Tom Bruce stood in the stone hall of Hawk's Nest Castle, the heels of his boots clicking crisply against the ancient flagstones. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting red and blue splotches of light onto his newly earned knightly badge.
"Father, I'm back."
Old Baron Bruce looked up from his pile of ledgers, his gray beard trembling slightly. He set down his quill, leaving a dark blot of ink spreading across the parchment.
"A free knight?" The old baron's voice sounded as if it came from a cellar. "I spent twelve years grooming you, only to see you wandering the countryside like a stray dog?"
The fire in the hearth crackled, and Tom could smell the sour tang of wine lingering in his father's cup. He straightened his back, muscles tightening beneath his leather armor. "I need some startup capital."
The old baron suddenly grabbed a silver goblet from the table and hurled it at the wall. Wine splattered across the tapestry, leaving a dark red stain. "Startup capital? For what? To buy yourself a coffin?"
Tom didn't flinch as droplets of wine splashed onto his face. He wiped them away with his fingertips, which were now tinged faintly red. "For the glory of the Bruce family."
Those words seemed to have a magical effect. The old baron's anger dissipated instantly. He slumped wearily into his high-backed chair, pulling a deerskin pouch of coins from a drawer and tossing it onto the table. The clinking of gold coins rang out sharply in the silent hall.
"Fifty golden lions," the old baron's voice suddenly sounded ten years older. "Enough to equip ten soldiers for a year. If you can't make something of yourself, come back and work off your debt at the tax office."
Tom opened the pouch, the eagle crest of the Bruce family glinting in the firelight. This amount was equivalent to half a year's tax revenue from the castle. He hadn't expected his father to be so generous.
"I'll make the name of Bruce echo throughout the kingdom." Tom tied the pouch to his belt, the weight of the metal giving him a sense of reassurance.
The old baron waved his hand, signaling the end of their conversation. But just as Tom reached the door, he suddenly spoke again: "Go to Graystone Town and find your uncle Henry. He'll help you pick men."
Graystone Town sat nestled in the hilly terrain north of Hawk's Nest Castle, famous for its high-quality iron mines. As Tom rode through the town's stone archway, the rhythmic clang of blacksmiths' hammers filled the air. Outside the wooden doors of the town guard station, his Uncle Henry stood, beer belly protruding as he berated two guardsmen.
"Damn it! You two fools couldn't even catch a thug!" Henry waved his short staff, his jowls quivering with each shout. When he turned and saw Tom, his scowl instantly transformed into an exaggerated smile.
"Tommy! My good nephew!" Henry spread his arms wide, the chainmail on his body clinking noisily. "I heard you got an 'Outstanding' rating from the Perys family? Why didn't you stay with the knightly order?"
Tom let his uncle pat him on the shoulder. "I want to see the world beyond."
Henry's smile faltered for a moment but quickly returned. "Young men should seek adventure! Come, I'll show you the promising lads in town."
On Graystone Town's training ground, twenty militiamen were practicing with spears. Tom's gaze immediately locked onto a red-haired youth—each thrust of his spear was executed with terrifying precision, his movements flowing as if he were dancing.
"Who's that?" Tom pointed to the red-haired youth.
"Roy Anvil, son of a blacksmith," Henry whispered. "That lad can spear a sparrow mid-flight with a lance, but..."
"But what?"
Henry mimicked drinking from a mug. "His drinking is even more impressive than his skill. He got thrown in the lockup for three days last week after causing trouble while drunk."
Tom walked over to the training ground, the system interface automatically unfolding before him:
**[Roy Anvil]**
Profession: Militia Level 6 (Rare)
Specialty: Lance Mastery
Loyalty: 45%
Status: Mildly intoxicated
This was higher than any militia level Tom had trained before. He approached the red-haired youth directly. "I heard you can spear a sparrow with a lance?"
Roy squinted, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. "It's piercing, my lord. Throwing it would be too easy."
"Prove it to me."
Roy grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. He grabbed a practice spear, spun around suddenly, and hurled it toward a wooden post thirty paces away. The spearhead struck dead center, sinking three inches deep.
The training ground fell silent, then erupted into cheers. Tom noticed Roy's loyalty jump to 55% in the system.
"You're hired." Tom tossed his own waterskin to Roy. "One silver deer per week, food and lodging included."
Henry pulled Tom aside. "Are you mad? That's a drunkard!"
"I need warriors, not choirboys." Tom fished two golden lions from the pouch and pressed them into his uncle's hand. "Find me nine more 'problematic characters' like him."
By evening, Tom inspected his new team in the courtyard of the town guard station: besides Roy, there was a poacher skilled with a bow, a city guard dismissed for brawling, and even a former mercenary. As Henry put it, this was a "collection of Graystone's troublemakers."
"From today onward, you are members of the Bruce Free Company," Tom announced from the steps. "The rules are simple: follow orders and you'll be rewarded; disobey, and you'll be punished." He kicked open a wooden crate at his feet, revealing piles of brand-new weapons and leather armor. "Pick what suits you best."
As the motley crew scrambled for equipment, Tom checked the system interface:
**[Free Company]**
Average Level: 5
Morale: 65%
Special Skills: Lance Mastery (Roy), Stealth (Poacher Mark), Combat Expert (Former Mercenary Carl)
Henry leaned in worriedly. "Tommy, these men aren't easy to handle..."
Tom drew the steel sword his uncle had gifted him, its blade glowing a dark red in the sunset. "Do you know why nine out of ten free knights fail?" He flicked his wrist, and the tip of the sword precisely knocked a dead leaf off a branch ten paces away. "Because they always try to act like saints."
That night, Tom ordered ten small round shields from the town's blacksmith, each engraved with the eagle crest of the Bruce family. The blacksmith hesitated, asking, "My lord, do you want these shields... gilded with silver edges?"
Tom knew the man was testing his wealth. He flicked a golden lion onto the anvil, where it spun in place. "No, copper plating will do. But embed a ruby in the eye of the eagle."
The blacksmith's eyes widened. "Just one?"
"Yes," Tom smiled mysteriously. "Because this is a special unit."
Back in his inn room, Tom spread out a parchment map. The system interface displayed new information:
**[Mission Update: Form Initial Troop (Complete)]**
Reward: +1 Leadership Value
New Mission: First Combat Trial
Moonlight filtered through the window lattice, casting fine grid-like shadows on the map. Tom's dagger tip stopped at a place called "Blood Crow Gorge," marked with the dates of missing caravans.
"It's time to see some blood, boys."