The Excellence of an Army

An army complete in every limb, unflinching before wounds, destined to conquer — of all a king's treasures, this stands first.

When the battle turns and numbers dwindle, to stand unflinching before wounds — that nerve belongs only to an army with ancient roots. No other force can summon it.

Let the rats roar like the sea — what of it? When the cobra breathes, every last one of them dies.

Never broken. Never lured by the enemy's cunning. Carrying a courage inherited from its fathers. That — and only that — is an army.

Even if Death itself advances in fury — to close ranks and stand against it, together. That strength alone deserves the name 'army.'

Valor. Honor. Walking the path their predecessors walked. And the trust of their king. These four — exactly four — are an army's armor.

An army is one that absorbs the first wave of attack — then advances, knowing how to bear what war brings next.

Even without the ferocity to attack or the endurance to hold — an army can still earn its glory through the sheer splendor of its formation.

Depleted numbers, festering resentment toward the king, grinding poverty — remove these three, and the army will conquer.

Fill it with steadfast soldiers beyond counting — without commanders to lead them, that army does not exist.