Milania Grand Duchy’s Quartermaster General, Lieutenant General Progamo.
He was furious that the plan he had painstakingly devised overnight had gone up in smoke.
His anger boiled over to the point where he abandoned refined language and began spewing rough, direct words.
“Are you all out of your minds?! Just because we don’t fight directly on the front lines, did you leave your brains at home?!”
In any military, officers rarely, if ever, openly insult one another.
Even a five-star general reprimanding a lieutenant would typically use reasoned, logical arguments rather than resorting to physical actions like kicking someone’s shins with a boot or tapping their head with a cap.
On the surface, this respect reflects the honor of nobility, but practically,
Insulting someone’s honor could lead to a duel—an enjoyable but dangerous event where:
All nobles fear metaphorical pitchforks, which explains the customary respect.
But when a subordinate’s gross incompetence or mistake threatens to derail an entire war plan?
That’s when you forgo such concerns, as Progamo did now.
“Shut the doors! Get every person in this room out of here!”
This was the bare minimum respect left for the honor of his staff.
Once that was done, Progamo slammed his fist onto the desk.
But after exhaling deeply, he calmed himself and spoke in a measured tone.
“Look, I understand. Living as a noble on just your state salary or the taxes from your fief isn’t easy. Let’s be honest, is there anyone here who hasn’t accepted donations from merchants?”
Merchants and nobles are essentially two sides of the same coin.
Nobles receive funding—disguised as “donations”—from merchants, and merchants receive judicial protection from nobles.
Consequently, prominent merchants often enjoy privileges in criminal cases rivaling those of titled nobility.
For instance, a merchant under investigation for murder, with all evidence pointing to guilt, might find that:
This symbiosis enriches nobles as they ascend titles and offices, often resulting in marriages between noble families and merchant elites.
“But telling them to hoard the peasants’ food supplies before the war? That might’ve been a step too far... If anyone here leaked this, speak up now. Confess, and I’ll handle it discreetly.”
No one offering forgiveness for a confession ever truly forgives. Progamo’s bluff was more about avoiding the hassle of finding the culprit himself.
“Quartermaster General.”
“What is it, Colonel Bari?”
“I completely understand your anger about the year-long supply plan falling apart. But let’s think this through logically. Would even the greediest merchants in our country go this far, blatantly sabotaging a war effort of this scale?”
Progamo cooled slightly at the reasoning.
Even when driven by greed, merchants wouldn’t dare such conspicuous treachery—no matter how much they relied on nobles for protection.
‘Even with our backing, we can’t condone outright treason.’
“Then who do you think is behind this?”
“Who else benefits most from ruining our supply lines? The Toscan Empire must have orchestrated this through merchants.”
Identifying the culprit was relatively easy.
The problem was holding them accountable.
“Those conniving imperial bastards. Sabotaging us by buying out food supplies before we could requisition them? Damn it, we should’ve planned for this!”
Once spilled, water cannot be scooped back into the glass. The past cannot be undone.
Progamo clenched his teeth and steadied himself.
As the proud Quartermaster General of the Grand Duchy, he couldn’t allow a minor setback to jeopardize the war.
“Colonel Bari, how badly does this disrupt our food procurement from the original plan?”
“Exact figures are unclear, but approximately 50% of the food we planned to secure from the Earl of Pergamo’s domain was stockpiled by peasants. We’ll need to transport all of it ourselves now.”
Wars in this era rarely lasted long.
Preparation might take a year, marching to the battlefield another 2-3 months, and actual fighting a month.
The food from the Earl of Pergamo’s domain was intended for troops stationed on the battlefield.
Losing half of it was a disaster.
“Even if we buy out what local merchants have stockpiled, will it be enough?”
“No, sir.”
“This is driving me insane. I’m seriously losing it.”
While the loss wouldn’t leave soldiers starving—no army could fight without food—it meant significantly higher costs.
“Then we’ll need to purchase flour, hardtack, and salted herring from neighboring territories. Transporting and supplying these will be costly, but there’s no choice.”
Supplying over 50,000 soldiers for a month by transporting half their food from another region was daunting.
Wagons pulled by oxen or horses, hiring laborers or soldiers to escort them, and feeding both the escorts and animals en route...
For every 2 tons of flour sent to the front lines, an additional ton would be needed for the transport crew alone.
The costs would balloon to 50%-70% more than local procurement.
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‘How much money is this going to burn?’
Progamo, suppressing his despair, issued a grim order.
“No matter the cost, we can’t let the soldiers starve. Use all available funds to secure the needed food.”
“Yes, sir. However, there’s a problem.”
“What now?”
“The sudden increase in expenditures means we’ll have to cut other budget allocations to cover the cost.”
Progamo’s mind raced with the usual budget-consuming suspects: firearms, swords, spears, and gunpowder.
But without weapons, the army couldn’t fight.
The inevitable target for cuts was clear.
‘This will hurt morale, but there’s no other way.’
“Cut beer, wine, meat, sausages, and cheese rations as much as possible. If necessary, they can survive on just salted herring and hardtack.”
Even peasants accustomed to hardship would grow resentful eating only salted herring and hardtack every day.
Neither food was inedible, but they were the least desirable options—akin to the unappealing dishes soldiers begrudgingly ate because hunger left no alternative.
The soldiers wouldn’t starve, but their spirits would plummet.
The Quartermaster General knew this well, but the constraints were insurmountable.
‘There’s a limit to raising taxes or reallocating other budgets.’
“Understood, sir.”
“If that’s still not enough, start collecting donations from the nobles. Damn it all.”
Progamo rose from his seat, grinding his teeth.
“I’ll make those Toscan bastards pay for this, no matter what.”
Meanwhile, Fabio was calmly preparing his next move.
“Those Milania Grand Duchy fools must be pulling their hair out by now.”
Every organization—especially bureaucracies and armies—prides itself on efficient budget use.
That’s commendable, but without contingency funds, unexpected crises become insurmountable.
“Their soldiers’ meals are going to be pitiful; I can already picture it.”
Salted herring and cheap hardtack would be their staples.
Making soldiers eat such meals while expecting them to fight? It would be maddening.
“If their soldiers are eating poorly, we must ensure ours eat well.”
This alone could influence the outcome of the war.
“We’ll prepare meals so good, it’ll be an experience they never forget.”
For soldiers, food is everything. It’s their heaven and morale.
And Fabio planned to make sure his soldiers felt like gods.