Chapter Sixteen: The First Day at the Military Camp

Young men are always arrogant, their blood boiling and their pride unyielding, especially those nobles who have been pampered all their lives. Even if they are aware of the army's customs, deep down, they scorn them. In the confines of a small room, with no outsiders present and only a mere lieutenant before them, the group began to stir restlessly.

At present, the warrior ranks are divided into nine levels, primarily based on the evolution of battle energy. Levels one through four are all marked by red battle energy, the most basic form. A first-level warrior is defined as having just learned to wield battle energy; the second level as being more adept at using it; the third as fighting skillfully with battle energy; and the fourth as being able to project battle energy outward and employ a handful of battle techniques.

Clearly, the standards for levels one to four are rather vague, but from the fifth level onward, the nature of battle energy changes, its color shifts, and superficial assessments no longer suffice. In the Kingdom of Loubauler, officers below the rank of captain and the soldiers are designated as warriors of level four or lower. Simply put, the officer before them, Marcus, is at best a fourth-level warrior. These four nobles had already mastered the projection of battle energy and had reached the fourth level themselves.

Four warriors of equal rank facing one—there was hardly any reason for reverence. Thus, the officer taught them respect with his fists.

"What level of warrior do you think I am?" Marcus asked, settling back into his seat.

The battered nobles crawled back to their places with groans, clutching their faces or stomachs, their gazes averted, though their resentment was palpable. No one replied.

Marcus smiled again. "I'm only at the third-level warrior standard. Not even at the fourth level. According to the files, you are all fourth-level warriors. I'm inferior to you. Ha."

The nobles looked up at him in surprise. Marcus continued, "What? You don't believe me? I didn't even use battle energy when I knocked you all down. If you're not convinced, you can try again."

The nobles exchanged glances, eagerness flickering in their eyes, but they soon calmed. Having suffered once, they were wiser now, and after all, he was their superior.

"There's nothing remarkable about it," Marcus said. "How much combat experience do you have? How many enemies have you faced since learning battle energy? Played around with servants? Sparred with your slaves? Ha! You think mastering battle energy projection makes you a fourth-level warrior?"

With a wave of his hand, Marcus unleashed a blade of red battle energy that flew over their heads, striking the ground outside the tent. Only then did they realize that had he aimed just a fraction lower, they would have been slain outright.

"Is projecting battle energy so impressive?" Marcus asked. "Yet I'm still a third-level warrior. Why? The army has a different standard of assessment. You nobles know your own criteria well enough."

No one dared say another word.

"Alright, it's your first day, I won't trouble you too much," Marcus said with a smile. "But since you attacked your superior, there must be some punishment. Here's what we'll do: you four, carry those two plus myself, and run a lap around the camp."

They were stunned and glanced back at Kevin and Statte—one clearly fat, the other thin. Several immediately greeted Kevin with a smile, and the one who switched his cap earlier spoke up, "Brother, hey, I haven't learned your name yet?"

Marcus snorted. "Trying to be clever? Want the lighter load?"

"No, sir, I just wanted to get acquainted, that's all," the man laughed awkwardly.

"You, carry the fat one," Marcus ordered, pointing decisively.

His face darkened, and he looked at Statte, who gave him a helpless look. There was no choice; he bent down obediently, and Statte climbed onto his shoulders without ceremony.

"You carry the thin one, and you carry me," Marcus ordered, turning to Young Master Gray. "When I came in, I noticed you limping. Is your leg injured?"

"Yes, sir," Gray replied, somewhat excitedly. "I'm wounded!" Apparently, he believed his injury would spare him some punishment, and with no one left to carry him, he might escape altogether.

"You’re wounded, yet you still tried to attack me?" Marcus laughed, grabbing five shields from the side of the tent and bundling them together. "Here, carry these."

"But I’m injured," Gray protested, sounding aggrieved.

Marcus silently added another shield. "Carry them!"

Gray, resigned, hesitated a moment but then walked over and strapped on the six shields. The others likewise took up their burdens, and at Marcus’ command, "Go!" they set off.

They exited, following Marcus's direction, starting from the east gate and running around the camp. No one exerted themselves fully, nor did Marcus demand it. Gray, weighed down by six shields and limping, fell behind, but managed to keep pace, though his labored breathing was the first to echo from the rear.

"This way leads to the mess hall," Marcus explained while being carried, familiarizing them with the camp.

"Here is the infantry training ground; this is the archery range; over there is the magical target range; and here is the military hospital, where our chaplain serves," Marcus continued as they moved, other soldiers in the camp observing them with indifference. Even so, the nobles carrying their burdens felt humiliated and kept their heads down.

"Why are your heads lowered?" Marcus asked. "Aren’t you afraid of running into a tree?"

"Sir," the man carrying Statte couldn’t help but speak, "I’ve never carried anyone like this in my life... Only when I was the one riding on a servant’s back, never... sigh!"

Marcus chuckled. "You'd better let go of your so-called noble pride and honor as soon as possible, or your days ahead will be very hard—not just physically, but emotionally as well."

No one replied; they trudged on in silence.

"Alright, once we turn that corner, it’s two hundred meters to our tent. Last sprint! Run!" Marcus suddenly shouted.

The nobles picked up their pace, just enough to appear compliant. Marcus snorted, "The slowest one will run another lap!"

At this, Gray gritted his teeth and accelerated, unleashing his red battle energy. The others, seeing this, sped up as well, determined not to fall behind, while the soldiers nearby chuckled at the spectacle.

Yet Gray remained the slowest. Marcus, Kevin, and Statte dismounted, and Marcus turned to Gray, "You were the slowest. Run another lap."

"But I’m injured!" Gray squealed.

"Make it two laps," Marcus replied.

Gray’s eyes reddened, on the verge of tears.

"Three laps," Marcus said, calm as ever. Kevin signaled to him urgently: "Better run, or you won’t get sympathy. He’s your superior, not your grandmother."

Unfortunately, Gray didn’t catch the hint, angrily threw off the shields, and tried to leave. Marcus strode over and beat him soundly, with Kevin and the others silently watching. Other recruits and veterans gathered to witness, but none intervened.

"Four laps!" Marcus shouted after finishing the beating.

Gray, miserable and tearful, was utterly disheveled, but still instinctively stood, then staggered off for his laps. He didn’t carry the shields, though Marcus hadn’t specified, and no one said anything.

Limping, Gray managed to complete four laps around the camp, without shirking or daring to slack. Marcus and the others waited until he finished, his tears dried, sweat streaming, bending over and gasping for breath.

"Do you think I’m cruel?" Marcus smiled, patting Gray’s shoulder and pointing to the neighboring tent. Inside, seven more were sent out, with their instructor shouting, "Come on! Run toward the sunset!"

The trainees, faces full of misery, picked up seven shields each and passed by.

"Where are they going?" someone asked.

"They won’t return until the sun sets," Marcus replied. "So compare yourselves to others, see how you fare."

A silence followed.

"Let’s go, back to the tent," Marcus waved, and they returned to their seats. This time, everyone put away their joking expressions; fear and seriousness overtook them. Their posture wasn’t perfect, but their demeanor was sufficiently grave.

"To be honest, I’ve always considered myself a very merciful person," Marcus continued. "If possible, never make me repeat myself. And remember, this is a military camp. What is a soldier's duty? Obedience. Don’t ask why. Understood?"

"Understood!" they replied in unison.

"Good. We have weekends, and some time to relax," Marcus smiled again. "During those times, you can be more at ease. Now, let’s start with introductions."

They exchanged names according to custom, and only then did Kevin realize the three who arrived first were quite distinguished. The cap-switcher was Sain, son of the famous vice-commander of the Thunder Knights, who had earned great honors resisting the beastfolk invasion. Sain was the youngest of four, and while his siblings were accomplished, he remained idle. His father, too busy to discipline him, sent him to the army.

Kevin’s carrier was Marinas, son of the president of the Kingdom’s Fisheries Chamber. Money was never an issue, but his father’s rank was too low to be inherited, so he sent his son to earn a title through military service.

The other was Oka, son of the Lord of Landon City, the kingdom’s primary weapon manufacturing center. Though its economy lagged behind coastal Hires City, it remained a key city. Oka declared that after completing three months, his father would secure him the most suitable post.

Young Master Gray’s father, Count Gray, though lacking notable achievements, was a count and thus part of the upper class. Kevin could hardly believe he was now among such company. When he introduced himself as a down-and-out bard, they all stared at him in surprise, wondering how he managed to get in.

"Very good," Marcus said. "I can tell you, I enlisted in December. I am a commoner officer. So what?"

Silence filled the tent.

"Enough chat," Marcus stood. "Gray, you’re injured. I’ll take you to the infirmary."

Gray, delighted, hurried to his feet. Marcus grabbed six large bundles from behind the tent. "These are your living and weapons kits. You’ll use them for the next three months as recruits, so take care of them. I suggest you engrave your name on each item."

"Yes!" they nodded, each claiming a bundle. Inside were blankets and clothes, as well as a Loubauler standard longsword, a dagger, a spearhead, a shortbow, and several arrows.

Oka, hailing from the weapon-manufacturing city, flicked his sword disdainfully. "What trash."

Marcus, not far away, heard this and turned, smiling, "You’re right, the trash is you."

Silence reigned; no one dared retort, waiting for Marcus to leave.

"Damn it!" Once the officer was gone, Sain tossed his weapon aside. "I’ll beat that guy to death one day. What a jerk!"

"Exactly!" Marinas chimed in. "If he came to my house, one slap and he wouldn’t dare utter a word. Hmph!"

Turning to Kevin, they saw him carefully engraving "Yin Que Si Ting" on his sword handle with the dagger. Truth be told, Kevin had never owned a sword before; this was his first, and he cherished it.

Elsewhere, within the Assassin Guild, Little Spoon was now dressed in black assassin garb, masked, kneeling before the guildmaster to report. "Guildmaster, my target has enlisted. Requesting further instructions."

"Did you teach him?" the guildmaster asked.

"No!" Little Spoon denied quickly. "I had no idea why. When I tracked him, he had already joined the army. Perhaps it was just coincidence?"

"A bard, enlisting?" The guildmaster sneered. "Give me the details on this K."

Little Spoon dared not hide anything. "Kevin, male, twenty-five. A level one mage, half human, half elf. His father was apparently burned to death by the Church of Light."

"Do you have his likeness?" the guildmaster pressed.

"I do." Little Spoon handed it over, a portrait rendered by the intelligence department’s professionals, remarkably lifelike.

The guildmaster glanced at it and found nothing special. Why had his daughter let him go? Was he truly talented?

"Describe the situation," the guildmaster ordered.

"Well, it went like this. Albatross and I went to Samus Village to find him. We located him easily, but worried... um... about possible twins, which could cause confusion. So I approached him for a chat."

"Turns out he really had a twin, which surprised me greatly. I decided to observe him for a while," Little Spoon’s account was muddled. "I planned to check with his editor, but something unexpected happened."

The guildmaster remained expressionless.

"Unexpectedly, he had no twin," Little Spoon admitted, lowering his head in case his expression betrayed him. "It was my mistake, a misjudgment. By the time I realized, he had already enlisted."

The guildmaster was silent.

"Guildmaster," Little Spoon said solemnly, "I wish to defer the assassination of Kevin. I promise to succeed eventually and uphold the dignity of fathers who do not eat... dung."

"It’s just the two of us here, and we’re father and daughter," the guildmaster replied more gently. "Tell the truth. Even if you let him go, I won’t blame you."

Little Spoon blinked at her father, struggled for a moment, then lowered her head. "Fine, I admit I let him go. Strictly speaking, I told him enlisting would help him avoid assassination."

"But I believe he’s innocent!" Little Spoon immediately defended. "Though he wrote about fathers eating dung, it was a stroke of genius! Most people couldn’t do it, but father did, so doesn’t that mean father is extraordinary?"

"I know what you mean, though it’s not pleasant to hear," the guildmaster replied.

"No! You don’t understand, father. Many assassins here love the book. It definitely has flaws, but it’s really well written! It’s art! The humor is in the Yin Que Si Ting style!" Little Spoon explained fervently.

"Yin Que Si Ting?" The guildmaster was slightly shaken. "His name is Kevin Yin Que Si Ting?"

"Yes. Didn’t I say that?" Little Spoon scratched his head. "Oh, maybe I only said Kevin."

"What’s his connection to Laurent Yin Que Si Ting?" the guildmaster asked.

"No idea. Who’s Laurent?" Little Spoon was baffled.

"Laurent Yin Que Si Ting was a powerful bard about four hundred years ago. In the year 888 of the common era, our king was mentally enslaved by the strongest undead sorcerer and issued many foolish decrees. When this was discovered, many elite warriors tried to confront the sorcerer, but he was invincible. Finally, a man named Laurence stepped forward, attacking with eloquence and reason. Unexpectedly, the sorcerer was so shamed he committed suicide."

"After regaining his senses, the king bestowed the surname 'Yin Que Si Ting' upon Laurence. Yet, because the incident involved the kingdom’s disgrace, it was never made public. Four hundred years later, only a few know of it." The guildmaster was astonished. "Could he be a descendant?"

"Wow, amazing!" Little Spoon was thrilled.

"Enough, go tend the fire," the guildmaster splashed cold water on his enthusiasm.

"Oh," Little Spoon’s spirits sank.

"Don’t worry. Since he’s enlisted, we won’t touch him for now," the guildmaster said. Little Spoon smiled and departed.

Sitting back in his chair, the guildmaster pondered for a moment, then picked up 'Chronicles of Assassins' and began to read.