In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

In such a situation, revealing his troops' capabilities might make them prime targets for dangerous tasks, so Michael resolved to keep their strength hidden as much as possible.

But it wouldn't be easy.

As far as he could tell, only the soldiers from Crassus Barony maintained proper formations. The other armies struggled to even gather their troops by estate. If things continued as they were, it seemed more likely the fanatics would defeat the soldiers rather than the other way around.

Michael realized why these nobles had never formed an alliance before. With troops of this quality, it was no wonder they scattered and sought the protection of larger factions.

The march was excruciatingly slow—not just due to intentional delays but because the situation made speed impossible. Comparing them to turtles would be an insult to turtles, which at least have shells to protect themselves when stationary.

At the edge of Crowley's domain stood the Bartelberg Fortress, the final bastion against the fanatics and the gathering point for the allied forces.

Count Charles, who had already established his camp there with his forces, raised his eyebrows in irritation.

"When will the other nobles arrive?" he asked sharply.

By his side stood Viscounts Henri and Dumas, who had arrived with him two days prior. Each had brought 500 soldiers, uniting ten local factions to form an army of 1,500 men.

Count Charles himself commanded the largest contingent, with 1,000 soldiers of his own. Including his extended family's direct retainers, the number approached 2,000.

While the court count had not mobilized any troops, he still commanded a personal guard of 20 knights.

However, Count Charles could not afford to relax. Their enemy consisted of frenzied fanatics and necromancers. Though the necromancers, known as one-man armies, were formidable, the greater threat lay in the fanatics, who were infused with the power of their false god. Suppressing their relentless and reckless assaults would inevitably lead to significant casualties.

Though Count Charles wished to annihilate the fanatics as quickly as possible, the other nobles disagreed. They insisted on holding their positions until all the nobles from the northeastern planet had arrived. To rush into battle and risk depleting their forces could spell disaster for their houses.

The fanatic threat had proven stronger than anticipated.

At the very least, all factions needed to suffer equally to avoid being devoured by wolves.

"The minor nobles have already left Kensington's domain," reported a middle-aged knight. "But their pace is so slow it'll take five more days for them to arrive."

Count Charles exploded in anger.

"They must think me a fool! Fifteen days have passed since I issued the conscription order, and this is what I get?"

His anger stemmed partly from guilt. When Baron Crowley had called for help, Charles had delayed responding in pursuit of his own interests, allowing the situation to spiral out of control.

The court count, Woodrock, could see through Charles's actions, as could Michael.

Determined to salvage his dignity as one of the great nobles of the northeastern planet, Count Charles decided to act more aggressively. He could not openly admit to negligence and tarnish his reputation.

"Your Grace, now isn't the time to assign blame," said a knight. "We must focus our efforts. Though Bartelberg Fortress is sturdy, the fanatics' momentum is unnerving."

Indeed, the fanatics would not respect noble rules of engagement. Knights and nobles were as vulnerable as ordinary soldiers in this conflict. Charles had underestimated the threat, and now he had to take responsibility for the chaos he'd allowed to unfold.

No amount of ranting or raving would justify his actions. To make amends, Charles mobilized every available force. The fallout from this crisis was too great to allow it to spread further.

Judging by Woodrock's piercing gaze, news of the situation had likely reached the king. If the king discovered Charles's failings, Crowley's domain might fall under Woodrock's control, shifting the balance of power in the northeastern planet.

With his back against the wall, Count Charles had no choice but to act decisively.

"Send messengers," he ordered, gritting his teeth. "Inform the nobles that any who arrive promptly will receive a share of Crowley's land and assets, distributed according to their contributions. We'll determine the exact proportions after their arrival, but urge them to hurry!"

Count Charles didn't yet realize this decision would lead to his regret. It was the second grave mistake of his campaign.

The flat terrain gradually gave way to mountain paths. As the tense atmosphere faded with the slow march, the mood of the soldiers became increasingly relaxed, as if they were on a leisurely outing.

Michael observed his troops with a critical eye.

Even if all the soldiers in the world behaved this way, his own soldiers could not. The disciplined mindset of an Air Force officer occasionally surfaced in him.

While maintaining order among his troops, Michael kept his ears open to the rumors spreading around the camp.

By avoiding Baron Crowley's occupied domain and moving into the mountain range, more minor nobles joined their ranks, bringing with them additional information. Where people gathered, tongues inevitably wagged.

To ease their guilt over the slow march, the nobles blamed Count Charles and mourned Baron Crowley's house. Of course, their criticism was empty, and their grief crocodilian. None of them would dare challenge a great noble for the sake of a house that no longer existed.

Passive sabotage became even more blatant.

The fanatics had grown stronger? That was Count Charles's negligence, they reasoned. He should handle the consequences himself. Since the fanatics were reportedly heading toward his domain, it was someone else's problem.

While Count Charles's forces focused on suppressing the rebellion, they could linger, gaining influence and collecting wealth along the way. They already had excuses prepared for the lack of progress: "What could we possibly do against these fanatics running amok? We, minor nobles, are too weak to handle them."