NOVPUB
Chapter 412 - 412: The False King
Outside the wide-open city gates, a vast army was continuously flooding into the city.
This was the First Legion of the Pitchfork Empire—the Pitchfork Knights.
Their numbers totaled four thousand, all clad in the finest armor, wielding the sharpest pitchforks, and exuding an overwhelming aura.
And leading the charge on a tall steed was none other than the leader of the Pitchfork Empire, the legendary figure said to have drawn the Fork of Kings—His Majesty Qin Ming!
Qin Ming, who had built a knight order from scratch, had severely underestimated how fast his movement was snowballing.
If at first he had been the one pushing the snowball, once it got big enough, it was the snowball dragging him forward. Even he could no longer control its direction.
In the beginning, he had only spread the word that those who joined him would be able to enjoy delicious bread and milk.
But his underlings had exaggerated that into "Qin Ming possesses an endless supply of delicious bread and milk."
Then, others who heard it secondhand twisted the tale even further: Qin Ming could magically create bread and produce milk out of thin air!
At this point, the war-ravaged peasants, long tormented by the Evil Duke's brutal rule, had come to believe that Qin Ming's royal pitchfork could conjure heavenly bread and milk—and they genuinely believed it!
And so they answered the call to rise up, gather in rebellion, form the Pitchfork Knights, and hang the noble knights who once lorded over them.
Oftentimes, before Qin Ming's forces even arrived, the cities ahead would already be overtaken by revolting peasants.
What had originally been a plan to seize some land, build up strength, and eventually merge with the Round Table Knights to secure a foothold... had now turned into Qin Ming becoming the leader of his own faction, one developing even faster than the Round Table itself.
After all, even King Arthur, with his legendary sword of infinite might, couldn't conjure bread and milk!
But Qin Ming really could upgrade bread and enhance armor!
When even cloth armor could block a blade head-on, whether he admitted it or not, the peasants already saw him as a divine emissary from legend.
He was forced to become the Chosen One! Forced to draw the so-called Fork of Kings! Forced to become the emissary of God!
Now, Qin Ming had ended up—half in a daze—with a pile of ridiculous honorifics:
Leader of the Pitchfork Knights! Divine Executor! King of Knights! Guardian of the Holy Fork! Lord of Bread! God of Wheat! Embodiment of Justice! Farmer of All Farmers! Spirit of the Earth! Field Immortal Man and Supreme Duke!
In just a month, he had seized over a hundred villages and swallowed up a massive chunk of territory.
Just yesterday, he had even led troops to defeat a punitive army of nearly thirty thousand in a head-on clash.
That scene had been something else—when the two sides first tested each other's strength, the enemy discovered that Qin Ming's cobbled-together force of over fifty thousand peasant soldiers were wearing armor—whether iron, leather, or cloth—that was incredibly tough, offering terrifyingly high defense.
First, over ten thousand hastily conscripted peasants on the enemy side defected. Then nearly ten thousand soldiers surrendered. Finally, two thousand elite troops were surrounded and beaten to death by over sixty thousand people, completely wiped out.
Qin Ming never even saw the enemy face-to-face during the whole thing.
Now, leading his so-called elite force—well, not exactly elite, just equipped with upgraded armor and weapons, still fundamentally peasants—Qin Ming rode into the city on horseback, swaggering like a conqueror.
Staring up at the towering city walls, Qin Ming clicked his tongue in surprise.
He had thought that attacking this city would meet with fierce resistance. Yet before his main army even approached, the city had surrendered amid internal strife. His tens of thousands of troops had been assembled for nothing.
In the end, not only did they not fight a battle, but he even had to pay travel stipends and wages to his soldiers, burning through a massive stockpile of food.
That's right—Qin Ming's so-called "tens of thousands of troops" were always hastily assembled just before a battle!
It had been like that in previous fights, and this time was no different.
His so-called grand army was essentially just local village farmers. After they surrendered to Qin Ming, he'd hand them a batch of synthesized food and upgraded weapons and armor.
He'd grant the stronger ones the title of "militia" and allow them to visit the big city each week to exchange regular food for upgraded bread. Then he'd send them home to their respective villages.
Only when it was time for a real fight would he issue a mobilization order and call them back for war.
And given that just joining the battle guaranteed benefits—and meritorious service could earn promotions and monthly wages—these militia troops were eager to participate.
Usually, once the slogans were shouted, all the nearby peasant troops would flock in the next day.
If the enemy had ten thousand troops, Qin Ming would rally thirty thousand.
If the enemy had thirty thousand, Qin Ming would gather sixty thousand.
If things got serious and Qin Ming didn't care about burning through his food reserves, he could summon over a hundred thousand troops in one go!
And each and every one of those hundred thousand could fight! Even the logistics guys hauling grain wore upgraded armor and wielded enhanced pitchforks!
In equal numbers, the Evil Duke's troops might not even be able to win!
After all, whose gear was better? That was still up for debate!
Qin Ming's snowballing success came from two things: the lure of food, and overwhelming equipment superiority.
Thanks to his synthesis skill, he could toss out any soldier and they'd be clad like a professional warrior. More importantly, the gear wasn't even heavy—anyone could wear it.
Tens of thousands of armored soldiers moving together—who could stand against that?
The Evil Duke's knights only had so many armored troops. Once they died, they were gone.
But Qin Ming had an endless stream of peasant volunteers!
Thought for a second
If it weren't for the fear that our food supply wouldn't hold up—if the army grew any larger, the food would be consumed too quickly!
Never mind a hundred thousand—Qin Ming could, if he wanted, muster several hundred thousand troops in one go!
All it took was grabbing any peasant, upgrading his clothes and pitchfork, and there you had a soldier—he never cared who he used.
Faced with this ever-growing horde, neither the Evil Grand Duke nor even King Arthur's forces could withstand it.
Because even Arthur's own men were beginning to surrender to Qin Ming in droves.
Leading his troops into the castle amid cheers from countless people, Qin Ming entered the throne room.
Seated on the throne, he looked to his adjutant Toreid and Toreitia—Toreid's daughter, now promoted to Chief of Logistics for her bravery and quick thinking—and massaged his forehead wearily.
"Toreid, have your men restore order and distribute the food. Take an inventory of this city's existing soldiers and patrol units; pick some to remain as the garrison. Also count the grain and weapons—we'll enhance them tonight."
"Yes, Your Majesty. But if they want to enlist with us..."
"Enlist? They're not enlisting—they're here for our food! I've said it a dozen times: the Pitchfork Knights can't afford to feed unlimited knights! Everywhere we go people volunteer for service—when we reach the capital, you think I'll lead millions against the enemy? Who'll pay for their food?"
At the mention of more recruits, Qin Ming's headache deepened.
If he actually let anyone join, he wouldn't have thousands of troops but hundreds of thousands.
With Qin Ming's unstoppable momentum, even the most random townsfolk wanted to fight for him.
Left unchecked, by the time of the final battle, he would face an embarrassing problem: no peasants left—only soldiers.
Everyone already knew military service under Qin Ming was far more rewarding than farming—and there were zero barriers to entry.
Can't wear heavy armor? There's cloth armor and a pitchfork everyone can handle.
Don't know tactics? Charge forward in armor with your pitchfork—forty versus one, you'll figure it out.
When the numbers were small, formation mattered. But once they swelled, sheer numbers could crush anything.
Better pay and easy enlistment—why stay a peasant?
Already, entire villages were banding together under the guise of mercenaries: families doing nothing but riding Qin Ming's coattails, waiting for him to break the tough defenses before flocking to fight.
Frowning, Qin Ming opened the map and studied the newly updated territories. He tapped on a city—the Devil Duke's castle, the royal capital.
"Toreid, if we attack here next, how many troops can we muster?"
Toreid hesitated, but Toreitia, standing nearby, spoke up with a serious look.
"If you give us a few days... in three days, the nearby villages could muster sixty thousand. In seven days, across the entire domain, about two hundred thousand. With full mobilization, conservatively forty thousand."
"Forty thousand? We can pull that many?"
"Yes! With your blessed armor and weapons, anyone who can move can become a soldier. Young men first, then women, then the elderly. At your call, forty thousand is a low estimate. Once word spreads, more groups will join for the spoils—entire villages eager for gain."
Toreitia's words sent Qin Ming into deep thought as he stared at the map.
"Okay, but if we mobilize that many, how long will our food last?"
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but because we've been distributing food to peasants even as we besieged cities, we've nearly exhausted our reserves. We couldn't support forty thousand even for a few days, let alone ten thousand."
"Only this much food left? That's a serious problem..."
Muttering to himself, Qin Ming fell silent.
His real problem wasn't a lack of troops—it was that he couldn't risk calling them up.
He knew that as powerful as his force seemed now, the entire structure relied on one illusion: unlimited food.
He had to maintain the appearance of endless rations.
So many followed him not just for the rewards but because peasants had mythologized him—not like Arthur, but like a higher-level deity, akin to Christ or Buddha.
In their eyes, Qin Ming, who could bless armor and weapons to be bulletproof, turn pitchforks razor-sharp, and make food delicious, was wrapped in countless divine halos.
He was the chosen heavenly emissary, sent by the gods to save the world—destined to triumph.
But if people discovered there was no magic—no milk, no unlimited bread, even no food left—all that halo would shatter in an instant.
His lightning-fast rise would give way to a collapse just as rapid.
A realm built on fantasy dies with the fantasy.
(End of Chapter)
