Chapter 23: Honored to Have the Strategist Oversee Our... Operations

The silver-haired beauty stopped two meters away. Her right hand resting on her left shoulder, she bowed deeply, arm sweeping outward in a graceful arc. "Greetings, esteemed Strategist! Allow me—Cindira Purple Acacia Amodeir, chieftain of this mountain stronghold—to welcome you on behalf of all our people. We are truly honored by your presence to guide our banditry operations!"

Soldier. Noble. Foreigner. This woman’s identity was no simple matter.

Though seemingly frail, a warrior’s spirit radiated from her stance. Anyone who’d met real soldiers could spot the signs instantly: unwavering voice, posture rigid as a blade, zero wasted motion. Every gesture reeked of blood and steel. Not just any soldier—this was a veteran forged in actual battlefields.

Coupled with flawless ancient noble etiquette and that middle name "Purple Acacia," she was likely a descendant of the Mosby Dynasty’s legendary War God Clan. But why silver hair?

During my days developing the "Star Absorption Gloves" and "Elemental Sniper," I’d borrowed countless history books from the Old Mage. To blend into this world, you had to know its past. Though I read them as leisure, the rival nation always fascinated me.

The Old Mage’s homeland, the Saint Karmes Empire, was once a vassal state of the Mosby Dynasty. Its founders were descendants of a Mosby king’s younger brother—but as blood ties grew distant, so did loyalty. Karmes’ founding emperor, Stas Aragon, broke free by allying with the Holy Light Church, swallowing smaller vassals whole. In return, Karmes enshrined the Church as its state religion; every emperor required papal coronation in the Holy City to claim the throne. The Mosby Dynasty still saw Karmes as a stain on their honor. Yet fearing the Church’s might, neither side dared full war despite the vast power gap. Skirmishes flared constantly along the border—raiding outposts today, burning villages tomorrow—turning the Crimson Blood Plain into a wasteland for dozens of miles.

And the Purple Acacias? Mosby’s most hawkish war faction. What was Miss Cindira doing leading a band of sickly elders and children to build a bandit den deep in Karmes territory? Interesting.

"Strategist?" Cindira prompted when I didn’t respond.

"Ah! Call me Klars Mashang. Klars or Mashang is fine. No more ‘Strategist’ nonsense."

"Yes, Strategist! Absolutely, Strategist!"

*Sigh.* Why’s a War God Clan heir hiding out here? ...Fine, keep calling me that. Who could resist that chest?

"You! How did you know I’m from the War God Clan?"

*...* Wasn’t that why you announced your full name with the middle name included? Now I understood where Damir and Aku’s terrible robbery tactics came from. A bad commander ruins the whole squad.

"Truly worthy of a Strategist! You’ve earned my respect! This way, please!" She gestured grandly toward the hall.

"Sure, sure..." Your respect’s harder to win than a dragon’s hoard.

I followed the chieftain inside. We sat at a meeting table as a young girl scurried over with steaming tea. "For you, Strategist!"

*Stop corrupting kids, Chieftain.* The hall filled with villagers—young adults, mostly. Their gaunt faces screamed malnutrition. Even the main laborers were starving. This was worse than I’d thought.

"Quiet everyone!" Cindira stood abruptly. "Today, the Strategist will lecture on *How to Excel as a Professional Bandit*! Applaud!" She led the clapping with military precision. *Chieftain... are you serious?*

These people’s morals were twisted. They’d never make proper bandits—just villagers playing at robbery. Before this den collapsed completely, I had to fix their worldview.

"Hahaha! Since you’re so eager," I slammed my palm on the table, "let’s learn successful banditry! I’ll teach you timing, ambush tactics, assault methods, retreat strategies, and fencing stolen goods! But first—a survey. Why do you want to be bandits?"

"To fill our stomachs!" someone blurted.

"Other answers?" I pressed.

Silence. Even Cindira looked lost. *Rob because you’re hungry? Is your brain a single-lane highway?* At least say "for dreams!" Wang Feng would’ve facepalmed.

"If filling bellies is your only goal," I roared, "you’ll NEVER be great bandits!" The sudden shout made them jump. *Perfect.*

"Why, Strategist?!" Cindira shot up, voice trembling. "We try so hard! Why can’t we succeed?!"

"Grow up! If hard work alone brought success, the world would’ve had peace centuries ago!" I barked back.

"Your failure isn’t from lack of effort—it’s because you have too many escape routes! Filling your stomachs is too easy. Once fed, you’ll quit robbing. How can you target merchant caravans then? How can you become elite bandits?"

Dead silence. One timid hand rose.

"You, dark-haired brother. Speak."

"But Strategist... we can’t fill our stomachs. The stronghold has no arable land. Banditry is our only way to survive." Nods rippled through the crowd.

*Hooked. Now follow my rhythm.*

"Nonsense! You just haven’t looked properly. Once you realize you can live off the mountains without robbery, you’ll abandon this ‘noble profession’ forever. Your vision is simply too narrow. Today’s first lesson: *A Bandit’s Self-Cultivation—How Grand Ambitions Elevate Your Robbery Career!* Take notes!"

"Wait! Strategist!" Cindira grabbed my arm, eyes blazing. "Did you say... we can get enough food from these mountains?"

"Huh? You didn’t know?" I feigned surprise. "Giving up already? Proves my lecture’s necessary!"

"No! Forget that—just tell us how to find food in the mountains!"

"Ah, that’s simple! ‘Live off the land’—mountains, rivers, forests. Why can’t you survive? For meat: form hunting parties for small game. Set traps—you won’t even need hunters. For crops: terrace these slopes. The Transverse Mountains aren’t granite; they’re soft sandy loam. Terraced fields will feed you. For livestock: Ibex goats thrive here. Their meat and milk fill bellies; their hides ward off cold. No feed needed—the whole mountain’s pasture. And that stream by the stronghold? Dig a pond. Fish on demand."

*Thanks, compulsory education.* Mountain survival basics were exam staples. I could’ve dumped a full thesis on *"Integrated Eco-Agriculture for Underdeveloped Mountain Regions"* on them, but this was mercy.

Chaos erupted. Groups huddled, arguing fiercely. Some nearly came to blows. Banditry dreams? Forgotten. *Time to strike.*

*Slam!* Cindira’s palm cracked against the table. Silence fell instantly. "Everyone! Grab farming tools. First task: build terraced fields. Meet at the south cliff face in half a prayer-hour!"

"Yes, Chieftain!"

*Disciplined... but villagers stay villagers.* They’d never be bandits—or soldiers. This chieftain wasn’t fit to lead a village.

The hall emptied in a rustle of robes. Only I and the exhausted chieftain remained. I turned, studying the weary warrior woman with amusement.

She sensed my gaze. The beautiful Purple Acacia bowed deeply. "Klars Mashang... thank you for saving our village."

"They’re refugees from the Crimson Blood Plain, aren’t they?"

"Your insight is... sharp."

"Simple clues: farmers who don’t know mountain survival, a Mosby noble who should be garrisoned at the border, this twisted stronghold. Not hard to piece together."

"*Sigh.* It’s all my fault..." The elegant woman slumped in her chair, vigor drained.

"I’m not one for gossip. But for the village’s sake, explain everything. I won’t help a future War God of Mosby and strangers without knowing why."

"Where shall I begin?"

"Start with this: Why does a Purple Acacia heir have silver hair?"