Chapter Seventeen: The Second Day at the Barracks

The first day in the barracks passed without much incident. Everyone organized their belongings, and Marcus returned from the infirmary with young master Gray. It was said that no healing magic had been used; the medic simply rubbed his injury a couple of times, patted him as a sign that all was well, and sent him back. It hadn’t been a serious wound to begin with.

As mealtime approached, they headed to the mess hall. All soldiers were required to march in formation. Upon reaching the tables, they sat upright and still while the kitchen staff distributed utensils and food. Only after a command were they allowed to begin eating, and conversation was strictly forbidden during the meal.

This time, no one displayed any aristocratic airs; whether new recruits or veterans, everyone followed the same routine, and none felt embarrassed. The food was undoubtedly inferior to what nobles were used to, but it still included a pork chop, two pieces of fruit, a small bowl of soup, and two pieces of bread. Most had mentally prepared themselves and accepted it; some with smaller appetites could not even finish their portions.

After dinner, everyone had to wash their own dishes. These young nobles had never washed dishes before, but none dared protest. Each took their bowl to the riverbank to clean it. They were then told to keep their own utensils and that, should they fail to clean them properly, they’d simply have to eat from them as they were. Some nobles were tempted not to bother washing at all.

Kevin regretted not having used his magical shield as a dish; had he done so, there would be nothing to wash.

By dusk, there were no organized activities. On this first day, Instructor Marcus did not push them; everyone simply chatted as they pleased. Kevin could sense the other nobles were somewhat aloof toward him—perhaps because he was a commoner, and their noble pride was not so easily set aside.

The conversation naturally revolved around their future training and daily life. In this, Marcus was the star, presenting himself as approachable and friendly, recounting tales and taboos of the barracks. The group listened with keen interest.

When the evening bell sounded, the instructor announced it was time for bathing. Bathing had a set schedule here; missing it was considered a violation. The recruits, carrying their basins and towels, queued up behind the instructor, but when they reached their destination, everyone’s expression changed.

It was nothing more than an open-air pool; by now, night had fallen, and the waters appeared pitch-black. Scooping up some water revealed it was clean enough, though nothing could be seen at the bottom.

“Begin washing,” the instructor said, already stripping down, scooping water from the pool with his basin and pouring it over himself. “Don’t jump in; other units need to bathe here too,” he added casually.

The nobles stood awkwardly, unsure what to do, but Kevin, quick to adapt, followed suit and started washing. The others glanced at each other, hesitating. For nobles raised in luxury bathtubs, it was difficult to accept stripping down and bathing outdoors alongside everyone else. This was hard not only for Kevin’s squadmates but also for new recruits from other units; some stood motionless on the opposite side of the pool.

Yet standing there was pointless; after a brief hesitation, the nobles finally began undressing. Some felt embarrassed and kept their underwear on, but no one mocked them. Once they finished bathing, the instructor insisted they wash their own clothes.

Thus, the young masters were forced to learn a familiar yet unpracticed skill—washing their own garments. The instructor, evidently uninterested in teaching this, washed his own clothes and left.

When he was gone, the group finally relaxed a little. A few nobles, holding their wet clothes, gazed up at the moon and lamented, “The son of a count, reduced to washing his own clothes?”

The city lord’s son sighed, “I’m starting to regret coming here.”

The son of the merchant guild leader nodded in agreement, “Me too. What about you?”

The others remained silent. Kevin simply washed his clothes, secretly amused.

After bathing and a bit more conversation, the bell rang again. The instructor announced it was time for mandatory rest—sleep was compulsory, with no exceptions. The sleeping arrangements resembled a communal bed, with seven people sharing one large mattress; the instructor slept near the door.

It was June; the weather was warm, and there was no need for blankets. None of them had ever slept in such close proximity to others before, including Kevin. Yet the day had exhausted everyone—whether carrying others or being beaten, fatigue overcame discomfort, and they soon drifted into slumber.

Kevin heard loud snoring, then the sharp sound of teeth grinding. Lying there till midnight, someone nearby muttered, “Marcus, I’ll get you someday. Heh.”

Kevin: “…”

It seemed to be a dream; the instructor was likely asleep and paid no mind. Kevin finally sat up, looked around, and decided to step outside for a walk. He carefully slipped out of bed and glanced at the instructor, only to be startled—the instructor was staring right at him.

On closer inspection, the instructor’s gaze seemed vacant. Was this the legendary sleep with eyes open? Kevin waved his hand before the instructor’s face; there was no reaction. Just a false alarm, it seemed.

At that moment, a fat figure sat up at the bedside—it had to be Stadter, given his size. He hadn’t used much energy and couldn’t sleep either. He nodded to Kevin, then looked at the instructor and was similarly startled.

“Shh!” Kevin whispered quickly. “He’s sleeping with his eyes open. Watch.”

“Oh.” Both drew near, the darkness bringing them close enough to observe the instructor’s expression. Stadter waved his hand.

“You’re the ones sleeping with your eyes open,” the instructor suddenly said.

Both were shocked, instinctively falling back onto the floor.

“Can’t sleep?” the instructor whispered, evidently not wanting to wake the others.

“Yes.” The two, uneasy, wondered how the instructor would deal with them.

“Well then, come have a chat with me.” The instructor carefully rose and walked out, and they followed. They passed patrolling soldiers, and the instructor nodded to them as he went. Only when they reached the camp’s edge did he stop, sitting casually on a stone and motioning for them to sit as well.

“You two are among the oldest of the new recruits. It’s rare for someone as old as twenty-five to enlist. Here, new recruits are usually fifteen at the youngest, rarely older than twenty. You’re ten years older than the youngest,” the instructor said, gazing up at the moon. “Honestly, you might be the easiest or the hardest to manage. Do you understand?”

The two nodded silently, instinctively.

“Moreover, your reasons for enlisting are rather odd,” the instructor continued. “Stadter, your records say you’re a library director, practically in charge—a man about to expand his business and make a fortune. I’ve never heard of a proprietor joining the army at such a moment. As for the bard, I don’t know much about your profession, but twenty-five is late to enlist. Saying you came here because you couldn’t make ends meet isn’t convincing.”

They remained silent; they couldn’t very well admit they’d come to escape assassination attempts, so they invented excuses.

“You two have been around the continent for quite some time. Compared to those hotheaded youngsters, you’re actually harder to control,” the instructor said, looking at them. “I get the feeling you have secrets you’re not telling. Am I right?”

“You’re overthinking it, Instructor,” Kevin responded. “As a bard, I know some of the customs of military life and can adapt quicker, but I’m no different from the others. My abilities are inferior to those of the noble recruits, so I’ll need to work harder.”

The instructor studied them and smiled. “To be honest, I don’t like recruits who are too clever. My favorites are those who do exactly as they’re told. But for officers, you’re more suitable. We train officers, starting from the recruit phase—you must first be a recruit, then become an officer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” They replied instinctively.

Marcus fell silent for a moment, seeming to have more to say but deciding against it. He waved them off. “Go get some sleep. I’ll sit here a while.”

Kevin and Stadter obeyed and left Marcus alone to gaze at the moon atop the stone. Kevin glanced back, thinking, “Our instructor is likely among the best of the officers.”

“Oh? How do you know?” Stadter questioned.

“In our squad, we have a count’s son, a city lord’s son, a fisheries guild leader’s son, a knight commander’s son, and the two of us—old hands at twenty-five,” Kevin counted on his fingers. “All this information is available. I doubt anyone who’d take on such a task is ordinary.”

“That makes sense. As a commoner officer, his abilities must surpass those of noble officers to gain acceptance,” Stadter agreed.

“Exactly,” Kevin said. “Though the army says there’s no distinction between nobles and commoners, nobles enlist in June and commoners in December—their terms and experience differ. As far as I know, when abilities are similar, seniority is what counts.”

“All right, I’m exhausted. Let’s sleep,” Stadter said, unwilling to dwell further. The two returned to the thunderous snoring, and only after midnight did they finally drift off.

The next morning, a whistle sounded. Everyone scrambled up, assembled, ran laps around the camp, then had breakfast. This time, no one lagged or objected. Kevin even attempted to use his magical shield as a bowl for porridge but was sternly reprimanded by the instructor. He didn’t dare ask for a reason; the instructor’s word required none.

After breakfast, their true first day of training began. All the recruits gathered on the drill field—left hand holding a shield, right hand a sword, standing straight.

Then—strike! Recover! Strike again! Recover again! And so on—all morning.

Two movements all morning, endlessly repetitive, with only brief rests and frequent instructor shouting: “What are you doing? Put more effort in!” “Why are you a beat slower than the others? Are you a pig?” “Why so fast? Are you a donkey?” “Where are your eyes looking? There are only men here, no beauties!” “Stop using that flashy battle aura—put it away!” and so forth.

Midway, a new recruit from another squad protested, “This is too boring. I don’t see the point.”

He was promptly struck by his own instructor, and others who glanced sideways at him were also scolded. Afterwards, that recruit received extra tasks, such as running laps carrying six shields.

Kevin’s back was soaked in sweat, and he assumed the others were similarly drenched. No one dared complain; all gritted their teeth and endured. Kevin couldn’t fathom the purpose of such monotonous repetition—perhaps it was to strengthen their willpower?

After lunch, afternoon training commenced. The same strike-recover exercises, but with the addition of a footwork movement for variety.

Step forward, strike! Step back, recover! Step forward, strike! Step back, recover—all afternoon.

The June sun was not the harshest, but constant exposure was still uncomfortable. Yet they could only endure. The instructors’ shouts grew less frequent, as their movements became more precise. Sweat dripped from their faces, leaving marks on the ground; their hands grew weak, and nearly everyone felt the same exhaustion. Deep inside, they suffered, longing only for dinner.

They stole glances at the sun—when would it finally set, when would dinner arrive? This was the thought shared by all recruits.

The bell rang again, and the instructors finally called out, “Stop! Rest!”

The drill field dissolved into chaos, sighs of relief, some lying sprawled on the ground as if life had lost all meaning.

“Get up!” the instructors roared.

Despite their misery, the recruits stood to accept further scolding: “Listen up, soldiers of the kingdom must maintain the image of the army! No sprawling on the ground!”

Those who had lain down were then forced to repeat the strike-recover movements fifty times. Watching others endure extra hardships, Kevin and the others felt a peculiar sense of happiness—no matter how hard things were for them, seeing someone else suffer more brought equilibrium to their spirits.

After a brief rest, each instructor led their own soldiers away, although training was not over—it simply became more individualized from that point.

Marcus led his group to a dirt mound, evidently fond of using games for training. He announced they would carry each other up and down the hill, racing to see which team was fastest. With six people, there were three teams—just the right number.

Everyone instinctively avoided Stadter, the fat one; Stadter looked at them with innocent eyes. Marcus simply laughed off their concerns: “No worries—everyone will take turns. Everyone must carry the fat one.”

They had no choice but to form teams. Truthfully, it was much harder today than yesterday; after a full day of sweating, now they had to carry each other, doubling the unpleasant odors. Still, no one complained, though some cursed quietly.

Each person carried another up the hill and down, then switched. One had to run five times, carrying each of the five others once, and being carried by each of them in turn. Marcus was clearly experienced at this game, adept at arranging the teams. His intention was to strengthen bonds among comrades.

In reality, however, everyone grew more resentful of the fat one. Stadter remained innocent; theoretically, he had it easiest, since there was no second fat man for him to carry. Yet he was always the slowest up the hill, even when using battle aura. Kevin was the fastest, except for the round when he carried Stadter—there was no helping it. Everyone was slowest when carrying the fat one. Kevin, accustomed to traveling, had decent stamina even without aura.

As was customary, the slowest—Stadter—was punished by running two extra laps. Watching him labor up the hill, carrying another, the others felt an inexplicable satisfaction.