The Rise Of The Clydon Family-Chapter 26: Spend Money! Buy People! Expand the Army! Build a City! (Part 1)

Chapter 26: Chapter 26: Spend Money! Buy People! Expand the Army! Build a City! (Part 1)

Old Gordon eagerly adjusted his monocle, the fire of excitement blazing in his eyes. "My lord, I'd like to request a budget of 500 gold coins!"

Seeing his enthusiasm, Rus responded cautiously, "Well... I think Eagle's Nest is in pretty good shape right now. No need for more renovations. And I certainly don't need another new suit anytime soon..."

The last budget meeting had left a lasting impression—over half of that 500 gold went into flashy, superficial projects.

"It's not for Eagle's Nest, my lord!" Gordon flushed slightly. "It's for... 'redistributing' the population. As you know, there are simply too few people in Eagle Town!"

Ah, nobles and their euphemisms. Clearly this was human trafficking, yet they had to dress it up as "redistribution."

Still, Rus didn't press the point. After all, he was a noble now too. "Do you have a suitable source?"

Gordon nodded. "The Fox family has expressed interest in offloading their excess peasants."

Rus thought for a moment. "They sent a representative to my succession ceremony, right? That's a count's family, isn't it?"

"Your memory is enviable, my lord," Gordon said with a smile. "The Fox family's lands lie southeast of Moen City. Their patriarch, Count Montreal, also serves as the Governor of the Nord Province."

Rus gave a knowing chuckle. "Ah, so it's him."

It wasn't that Rus didn't care about political dynamics—it was just that the Fox family's situation was so uniquely awkward.

Though Count Montreal was the de jure governor of Nord Province, its most prosperous city, Moen, was actually the domain of the Slater family. Their head, Count Tyron Shiva Slater, also commanded the strongest military force in the northern provinces: the Iron Legion.

In noble society, strength always spoke loudest.

With the Slaters superior in both wealth and military might, Montreal's authority was all but a joke. His decrees rarely made it past the borders of his own estate.

As a result, people referred to him not by his title, but by his nickname: the Sour-Faced Fox.

Why the name? Simple. He always looked sour—because he couldn't have the grapes he so desperately wanted.

Still, awkward position or not, the Foxes were a legitimate count's house—not someone Rus could take lightly. "You're confident?"

"Absolutely, my lord," Gordon said with assurance. "This kind of 'redistribution' has been a mature business for decades. With 500 gold coins, we can acquire 1,000 peasants—at least half of them will be healthy laborers."

"How long would it take?" Rus asked.

"Two to three months," Gordon replied.

Rus tapped his fingers on the table.

That would mean delivery around September or October—right after the autumn harvest, just before winter. It would put some strain on the food stores, but wouldn't interfere with next year's land expansion plans.

"Take 600 gold," Rus decided. "Make sure it's done by the end of October."

Gordon was overjoyed. "Yes, my lord!"

As Gordon took the 600-coin budget, Erik's eyes gleamed with excitement. His little eye sparkled with anticipation. "Lord Rus, I need 900 gold coins!"

Rus raised an eyebrow. "Didn't we already settle the equipment issue? What do you need that much for now?"

Erik explained, "I served in the Iron Legion. I can get targeted divine potions at a discounted price—potions that can awaken steel-type battle qi. If we give them to Simon, Link, and Gaul, and even one of them becomes superhuman, it would be a huge boost to our strength!"

But Rus shook his head firmly.

Simon's loyalty was unquestionable, and Gaul and Link had proven themselves in blood and fire. But power inflates ambition. Even if they themselves didn't want more, people around them might start stirring trouble, encouraging them to reach higher.

If any of them became superhuman, they'd at least need to be granted a knightly title. Denying that would be demoralizing—but granting it would mean dividing up the territory again, something Rus wasn't willing to do just after finally consolidating it.

Stability was better for now.

If they were to rise to that level, it should be after Rus himself became superhuman—so he could keep their power in check.

Seeing Erik's disappointment, Rus asked, "You said you can get potions from the Iron Legion?"

"Yes, my lord." Erik perked up slightly. "The Iron Legion may be under Count Tyron's command, but it's part of the Empire's formal military. Every year, the Empire sends a massive shipment of potions—way more than they need, so..."

He trailed off, but Rus understood the implication completely.

In a word: reselling military supplies.

Rus lowered his voice. "Can you get armor? Weapons? Secret techniques from the army?"

"I'm not sure about techniques," Erik replied after thinking, "but weapons and armor—definitely. They're sold in bulk though. Minimum five or ten sets at a time—not like potions, which can be bought individually."

That shocked not just Rus, but Gordon too.

They exchanged glances, both silently alarmed by what they'd just heard.

Selling military supplies—an offense punishable by death. And yet here was the Iron Legion, the Empire's strongest northern army, openly trafficking weapons and armor. Even someone as straightforward as Erik had access to it.

A glimpse was enough to see the whole picture.

If this was happening in the Empire's most elite force, how deep had the rot spread?

Could the Empire's armies truly stand and fight if the Insar Empire to the north or the Bloodsoaked Heights to the west launched a full-scale invasion?

Sure, the Empire had enjoyed peace for a hundred years—but peace never lasted forever.

When things reach their peak, they start to fall.

Rus made a silent vow: he had to grow stronger—fast. And he needed to strengthen his private army as well. If chaos did come, he needed to be ready.

"Erik, can you get divine potions that awaken a person's talent for magic?"

"This... probably not," Erik admitted. "My lord, do you want to become a mage?"

Rus nodded.

There were plenty of reasons to become a mage—respected status, refined image, the ability to cast powerful spells and craft rare, enchanted items.

But for Rus, there was only one real reason.

He didn't want to die.

It was one thing in peacetime—but in real war, lower nobles were expected to lead from the front. Knights rode out in heavy armor, charging into battle and taking heads in glorious combat.

It was brave. It was bold. It was also incredibly dangerous.

On the battlefield, a sword doesn't care about status. Even the finest armor couldn't guarantee protection. Plenty of high-born knights had been skewered by pitchforks in peasant uprisings.

That's where mages had the real edge.

They stayed at the rear. They didn't need to engage directly. Toss out a few spells here and there, and if the army won—great, your magic support was praised. If they lost—well, obviously the soldiers weren't strong enough. Not your fault.

It was the perfect "non-stick" role.

If the battle turned sour, mages could simply retreat backward into victory formation, and their survival rate was off the charts!

What's the definition of strength? Living to the end—that's true strength!

"My lord, you could try speaking to Priestess Lux," Erik suggested. "The Church of Light has always been a major supplier of divine potions. They shouldn't be short on magic-awakening ones either."

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Rus's eyes sparkled with hope. "I'll set up a private meeting with Lux about this. Let's continue with the rest of the meeting."

Erik, whose proposal had just been rejected, looked a little deflated.

But Rus had no intention of disappointing his loyal retainer. "I said I wasn't giving Simon and the others divine potions—not that I wouldn't invest in the military."

Erik scratched his head. "But right now, aside from that, there's really nothing else that would require a large budget..."

"There is," Rus said firmly. "Now that Goldspark Town is back in our hands, it's time to expand our army. The current private soldiers will be promoted into my personal guard unit, which I'll command directly. Erik, you'll be the captain of this new guard unit!"

"Then we'll recruit three more platoons, led by Simon, Gaul, and Link respectively. I want one platoon of sword-and-shield infantry, one of crossbowmen, and one of spearmen. On top of that, I want you to pick twelve recruits with some natural talent for riding—we're forming a scout squad!"

The Empire's military structure was crude and archaic—ten men to a squad, a hundred to a company, a thousand to a division, and five thousand made a legion.

Rus, however, trusted in the wisdom of the great minds from his past life and adopted a "3-3 formation": twelve soldiers per squad, three squads to a platoon, three platoons to a company, and so on.

The victory against the bandits had already proven that this structure could thrive in this world—so expanding it further was only natural.

Erik's eyes lit up. After the last battle, he had even more faith in this system than Rus did.

The 3-3 formation offered flexibility and clear command lines. It could split apart or consolidate as needed, making both combat and logistics more streamlined.

But it wasn't just about structure—their success was also due to Rus's insanely rigorous training regimen.

Before this, Erik had never seen a unit that placed such importance on discipline and obedience. Two-thirds of their two-month training had been purely focused on formations and marching drills.

It made sense, though. The Empire's lazy, undisciplined armies could only manage their sloppy base-10 formations. Only a well-trained, orderly force could unleash the full potential of the 3-3 system.

"My lord, should we replenish the personal guard unit?" Erik asked.

Rus shook his head. "Being part of the personal guard is an honor. For morale and effectiveness, I don't intend to add new recruits this round."

"Understood. Then for the new platoons, the estimated budget..." Erik began calculating in his head and quickly gave a detailed report:

"We'll be adding 105 new soldiers. To cover wear and loss, we'll need 120 sets of leather armor—roughly 60 gold coins. Then 40 swords and shields—around 55 gold. Thirty spears—1 gold, 50 silver. Forty crossbows and 5,000 bolts—about 90 gold."

A few seconds later, Gordon, pen flying, looked up and summarized, "Total: 206 gold coins and 50 silver."

Rus added, "Get another 40 crossbows. Also, I want 100 enchanted crossbow bolts with the Basic Penetration enchantment."

Yorick spoke up, "That will add another 280 gold coins."

Everything magic-related was outrageously expensive. A normal bolt cost 20 copper coins. An enchanted bolt? Two gold coins—a thousand times more.

But it was a necessary expense. Normal bolts could barely scratch enchanted armor. But 36 enchanted bolts fired in a volley? Even a fourth-tier knight or warrior could fall.

"Now that you're all done," Rus said, sitting up straighter, "it's my turn. Gordon, starting today, gather a workforce and clear at least four acres of land along the upper banks of the Sandgold River."

"Build a stone wall around the perimeter, about three meters high, wide enough for sentries to patrol. Inside, we'll divide the area into three zones: residential, industrial, and storage. The industrial area must be large enough to fit at least ten workshops, each capable of housing ten workers."

Gordon asked, "Timeline, my lord?"

"As soon as humanly possible!" Rus declared.

"This is practically a small town..." Gordon frowned. "Even though the harvest is over, your requirements will require outside labor. Factoring in materials, I'd estimate the cost at no less than 430 gold coins."

"I'll give you 600," Rus said. "I don't care what it takes—get it done in under a month!"

"Additionally, I need at least ten distillation rigs, and large quantities of baking soda, quicklime, roses, oils, and the cheapest alcohol you can find!"

Gordon, scribbling furiously, asked, "How much, exactly?"

"Baking soda—500 kg per month. Quicklime—1,000 kg per month. As for roses, oils, and alcohol—the more, the better. For roses and oils, at least 3,000 kg. Alcohol... no less than 1,000 kg!"

Gordon did the math in his head, then looked up with concern. "The others aren't a problem, but... roses?"

"They're expensive?" Rus asked.

"They're hard to get," Gordon replied. "Eagle's Nest is remote, and no one nearby grows flowers in bulk. There isn't even a florist in Goldspark Town."

"What about speaking to Lady Elaina?" he suggested.

Rus rubbed his nose.

Elaina had promised to wash his feet if he reclaimed Goldspark Town—and Rus wouldn't mind enjoying that—but he didn't want to tie his commercial ventures too tightly to her just yet.

"There are plenty of merchants in Goldspark, right? Let them handle the sourcing."

"Well..." Gordon hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "Baron Donald still owes the Goldspark Merchant Guild 3,748 gold coins. I doubt they'll be eager to take on new commissions."

"What?" Rus froze. He hadn't expected Donald to leave another lovely surprise behind.

And a surprise it was—complete with quotation marks.

"What did he even buy to rack up that kind of debt?"

Gordon flipped through his notes. "The original loan was 937 gold. But Baron Donald promised 30% annual interest. It's been ten years..."

"...I see." Rus sighed. "Fine. Notify them. On the day I officially reclaim Goldspark Town, I'll meet with representatives from the Merchant Guild personally to discuss repayment terms and future supply deals."

Gordon frowned. "My lord, are you planning to repay the debt in full?"

Rus shook his head. "Of course we'll pay it back—but not all at once. If we poured everything into plugging that hole, we'd be dead in the water."

"They're just greedy merchants," Erik muttered. "Goldspark belongs to you, my lord. If it comes to force, they'll have no choice."

Gordon, however, looked worried. "I agree we shouldn't rush repayment, but these merchants are backed by powerful nobles. They're not your subjects. If we pressure them too much, they could boycott us—or even pull out entirely. That would ruin Goldspark's commercial foundation."

"Relax. I know where the line is," Rus said, rubbing his chin. "Send word—two days from now, I'll begin formal reclamation of Goldspark Town."

"And when that day comes..."

A sly grin crept onto his face.

"I'll make those merchants listen—better than rabbits."