The Ordinary Commander

Logistical Nightmare

The silence of the pit felt heavy, the kind of stillness that followed a thunderclap. Raka stared up at the balcony until his neck ached, his mind racing through the logistics of their survival. The victory against the golems had been a reprieve, not a solution.

"We need to move," Raka said, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "Back to the barracks. Now."

"Why the rush, Commander?" Leo asked, wiping grime from his shield. "I think I earned a moment to catch my breath."

"Because the General isn't going to send us a pat on the back, Leo," Raka muttered, already heading toward the iron gate. "He’s going to send the quartermaster. If we don’t have our inventory set and verified before he shows up to audit, we’re going to be in a lot more trouble than a few stone statues."

Back in the dim, cramped confines of the barracks, the atmosphere had shifted. The group no longer looked at Raka with open hostility, but the fear was still etched into their expressions. Raka didn't waste a second. He dumped the meager pile of supplies they had scavenged onto the central table.

"Sofia," Raka said, beckoning her over. "Help me sort this. Everything. I want a precise count on the jerky, the water skins, and the flint."

Sofia stepped up, her movements sharp and efficient. She began lining up the items, her eyes narrowing as she tallied the contents. "Raka, we have a problem. This isn't even three days' worth of rations for twenty people. Not even close."

"I know," Raka replied, his stomach twisting into a knot. "Check the seals on the water skins. Are they full?"

Sofia opened one, sniffed, and shook her head. "Half empty. And the dried meat is... it’s mostly gristle. This isn't just low supply. This is deliberate."

Raka felt a spike of anger, hot and sharp. He had been managing their survival since the summoning, but this was systemic sabotage. "Give me the logbook the attendant dropped off earlier. The one with the 'official' allotment numbers."

Sofia handed over the thin, frayed ledger. Raka flipped through it, his eyes scanning the columns. He was no mathematician, but he’d spent enough time in business classes to know when the numbers didn't add up.

"Look at this," Raka said, pointing to a smudge of ink. "They claim they issued twenty full ration packs to the unit. Twenty. That’s enough for a week. We have maybe enough for two days."

"So they stole it," Sofia whispered, her voice dropping so the others wouldn't hear. "The guards? The staff?"

"Someone is skimming off the top," Raka growled. "They think we’re just a bunch of pampered kids from another world who don’t know how to look at a ledger. They think we’ll just die out there, and they can claim the rations for themselves."

"What are you going to do?" Sofia asked. "We can't exactly sue the royal staff, Raka."

"No," Raka said, a grim, determined look crossing his face. "But I can make them explain why the math doesn't match the reality. If I don't, we’re going to be starving in the middle of a forest within forty-eight hours."

The barracks door groaned open, and a man in a rumpled brown tunic—the quartermaster, a man named Harlen with a face like a dried apple—stepped inside. He carried a fresh crate that rattled with the promise of more supplies.

"Time for the evening check," Harlen droned, his eyes darting around the room with practiced indifference. "Hand over your inventory logs. The King requires an account of what you’ve consumed."

Raka stepped forward, the ledger clutched firmly in his hand. He didn't look like a terrified student anymore; he looked like a man who had reached his breaking point.

"Harlen, right?" Raka asked, his voice steady.

The man paused, blinking. "Commander. Yes. I’m the one managing your supplies. Why? Is there an issue with your meager portion?"

"There’s a massive issue," Raka said, stepping into Harlen’s personal space. "According to this log, our unit was issued twenty rations upon arrival. We received, by my count, exactly eight packs of jerky and ten water skins, most of which were half-filled. Now, let’s do the math."

"Math?" Harlen scoffed, his lip curling. "You’re a student, boy. Don’t try to play accountant with me."

"I don't need to be an accountant to see a discrepancy of sixty percent," Raka countered, his voice rising, drawing the attention of every student in the room. "Twenty packs, multiplied by the standard three-day allowance, equals sixty portions. We have eighteen. Where did the other forty-two go?"

Harlen’s face flushed a mottled, angry red. "You’re accusing me of theft? You wretched little brat, you don’t know how things work here!"

"I know that if we go to the borderlands and starve because you wanted to pad your pockets, the King is going to be a lot more interested in where his 'precious' Otherworlders' supplies went than he is in your excuses," Raka said, his eyes hard. "Are you going to fix this, or do I need to ask the General about your accounting methods?"

The room went deathly silent. Even Leo had stopped sharpening his sword to watch the confrontation.

Harlen sneered, his hand trembling as he gripped the crate. "You think you’re smart, don't you? You think a little arithmetic is going to save your skin when the monsters come?"

"It’s going to keep us fed long enough to kill the monsters," Raka replied. "So, answer the question. Where is the rest of the shipment?"

Harlen stepped forward, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "You really are an 'Ordinary Human,' aren't you? You see the numbers, but you don't see the world. You think this is my scheme? I’m just the delivery boy for the crumbs that fall off the table."

"What are you talking about?" Raka asked, his brow furrowing.

"You aren't just here to fight a war, Commander," Harlen sneered, leaning in so close Raka could smell the stale ale on his breath. "You’re a political pawn. The supplies you’re missing? They were 'reallocated' by order of Lord Vane. He finds your presence in this palace to be a... disruptive influence. He’d prefer it if your 'unit' stayed hungry, weak, and easily managed."

Raka felt the blood drain from his face. "Lord Vane? The Minister of Defense?"

"He doesn't like the idea of some boy from another world playing commander," Harlen whispered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "He wants you to fail. He wants this group to fall apart before you even hit the front lines. So, congratulations, Commander. You did the math. Now you know exactly why you’re being starved to death."

Harlen shoved the crate toward Raka, the sound of metal scraping against stone echoing through the quiet barracks.

"Enjoy your dinner," Harlen spat. "It’s the last bit of charity you’ll get from the capital."

He turned on his heel and walked out, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made the walls shake.

Raka stood in the center of the room, the ledger still gripped in his hand. He felt the weight of every pair of eyes on him. Sofia walked over, her expression unreadable as she looked at the crate.

"Lord Vane," she murmured. "We’re not just fighting golems, are we?"

Raka looked at the crate, then at the twenty kids who were waiting for him to tell them everything was going to be fine. He realized then that the math hadn't just revealed theft—it had revealed the shape of their execution.

"No," Raka said, his voice cold and steady. "We’re fighting an entire court. And if they want us weak, then we’re going to have to get a lot stronger, a lot faster."

He looked at the empty, dark room. The war was coming, but he finally understood the true nature of the battlefield. It wasn't just the monsters outside the walls. It was the men inside them.

"Get some sleep," Raka told the room, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Tomorrow, we stop playing by their rules. If they want us to fail, we’ll make sure it costs them everything."