unnaturally sharp—arms resting casually near the pommel of his longsword, ready to clear the sheath in a heartbeat if Benedict stepped out of line.
Kreise was sitting at a folding table, furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment. When he saw Encrid, his face flickered with intense irritation—not at Encrid, but past him.
"Captain," Kreise called out loudly, his voice carrying clearly into the tent. "I'm re-calculating the inspector's stay. Standard imperial rates for food and shelter don't apply to uninvited guests. I'm charging his estate forty silver pieces for the water his horse drank. If he complains, I'll charge him for the air he's breathing."
"Kreise, that's extortion," Encrid said mildly.
"It's business, Cap," Kreise snapped, glaring past Encrid's shoulder into the tent. "And frankly, he's overcharged us just by opening his mouth."
Inside the tent, Benedict's face flushed bright red. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the dirt floor. "Insolence! Is this how you maintain discipline in your ranks, Encrid?! These men are feral!"
Rem stepped into Encrid's peripheral vision, his broad shoulders blocking half the sunlight entering the tent. He looked down at Benedict with a dark, twisted grin that had zero warmth in it.
"Feral?" Rem rumbled, taking a slow step forward until he was standing uncomfortably close to the noble. "You haven't seen feral yet, Sir Knight. Keep talking about taking our Captain's rank, though. See what happens to your carriage on the road back."
"Is that a threat?!" Benedict squawked, his hand flying to the hilt of his ornate, parade-style rapier.
"It's a promise, Brother," Audin whispered softly from behind Rem, his towering frame entirely filling the doorway. He held a wooden prayer beads in one hand and a heavy iron mace in the other. "May the Lord forgive the sins we are about to commit if you say another word to our Captain."
Encrid sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Guys, stop it. He's just doing his job. Go back to your posts."
There was an immediate, palpable shift in the air.
The squad didn't look angry at Encrid—far from it. The moment Encrid spoke, the terrifying aura vanished from their faces, replaced by an unsettling, intense focus directed entirely at him.
"You haven't eaten lunch, Captain," Ragna said flatly, ignoring Benedict completely. He sheathed his sword with a sharp clack. "Kreise saved the meat from yesterday. Sit down. We'll handle the papers."
"I have to finish the review—" Encrid started.
"Sit," Rem ordered, his voice instantly softening from a killer's growl into a firm, stubborn command. He caught Encrid by the elbow—gentle enough not to bruise, but firm enough that Encrid would have to physically fight him to move—and steered him toward a bench near the fire. "Audin brought hot tea. Drink it."
"I'm fine," Encrid muttered, but Rem was already shoving a wooden bowl of thick broth into his hands.
Benedict stood in the center of the tent, trembling with rage and genuine, creeping horror. He was an officer of the realm, a nobleman of the third rank, yet these men treated him like an inconvenient stain on the rug, while treating a low-born, plain-faced platoon leader like he was made of glass.
By nightfall, Sir Benedict had realized two very important things.
First, Encrid was completely oblivious to his own squad's obsession.
Second, the squad was entirely out of their minds.
When Benedict tried to leave his tent to use the latrines around midnight, he stepped out into the cold night air only to find Sachsen sitting silently on the top of the supply wagon, watching him in the dark like an owl.
"What are you doing up?" Benedict hissed, clutching his cloak around his shoulders.
Sachsen didn't answer. He merely held up a single finger, pointing toward the main fire.
Encrid was sitting there alone, cross-legged, his sword laid across his knees as he meditated—a habit he picked up to regulate his breathing during long fights. He looked exhausted, the faint dark circles under his eyes visible in the amber firelight. He had worked through his forms until his arms shook, then helped pitch two new supply tents before finally sitting down.
"He doesn't sleep enough," Sachsen said softly. It was the first time Benedict had heard the man speak. His voice was low, rasping, and completely devoid of emotion. "When people disturb him during the day, he stays up at night to make up for the missed training."
Benedict scoffed. "He's a soldier. He works when he's ordered to."
Sachsen turned his head slowly. In the dim light, his eyes were completely void of light. "If you make him stay up another night with your papers... I will cut the straps on your saddle before you cross the mountain pass."
Benedict swallowed hard. "You wouldn't dare. That's treason."
"It's an accident," Sachsen corrected dryly. "Accidents happen in the mountains."
Before Benedict could back away, a heavy hand dropped onto his opposite shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Audin was standing behind him, holding a steaming mug of herbal brew. "Brother Inspector," the giant murmured, his face lit by the dying embers. "You look pale. Perhaps the climate does not agree with you? It would be a tragedy if you fell ill and had to leave early. Very tragic."
"Are you... are you threatening me with poison?!" Benedict choked out.
"The Lord provides all things," Audin smiled seraphily. "Life, death... sudden stomach dysentery. Drink some water. Rest well. And do not wake the Captain again tonight. He needs his rest if he is to lead us tomorrow."
Benedict tore himself away from Audin's grip and practically scrambled back into his tent, lacing the flap tight from the inside.
Inside, he sat on his cot, heart hammering against his ribs. He had dealt with rough soldiers before. He had audited frontline mercenaries, elite knights, and territorial guards. They were usually arrogant, crude, or terrified of central authority.
These men weren't terrified. They didn't care about central authority. They didn't care about ranks, crests, or royal decrees.
The only thing anchoring those five killers to the Imperial Army was the quiet, dense man sitting by the fire, currently trying to figure out why his shoulder ached when he swung his sword to the left.
The next morning broke cold and grey.
Sir Benedict emerged from his tent at dawn, packed and ready to leave. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from a night spent staring at the canvas ceiling every time he heard a footstep outside.
Encrid was already awake, performing his morning stretches near the horses. When he saw Benedict carrying his travel bags, he walked over, looking surprised.
"Sir? You're leaving early? We haven't finished reviewing the logbooks for the third quarter."
Benedict pulled his horse's reins tight—doing it himself this time, his hands trembling slightly as he checked the girth. "I have reviewed enough."
"Is there a problem with the records?" Encrid asked, genuinely concerned. If the paperwork was wrong, Command might dock the unit's supply allocation, which meant less iron for weapon repairs and fewer rations for the squad. "I can fix any errors. Kreise keeps track of everything."
"The records are fine," Benedict said stiffly, mounting his stallion with more haste than dignity.
He pulled a folded parchment from his tunic and tossed it down to Encrid. Encrid caught it effortlessly between two fingers.
"That is my official evaluation," Benedict said, refusing to look directly at the squad members who were slowly gathering behind Encrid like a pack of wolves lining up behind their alpha. "I am submitting it to High Command upon my return to the capital."
Encrid unfolded the paper, reading the tight, formal script:
Evaluation of 444th Platoon Commander: Encrid
Status: Retain Command Immediately.
Tactical Competence: Sufficient.
Unit Discipline: Absolute.
Notes: Platoon Leader Encrid demonstrates an extraordinary, inexplicable level of psychological control over his subordinates. Reassigning or replacing him would result in the immediate, total collapse of unit stability and likely cause catastrophic desertion or mutiny. It is strongly advised that Central Command leave this unit entirely to Encrid's discretion and refrain from sending further inspectors.
Encrid stared at the paper for a long moment, his brow furrowing in deep confusion.
"Psychological control?" Encrid echoed, looking up at Benedict. "Sir, I don't control them at all. Half the time they don't even listen to me when I tell them to clean the latrines."
Behind him, Rem snorted loudly. Ragna crossed his arms, hiding a faint smirk behind his collar. Audin bowed his head in a quiet, mock prayer of gratitude.
Benedict didn't wait to discuss it further. He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and took off at a hard gallop, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake that drifted over the camp perimeter.
Encrid watched him go, completely bewildered. He turned to his squad, holding up the parchment.
"Did you guys do something to him?" Encrid asked suspicion finally creeping into his voice. "He looked like he hadn't slept at all."
"He was probably just overwhelmed by our discipline, Captain," Kreise said smoothly, stepping forward to gently snatch the evaluation paper from Encrid's hand to file it safely away. "Nobles aren't used to seeing hard work."
"Besides," Ragna added, stretching his arms over his head as he walked toward the weapon racks. "He was annoying. You don't need some guy from the capital telling you how to lead."
"The Lord cleared his path home," Audin agreed softly. "We should give thanks."
Encrid looked at each of them—Rem grinning like a madman, Sachsen vanishing back into the shadows of the tree line, Kreise already calculating how much gold they saved by Benedict leaving early.
Encrid sighed, shaking his head. He would never understand high-ranking officers. Or nobles. Or his own unit, for that matter.
He drew his standard-issue iron sword from its sheath, the familiar weight settling into his palm.
"Whatever," Encrid muttered, turning back toward the clearing. "We wasted half a day yesterday. Five hundred form swings before breakfast. Move."
"Yes, Captain," they answered in unison—instant, loud, and completely without hesitation.
Encrid smiled faintly, raising his sword into a high guard. He didn't know why Command kept sending strange people to their camp, but as long as his squad was ready to train, that was all that really mattered.