Chapter Eighteen: He Is Impotent

The day’s training had come to an end. Though every new recruit saw it as a series of meaningless, repetitive movements, they all persevered. That night, everyone ate noticeably more, and the evening bath was met with much greater enthusiasm. Shame had faded away; though many still felt regret, no one was embarrassed anymore.

Kevin was much like the other recruits. Truth be told, he was more worried about his own abilities than most. Compared to the other nobles, at least they had some foundation in battle energy. He, however, had none at all—his only two magic skills were barely useful in real combat. Moreover, at twenty-five, he was older than the seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, making his recovery slower. While others could shake off fatigue after a night's sleep, he woke the next day with aching, sore hands. His writing hand had suddenly become his sword hand; it was too much to ask. His legs, at least, were not much of an issue; he had always walked long distances.

Some nobles seemed to be plotting to beat up their superior officer in the middle of the night, but they hadn’t discussed it with Kevin or Statton. Kevin only sensed their intent in their glances. During rest, they kept away from Kevin and Statton, conspiring in secret.

Clearly, these nobles did not regard Kevin as one of their own. First, there was the matter of title—they undoubtedly looked down on a mere bard. Second, on the first day, when the officer called them trash, Kevin hadn’t stepped forward to be scolded, making it seem he wasn’t one of them. Statton was likewise outside their circle; though he had a title, it was only baron, far too low. His closeness to Kevin also displeased the others, and his considerable girth did not help.

In only two days, two small groups had already begun to form. It was obvious from the seating arrangements during practice and rest: the three nobles together, Kevin and Statton—the “old men”—together, and young Master Gray, for the moment, sat alone, neutral, with no one engaging him in conversation.

Another night passed amid snoring, teeth grinding, and muttered dreams. This time, everyone was truly exhausted. Despite the noisy environment, they all slept well. Early in the morning, the bell rang again, calling everyone to rise. The routine was the same as yesterday, but today’s morning exercise required each recruit to carry a shield on their back.

There were many types of shields in the Kingdom of Loubolle, but for recruit training, the shields were only half-sized, made of solid wood wrapped in iron, and offered pitiful protection. Many complained in private that a table would be sturdier, but the shields for recruits were never meant for defense—they were simply for added weight. The officers calmly informed the recruits that more shields would be added as needed.

Everyone grumbled inwardly, but no one dared speak up. They did what they must, ran when they had to.

After breakfast, formal training began. At last, it was not just the monotonous hacking and recovering; they arrived at the target range for archery practice.

Every qualified soldier in Loubolle had to master a variety of skills: basic swordsmanship, basic spear technique, basic archery, basic unarmed combat, general swimming, red battle energy, basic battlefield first aid, basic survival skills like tent pitching, and so on. The comprehensive assessment required one to be a second-tier warrior or higher. These were the bare minimum—even soldiers had to master them, let alone officers. Special troops needed unique skills as well.

After three months, everyone had to undergo an evaluation. Military assessments were strict; every year, many failed. Those who did had two choices: pack up and go home, or repeat recruit training until the next batch’s assessment, this time paying a fee. If they failed again, pay again, repeat training. As long as one had money, one could remain a recruit forever.

Undoubtedly, this was humiliating. From the same class, others would become officers while you remained a recruit day after day—it took a thick skin to endure that.

For most, it was merely a matter of pride. For Kevin, it was a matter of life and death. If he was sent home after three months, who knew if another assassin would come after him? Pay to repeat recruit training? Kevin couldn’t afford it. He had only one path: train diligently, if only to preserve his own life.

“Who taught you to draw a bow like that?” Marcus frowned at Kevin.

“My mother did,” Kevin replied.

“Is your mother an elf?” Marcus was surprised.

“Yes,” Kevin answered, uncertain if this was a problem. His mother’s archery was not the best, but certainly among the experts. She’d taught him this way since childhood—surely there was nothing wrong with it.

“Are you using an elf bow right now?” Marcus’s expression soured.

“No,” Kevin replied.

“Then change your stance!” Marcus roared.

“Yes,” Kevin answered, switching to the standard stance. Marcus didn’t explain why.

But shooting with the new stance was uncomfortable for Kevin, and his poor eyesight made it worse; arrow after arrow missed the target. Though everyone was a beginner and misses were common, it still bothered him. Seeing the officer distracted, he secretly tried his familiar stance for two shots.

Still missed. Kevin was puzzled—his eyesight wasn’t good, but he should at least hit the target, if not the bullseye.

“You’re shooting freestyle again, aren’t you? I can tell by the sound,” Marcus said coldly, turning to him.

Kevin was embarrassed, at a loss.

“Go hold three shields over your head and stand aside,” Marcus barked. “Don’t rest the shields on your head; keep them a fist’s distance away. Don’t straighten your arms.”

“Yes.” Kevin obeyed, picking up three shields and holding them overhead in a ridiculous posture. He could manage for a while, but not for long. The nobles looked at him with mocking smiles; Statton sighed, but he could do nothing.

Training continued for the others. Kevin felt indignant but he understood now: this was a military camp, not a place for reason—only for obedience. He trusted that Loubolle’s training, for so many years, could not be entirely senseless. Some things seemed pointless, but must have their reasons, even if no one bothered to explain, or he was not yet meant to know.

“How can you be so stupid!” Marcus roared. “Go, switch Kevin’s shields; you hold them now!”

Marinas came over with a dark face. These nobles had strength, but their obsession with knightly duels left them clueless about ranged combat. After firing dozens of wild arrows and missing every shot, the merchant’s son was finally called over by the officer.

Kevin was relieved, shaking out his aching arms; he doubted he could manage the bow much longer. Training wasn’t over yet, though, so he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

Missed again, and again, and again—endlessly missing the target.

“What do you think you’re doing? You idiot! Are you out of strength? Are you useless?” The officer bellowed in Kevin’s ear.

Kevin ignored him, continuing to miss with the standard stance. Truthfully, even drawing the bow was a struggle, let alone aiming. He was at his limit; he had done his best. The officer could yell all he liked, but Kevin would keep shooting.

“You dumb mule!” The officer could stand it no longer and reached out. Kevin instinctively covered his head, expecting a blow.

The officer scowled. “What are you dodging for? Who’s going to hit you? Hold the bow properly!”

Kevin obeyed. The officer grabbed Kevin’s arrow hand with his left, his bow hand with his right, pulled back—the bow creaked, took aim, released! With a whoosh, the arrow flashed before Kevin’s eyes and buried itself firmly in the bullseye.

“Oh?” Many stared in surprise. No one had managed a decent shot all morning.

“Understand now?” The officer roared. “That’s the feeling of archery! Aim with intent, release without thought! Do you get it?”

Kevin paused, then shook his head.

Marcus turned away to instruct others. Perhaps he had decided Kevin’s archery talent was negative. Kevin took the chance to loosen his trembling hands—he doubted he could hit anything now. Mastery took time; he didn’t expect to be gifted at it and would just keep practicing.

As morning training drew to a close, some continued wild shooting, others had already picked up a few tricks.

Sain tossed an arrow in the air, spun it twice on his finger, struck a dramatic pose, and fired. With a crisp sound, the arrow struck the bullseye.

“Oh!” Many murmured in admiration. He was the son of the knight commander and clearly talented—his movements were stylish, too.

Sain wore a proud look, his gaze disdainful of all present. It was a pity there were no girls watching, or the place would have erupted in screams.

“Go, switch Marinas out!” Marcus said coldly.

Sain was astonished, doubting he was even being addressed.

“Didn't you hear me? Sain!” Marcus raised his voice.

“Why?” Sain shook his head. “I’m excellent; I hit the bullseye. Why should I hold the shields?”

“Hold four!” Marcus snapped.

“I... I object!” Sain protested.

Marcus wasted no words, striding over to administer a beating. Sain howled in pain. The others watched silently or continued their practice, indifferent to his fate.

The bell rang, signaling the end of morning training. Marcus finished his beating: “Go! We’re eating. You stay here holding the shields! Understood?”

Sain was aggrieved, but unwilling to suffer a second beating, so he complied.

“Kevin, stay and watch him. Don’t let him put the shields down!” Marcus called out, “I’ll come back after eating to relieve you.”

“Yes!” Kevin had no choice but to comply, though inwardly he cursed why this job had fallen to him.

The training field emptied like a tide, leaving only two behind: one holding shields, one watching.

“Damn the Marcus family!” Sain grumbled, holding up the shields. “What is this? I’m so brilliant, hit the target, and still have to hold shields? Why? I’ll kill him sooner or later!”

“Sigh!” Kevin sighed, “Why are you twirling that arrow? Don’t pose. I was penalized for my stance, you know that.”

“What’s