9 — 1 (8)

The Civilization System activated. Louis read through the notifications. The mercenaries and Boromir, who knew nothing of its workings, only looked at him in silence. The charisma of Genghis Khan flowed naturally, suppressing them. Simply spending more time together would steadily raise respect thanks to the Military Charisma trait.

“What shall we do?”

One mercenary spoke up. Louis looked at him—a man scarred by many sword cuts.

Louis lowered his voice.

“Soldiers. I am the third son of Duke Remitri, rightful heir to the Pontina family, and soon-to-be governor of a city. My name is Louis Pontina.”

Mercenaries were not soldiers. Soldiers belonged to the regular army of Pontina—or, on a broader scale, the Duchy of Eron. The key difference lay in their status. Commoners could not be soldiers, but mercenaries could come from any background, and many were of low birth. Regular troops received standardized training and equipment, and steady supplies from their lords: wages, food, everything. In this turbulent age, being a soldier was not a bad path. Yet numbers were not expanded recklessly, for each soldier was an expense. Without the finances to sustain them, they could not be raised. Training posed another hurdle.

So Louis calling them “soldiers” was technically off. Still, though the mercenaries felt the term strange, it did not sound wrong coming from him. Their hearts had already begun to move. To them, Louis—though young—seemed like one who had faced battle hundreds of times. The emblem of House Pontina was a lion, and lions were said to throw their cubs from cliffs to make them strong. Their guess was not entirely mistaken. Low-level though it was, the source of his charisma was Genghis Khan.

Even as he spoke, Louis never looked away from the info window, where the respect score of his 100 men began to stir.

‘It’s working.’

“…I will speak plainly. You may sever your contracts and return home. You will be paid. But if you stay, you will be soldiers of House Pontina, bearing my name.”

He stopped. Shorter was better than longer. He had even practiced his tone for maximum impact. To him, it felt like clowning, but he knew well how those under the skill’s effect would see him.

It was a shocking offer. Becoming soldiers meant even mercenaries might find a path to advancement. The problem was, these would be the soldiers of a third young lord with no power base. If trouble came, they would all die with him. And with no foundation, how could their wages be paid? As mercenaries they earned more. And yet, they were drawn to Louis.

Kalbang, the most seasoned among them, stepped forward.

“I like you, my lord. Whether we keep at this job or follow you, both roads are dangerous. If so, I’d rather bet on the one with potential.”

That was the spark. When the veteran Kalbang crossed over, others followed like a flood. And the numbers ticked upward.

By promising them a path to rise, he had gained their trust. Could people really believe just words? Not alone. This result was tied directly to the groundwork of Military Charisma.

The Civilization System lit up. Without hesitation, Louis chose the Monument trait under Social Policy – Tradition.

The Monument came alive. If he raised a stele, it would activate. Monument Level 1. With each level, the number of steles he could erect would increase.

“They’re hauling a boulder…?”

Hansen could not comprehend the report. Boromir had returned—not with construction workers, but with a hundred of the cheapest mercenaries. With the canal already broken, a guard detail of ten would suffice. A hundred was excessive.

But Louis’s next move surpassed imagination: hauling a stone. Not just any stone, but one three meters tall, needing fifty strong men to even budge. Mercenaries were working in three shifts to drag it. Hansen could not guess what madness this was. For the first time, he rose from his desk. When words failed, seeing with his own eyes was best.

And when he checked for himself, it was no lie.

‘The third young lord… perhaps his injury scrambled his wits.’

Louis knew Hansen was watching, but pretended otherwise. That was better. Let his action look meaningless, foolish even. The easier he looked, the more his opponent would underestimate him—and hold back.

‘The moment the Monument is set, I’ll have one more hammer of productivity than you.’

Louis almost felt sorry. Hansen had no such magic. He was a real talent, one who had honed his skill and waited for opportunity. He was practiced in intrigue, knew how to reward his men, and had loyal followers. He had the ability to govern. But his misfortune was that his opponent was Louis—and Louis had no room for mercy.

In a harsh world, sympathy was forbidden. To command others meant no less.

‘Hansen, I’ll take this victory.’

The massive stone was raised. Still rough. It needed chiseling to resemble a stele. The mercenaries rested, drenched in sweat. Through the Civilization interface, Louis checked their dissatisfaction level: 1. If not for the 2 points of respect already earned, they would never have done such labor; at parity of respect and discontent, their pride would have balked. Mercenaries prided themselves on being different from common laborers—better to die than be treated like one.

When respect first reached 2, their satisfaction rose to 3. But after Louis’s order, it dropped to 0, birthing discontent at 1.

If discontent lingered, respect would fall. Not all were dissatisfied; some still held satisfaction at 1. Those few, together with Boromir, had to be relied upon to finish chiseling the stone. If discontent ever rose past 5, respect would be cut, and once it hit 0, the mercenaries would desert.

After another full day’s work by the remaining contented ones, the boulder finally took the shape of a stele. Set at the entrance of the grasslands, it looked properly imposing.

Louis checked the info and brightened. He had another hammer. That made three. His productivity had risen by a third from a single Monument. With a month still remaining, it was more than enough to catch Hansen, lulled into complacency.

“This is… magnificent.”

The farmers, who had wondered what the third young lord was doing, gasped at the raised stele. Even the mercenaries who had dragged it regarded it with meaning. A crude stele with only a simple blessing carved on it—what beauty could it have? None. But with the Monument’s effect active, it emitted 2 points of culture.

That was the power of culture. Louis himself had not known what it meant until now, seeing the reactions of farmers and mercenaries alike.