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:

    Avoiding it brands you a coward,Losing results in death or severe injury,Winning destroys your reputation since only a disgraceful leader would provoke a subordinate into demanding satisfaction.

    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:

    Investigators suddenly “lose” the evidence, orA righteous whistleblower winds up “floating peacefully in the sea.”

    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’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.