"Bake the bread!"

General Olf of the Martai army had no intention of feeding his troops with miserable black bread, stale watered-down wine, or rancid-smelling jerky and fruit.

Under his command were several talented battalion leaders, one of whom had personally trained a unique unit.

The Furnace Battalion.

"Stack the stones, seal the gaps with mud."

The Furnace Battalion lived up to its name. Once a supply base was established, they would build ovens on-site to bake fresh bread.

On the surface, it seemed like a half-mad idea, but Olf understood better than most the importance of proper nourishment.

This battlefield was the perfect place to deploy the Furnace Battalion.

Their usage was limited. They were useless in short skirmishes or rapid advances. But in a prolonged siege, the battalion could shine.

Well-fed soldiers fought better—it was an undeniable truth, often repeated by famous strategists.

Olf adhered to that principle.

Soon, smoke began to rise from the makeshift ovens of the Martai Furnace Battalion.

Firewood burned steadily, while flour was mixed with water to create dough.

Before a full day had passed, the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked bread spread throughout the camp.

"Eat well! Who needs mangonels? We’ll manage just fine without them!"

Olf personally strolled through the ranks, encouraging his soldiers.

"Who are we?"
"The Lions of the East!"

The soldiers’ response was thunderous. Martai’s morale remained unshaken.

While Olf’s personal efforts played a role, the bread was the true hero of the day.

Some of the soldiers in the Furnace Battalion were renowned bakers back in Martai, and several planned to return to their bakeries after the war.

Martai, with its expansive wheat fields to the east, was known for producing some of the finest wheat. The region's moderate rainfall and nutrient-rich soil—fertilized by centuries of bloody battles—made it uniquely suited for agriculture.

Over the years, Martai had cultivated not only superior wheat but also a rich tradition of breadmaking.

In the central continent, white bread was often considered a luxury—a symbol of wealth.

But in Martai, abundant wheat harvests had made white bread an everyday staple for over three decades.

The long-standing tradition had given rise to master bakers, some of whom had opened shops even in the central capital.

This bread, a source of pride for Martai, was now being baked fresh on the battlefield.

While Olf reviewed his plans back at headquarters, an urgent report arrived.

"The supply base has been hit."

"Hit?"

For Martai, the supply line was the most critical part of their operation.

What good was a siege if their own forces starved in the process?

To protect the supply line, Olf had assigned his most trusted officers: three battalion leaders and a guard captain. These four were not only reliable but also capable of being both cunning strategists and fearless warriors.

The second battalion leader, Zimmer, had been specifically entrusted with the supply base. Known for his sharp mind and meticulous nature, he wasn’t the type to make careless mistakes.

The messenger, drenched in sweat, hesitated under Olf’s fierce gaze.

"Speak clearly!"

When Olf’s harsh tone rang out, the messenger gulped and continued.

"A black leopard and two enemy soldiers approached the ovens, stole bread, and set several tents on fire."

"Are you all a bunch of idiots?" Olf roared, his anger rising as high as the flames they’d allowed to burn.

Why wouldn’t he be furious?

He had recognized the importance of the supply line and allocated resources accordingly.

The enemy was supposed to be trapped inside their fortifications. Even if a few managed to slip out, how much damage could they possibly inflict?

The ones who destroyed the mangonels? If they had come out, it should’ve been a cause for celebration—a chance to crush them outside the walls.

As the fiery glare of the commander bore down on him, the messenger found himself unable to continue speaking.

‘Zimmer wouldn’t have been caught off guard… right?’

Zimmer, the second battalion leader, was sharp and perceptive, rarely making errors.

But if that were the case, why hadn’t Zimmer reported the situation himself?

"Where’s Zimmer?"

At the mention of the name, the messenger quickly responded.

"He’s pursuing the intruders."

Olf exhaled heavily, the anger in his chest only partially subsiding.

"Tighten security! If this happens again, heads will roll."

In war, a commander could forgive a defeat, but negligence in security was unforgivable.

***

Enkrid raided the supply base with ease.

Literally, it had been easy.

"Shall we go?"
"Let’s."

There was nothing particularly difficult about it. Smoke was rising visibly from above, and the camp was packed with tents.

The supply lines had plenty of guards, and there were no apparent gaps in their defense, but that wasn’t a problem.

"Grrr."

Esther moved first.

The panther darted forward, her movements light and fluid.

With one swing of her paw, she half-severed an enemy soldier’s shin, and with a flick of her tail, she struck another on the head. The soldiers’ eyes widened in shock as chaos erupted.

"We’re under attack!"

There was no need to prolong the encounter. Enkrid lunged forward, slicing the throats of two charging enemies. Amidst the scent of blood, the warm aroma of baked bread tickled his nose.

That aroma had been teasing his senses for some time now.

While the enemy was in disarray, Jaxon set fire to a few tents, and Enkrid grabbed a handful of bread with Rem before they retreated.

They intentionally returned through the forest.

If the enemy gave chase on horseback, they would have no chance of escaping, but on foot? They could shake them off with little effort.

The difference in stamina was staggering.

After running for hours without rest, there were no pursuers in sight.

"Should’ve just slaughtered them all," Rem grumbled in dissatisfaction, clicking his tongue.

Enkrid shook his head.

"This was enough."

When they returned to camp, they shared the bread they had taken.

"The report can wait until tomorrow," one of the sentries informed them as they entered.

That was Marcus’s doing—the battalion commander had deliberately given them a reprieve.

Enkrid, Rem, and Jaxon took the opportunity to rest and catch up on much-needed sleep.

It was a bright and scorching morning, the third day of the battle.

Summer sunlight started early, and Enkrid, who had already finished his morning training, returned to camp after washing up.

"This bread is incredible," Kraiss remarked, his admiration audible.

It really was delicious.

"Don’t eat too much," Enkrid said, smacking the back of Kraiss’s head before heading to find the battalion commander to file his report.

Near the base of the wall, he spotted a group of officers gathered around a simmering pot of stew.

The stew bubbled and steamed, and the officers’ armor, still pristine from lack of combat, reflected the sunlight.

In stark contrast, Enkrid’s armor bore visible bloodstains, even though he had tried to clean it.

"So, you checked out the supply base?" Marcus asked, seated on a backless wooden chair.

"We also set a few fires while we were at it," Enkrid replied.

"I see," Marcus said with a nod.

Beside him, the Pixie Company Commander muttered, "Is arson a hobby or a specialty?"

They were clearly referring to Enkrid’s penchant for setting things on fire. Even Enkrid himself had begun to notice that starting fires was becoming something of a habit. But when it came to striking a blow against a supply base, nothing was as effective as fire.

"Care for a bowl?" the First Company Commander offered, holding up a ladle of stew.

The aroma was enticing.

"Who made it?" Enkrid asked as the Border Guard Captain brought over a wooden chair identical to the battalion commander’s.

Seated, Enkrid took a moment to inhale the stew’s savory scent. Paired with bread, it would undoubtedly taste even better.

"Wait a moment."

Enkrid fetched the bread they had taken. It was a baguette, hard on the outside and soft on the inside, perfectly baked to be fragrant and crispy.

"Here."

Breaking the bread into pieces, they dipped it into the stew.

"Mmm, excellent," the First Company Commander said, his cheeks unusually flushed with satisfaction.

Hadn’t Kraiss once said that this man had a fondness for food? That seemed to be true.

Enkrid tried it himself—it was indeed delicious.

The baguette’s crust was firm but yielded easily when bitten into, revealing a fluffy white interior that melded perfectly with the rich, oily stew.

The flavors were superb.

"So, they’re digging in for a siege?" Marcus asked.

"They seem determined to starve us out. They’ve even built ovens to bake bread," Enkrid replied.

"Olf, that war-crazed bastard, lives up to his reputation," Marcus said with a smirk, exuding confidence despite the odds still being stacked against them.

The enemy had cavalry, and they had the luxury to build ovens at their supply base.

Yet Marcus remained unfazed. Enkrid finally understood what Marcus’s confidence was rooted in.

It wasn’t about repaying that trust, but Enkrid resolved to do what needed to be done.

After all, if he didn’t act, he couldn’t protect the things that mattered—jerky, orange marmalade, or otherwise. Food was important.

Everyone was busy eating in silence when two nobles approached.

Their clothes were impeccably clean—nearly as spotless as the officers’ armor.

One of the nobles, with a notably broad forehead, spoke first.

"Have you considered peace?"

The younger noble followed, "The disparity in forces is clear. If we could resolve this through negotiation…"

The nobles in the Border Guard were typically those who had bought their titles or fallen from higher positions, holding only minor ranks like baronet.

There was little to gain here, which was why no high-ranking noble bothered.

But circumstances were changing.

If the country stabilized, it wouldn’t be surprising for counts or viscounts to start claiming stakes in this region.

Viscount Bentra and other nobles were already laying their groundwork, leaving their marks wherever they could.

Enkrid didn’t care for politics and had no interest in learning, though thanks to Kraiss’s constant chatter, he had picked up the basics.

Not that it mattered.

All that mattered was fighting and repelling every threat that came their way.

Battles, swords, combat, and war.

Those were the things that gave Enkrid a strange sense of exhilaration.

‘I suppose I have bad taste,’ he mused.

Why did his heart race at the thought of fighting?

Perhaps it was because that was what he had always desired. It wasn’t some lofty ideal that had driven him to become a knight. It had simply started with the image of himself galloping across a battlefield.

Marcus laughed at the nobles.

"What, now that the city shows signs of growth, you think you’ll get something out of it? Do you want to broker peace with Martai and claim you were the central figure in that deal?"

Enkrid barely listened, but Kraiss would’ve likely nodded along if he’d been there.

Marcus had an uncanny sense for politics and had hit the nail on the head.

"Shut your mouths and go back inside. If you don’t want to die, thank the hero who revealed his name and saved your skins."

The two nobles muttered hollow excuses before leaving, and Marcus waved them off dismissively.

After they were gone, Marcus slurped down the last of his stew and spoke.

"They’re the kind of bastards I’d love to cut down. Don’t you think?"

The question was directed at Enkrid.

"Killing nobles is a serious crime," Enkrid replied.

"You could always challenge them to a duel and kill them by accident," Marcus suggested with a shrug.

"They’d use proxies rather than fight you themselves," the First Company Commander interjected.

"Just saying," Marcus replied.

As the conversation continued, Enkrid finally asked, "What’s this ‘hero who revealed his name’ business?"

"You were impressive, Independent Commander," Marcus replied with a thumbs-up.

"I might try copying you later," the First Company Commander added.

The Border Guard Captain simply nodded silently.

Enkrid felt no embarrassment about his bold actions—just a faint annoyance at how irritatingly smug these people could be.

As they finished eating, Marcus asked, "So, what’s next?"

"A few more raids," Enkrid replied.

"A few more?"

The first raid had been unexpected, but the second wouldn’t catch the enemy off guard. They would be prepared. No matter how skilled Enkrid and Rem were, if they were surrounded, survival would be impossible.

"Something about it bothers me," Enkrid admitted.

When he raided the supply base, set the tents ablaze, and retreated, something had felt off.

It was a matter of intuition—a gut feeling.

‘It’s like that sneaky glint Kraiss gets when he’s hiding coins.’

Enkrid had the sense that the enemy was concealing something.

He decided to find out what it was.

He even came up with a name for the operation: Tap, Tap, Sometimes Clang.

The plan was simple—strike lightly, and if an opportunity presented itself, hit hard.

Enkrid outlined the general strategy, while Kraiss filled in the details.

Back in their barracks, they discussed when to strike and where to hit.

"Let’s do it at sunrise this time," Kraiss suggested.

His tone was casual, but anyone familiar with strategy would’ve recognized the brilliance of his suggestion.

Enkrid agreed. It made sense—if they had attacked under the cover of night before, striking in broad daylight now could catch the enemy off guard.

"Sounds fun, brother," Audin remarked.

This time, the operation’s core would be “The Bear.”