Chapter 9

Coat Blanche,

Over the past few years, Walter had grown to nearly twice his old size, and Coat often played frisbee with him.

No matter how high Coat threw the disc into the trees, Walter always brought it back. It amazed him every time. His older brother had explained that animals were naturally more physically capable than humans, but Coat had never seen a dog move quite like Walter.

He threw the disc again for what felt like the hundredth time.

Walter was sprinting after it when his ears suddenly perked up, and he came to an abrupt stop.

“Tired? Want me to stop throwing it?”

“Woof woof.”

“I can’t understand what you’re saying. I’m not my brother.”

“Grr…”

About ten minutes later,

Pierre, who had been away on mercenary business, arrived where Coat was taking a break.

“So that’s what you were trying to tell me? That Pierre was coming?”

“Woof!”

Pierre gestured for Coat to come over. He was accompanied by several of the village mercenaries.

“What are you doing out here? Didn’t expect to run into you.”

“As you can see, playing with Walter. I finally escaped from hell.”

“Hell?”

“It’s… a long story.”

“Alright. I’m heading to report to the captain.”

The “captain” Pierre referred to was Maxime. To him, Maxime was no longer just a friend his own age but his commanding officer.

Watching Maxime save Domrémy had filled him with a deep sense of admiration.

Coat watched to make sure everyone who had gone out on the campaign had returned safely.

As the sounds of the mercenaries faded into the distance, he looked up at the sky.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?”

Pierre suddenly dropped down beside him.

“What? Didn’t you say you had to make your report?”

“I left it to my deputy. If your little brother looked like he was carrying something on his mind, would you really just walk away?”

He planted his halberd into the ground.

“…How did you know I was worried about something?”

“I could tell just by looking at your face. So, what’s bothering you?”

“I wasn’t planning on telling you.”

“Is it because you don’t like the way this country’s waging its war?”

“If I didn’t like it, I’d just complain and be done with it. That’s not something I’d lose sleep over. …How long do you think we’re going to keep living like this?”

“For the rest of our lives, I guess. What do we have to worry about? The captain will take care of anything that requires a headache.”

“So that’s what you think too… Haah…”

“What’s going on?”

“…I overheard Maxime talking to himself. He said that one day, he’s going to leave Domrémy.”

“Leave Domrémy? Why?”

The moment Pierre heard that their captain might leave, his expression turned serious as well.

“I don’t know why. Big brother’s always off in his own world instead of talking to the people around him. He just keeps running toward some goal that only he can see.

I wish, just once, he’d open up to me. I’m his family.”

Caught up in his turbulent emotions, Coat finally let out the frustration he’d been bottling up.

“Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe he really did receive some divine revelation. Whatever he’s thinking… maybe someone ordinary like me just can’t understand it.”

“Hmm…”

Pierre thought about it for three seconds before extending a massive fist.

“Trust our captain. Your whole family worries too much. Don’t try so hard to understand everything. Just focus on living.”

Coat grinned at the response.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I picked the wrong person to ask for advice.”

“Hey!”

***

Maxime’s concerns extended far beyond developing new weapons.

He simulated war and violence on a grand scale from every conceivable angle.

Every new weapon began with analysis.

A longbow’s effective combat range is about 100 meters. It can shoot beyond 200, but at that distance it’s more for harassment than killing.

Tactically, around 50 meters is ideal. Once the range stretches much beyond that, resupplying arrows becomes difficult. Even the longbowmen’s signature “arrow storm” is normally unleashed after closing the distance. Otherwise, they’d burn through far too much ammunition.

That was why he had set the new weapon’s primary engagement range at 150 meters to decisively outrange the longbow.

Unfortunately, I can’t just keep increasing the range. I also have to consider how many bolts will be wasted.

…Or maybe I shouldn’t plan on recovering them at all. Make them disposable so the enemy can’t reuse them. If I go that route, the bolt head becomes crucial. Even if it breaks on impact, it still needs to punch through at least light armor.

The most important priority was reducing the production cost of each bolt.

Or maybe I should simply make the bolts shorter than longbow arrows. Then, even if enemy archers pick them up intact, they won’t be able to fire them from their bows.

At this point in history, the longbow was by no means inferior to the crossbow.

Taken to extremes, the longbow was like a machine gun, while the crossbow was like a sniper rifle.

An experienced longbowman could loose more than ten arrows a minute. A crossbow, by comparison, required a reloading device, making it significantly slower to fire.

Considering that contemporary manufacturing techniques left both weapons with comparable range, it wasn’t unreasonable to call the longbow the superior weapon.

Of course, the longbow had one critical weakness. A crossbowman could be trained in about a month, whereas mastering the longbow required at least six years of dedicated practice.

From a military standpoint, that was a devastating drawback. The training time demanded enormous investments of both time and money.

As a result, most kingdoms accepted reality and built their armies around crossbowmen instead.

England was the oddity for making the longbow the backbone of its military.

Making crossbows rapid-fire… realistically, that’s asking too much.

Rapid fire with a single bow…

From a physical standpoint, it was all but impossible.

Not truly impossible, perhaps, if one were willing to force the issue, but any weapon built that way would inevitably suffer in performance.

Can’t be helped. I’ll compensate for the slow reload time by reorganizing how the weapon is used in combat.

He intended to formalize a system similar to the military occupational specialties familiar to modern Korean men through mandatory service.

At first glance, it didn’t seem like much.

In reality, however, it was a remarkably advanced organizational system.

Think about a fifteenth-century army.

At best, soldiers were divided into broad categories: archers, knights, and infantry.

Within those groups, the organization was an even greater mess.

Mercenaries, professional soldiers, and conscripted peasants were lumped together simply because they belonged to the same branch, despite performing vastly different roles. They were expected to fight side by side with no further specialization.

It was as though one enormous mass was assigned a single mission.

A specialty-based system, by contrast, resembled an assembly line.

Each person’s task was simple and unremarkable on its own, but together they produced an efficiency that far exceeded the sum of their parts.

We’ll organize the weapon into three-man teams: a marksman whose sole job is firing the crossbow, a shield bearer who protects him, and a second man dedicated to reloading the weapon.

Proper battlefield organization alone could offset the crossbow’s relatively slow rate of fire.

…Even so, I still need to improve the reload speed.

The standard methods of cocking a crossbow involved either bracing it with a belt and drawing the string by stepping into the stirrup, or using a windlass to crank it back.

If drawing it by hand is impractical… what if I build the cocking mechanism into the weapon itself?

He sketched out a design.

A cord connected to a small pulley.

The concept resembled a rifle: pull the trigger, and the built-in mechanism would cock the string.

It would be difficult to manufacture, but he was convinced it would work.

Maxime confidently shared the design.

– Well? Doesn’t it look promising?’

– Have you completely lost your mind? Are you trying to work me to death?

…Coat took one look at the blueprint, recoiled in horror, and fled.

Maxime, however, had no intention of abandoning the project.

He’ll come back once he’s cooled off.

For now, he would start preparing the materials for the new weapon.

The first step was building the wooden stock that would support the bow.

He coated the frame with hide glue and added reinforcing pieces of bone to improve its durability.

While the bow stave dried, he began crafting the small circular pulleys.

Working alone wastes so much time on little things. I wish Coat would hurry back…

***

After returning from his assignment, Pierre made his rounds through the village to make sure nothing had gone wrong in his absence.

“I don’t recognize you. When did you arrive in Domrémy?”

“When the English advanced as far as Montargis. I heard rumors that this village was safe from the war, so I came here.”

“You’re wearing training clothes. Did you enlist recently?”

“Yes. I joined the mercenary company.”

“Most refugees usually end up in manual labor. Are you really okay with fighting for a place that isn’t even your homeland?”

“A man has to know how to fight if he wants to earn respect. Besides, the pay is pretty good.”

“Now that’s the spirit of a true knight! Welcome to Domrémy!”

Pierre gave the refugee trainee a hearty pat on the back.

“Whew, the village really has grown.”

As Domrémy took in more and more refugees, it developed into a rather unique community.

For one thing, the instructors training the recruits were remarkably young. They were the very children who had once played war games with Maxime. They adapted to changing circumstances far more quickly than the older adults.

It was thanks to them that Domrémy came to be known as a village of warriors.

After finishing his patrol, Pierre headed home.

On the way, he spotted a woman wearing a brigandine vest. He immediately came to attention and saluted.

“Captain.”

It was Jeanne d’Arc.

“I heard you were back. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“Of course not. Who do you think I am?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Maxime wouldn’t let you go, so what could you have done?”

Maxime had adamantly refused to let Jeanne leave as a mercenary. Considering how readily he usually granted her requests, it was unusual.

He claimed that protecting Domrémy was simply that important, but Pierre suspected there was another reason.

“I noticed a few new recruits earlier. None of those drifters looked down on you for being a woman, did they?”

“If anyone did, it only means I haven’t yet earned their trust.”

“If that’s how you see it… Still, if I catch anyone looking down on you in front of me, I’ll break his nose.”

Pierre acknowledged his younger sister.

When Jeanne had first been appointed captain of the village guard, many people had refused to accept her and resented her appointment.

That resentment eventually disappeared.

Anyone who had served alongside her in the field had no choice but to acknowledge her.

“But why are you carrying that basket?”

“It’s dinner for Maxime.”

“…Don’t tell me he’s still shut up in the workshop?”

Jeanne nodded.

***

For someone who loves to eat, he completely loses track of time whenever he’s working.

Jeanne worried about Maxime, yet at the same time she found quiet happiness in being able to look after him.

She felt guilty that helping someone else could bring her such personal joy.

She arrived at Maxime’s workshop sometime between afternoon and evening.

From inside came the sound of wood being carefully sanded.

Jeanne quietly watched him work before taking the meal out of the basket.

Ahem. Ahem.

She parted her lips cautiously.

“I’m here.”

“…Jeanne.”

Maxime turned his head.

Jeanne’s breathing slowed for a brief moment.

“…At least eat this before you keep working.”

Maxime stared blankly at the meal.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been working nonstop for days again? You didn’t even notice the sun had gone down.”

“No… but I did end up skipping two meals.”

“That’s a relief.”

Maxime stopped what he was doing and turned toward the food.

“It looks delicious. It smells wonderful, too.”

“…….”

He scraped the bowl clean, finishing every last bite.

With his stomach finally full, he remembered something he had made a while ago.

I was so busy looking after the refugees that I completely forgot to give this to Jeanne.

Maxime retrieved the item from the storage room.

“Here. It’s a gift.”

It was a mail coif. Each iron ring had been painstakingly linked together by hand.

He had made it with her in mind, knowing she commanded from the front lines, hoping it would keep a stray blade from reaching her.

“I’ve been worried about you going into battle, so I worked on it whenever I had the chance.”

“A… gift… for me?”

Jeanne’s eyes darted over the coif as she examined every detail.

“It’ll protect your face and neck. It won’t do much against heavy blows, but it should stop a stray arrow or sword.”

Jeanne felt her breathing grow uneven. Having received such a gift, she didn’t know where to look.

Then came the final blow, spoken in a quiet voice.

“Don’t get hurt. Promise me.”

Her face flushed so deeply that even her ears burned.

“I-I… I have something urgent to do… I-I should go first!”

Leaving the basket she had brought behind, she hurried away as though fleeing.