Chapter Twenty: The Nation’s Strategic Asset

In the blink of an eye, four days of recruit training had passed, and today was already the weekend. After today, the recruits would, in principle, have the next two days off—a tradition upheld even within the army itself. According to the teachings of the Church of Light, the Creator spent six days shaping the world and rested on the seventh. Since the Church of Light had spread its doctrine across the continent, most regions had adopted a similar work schedule.

With the rise in living standards in the Kingdom of Laubor, the sixth day of the week was also designated as a day of rest, and the army was no exception. But whether this rest would truly be granted depended entirely on the word of their superior. That morning, Marcus had already declared, “Anyone who makes a mistake today will continue training through Saturday and Sunday.”

Everyone was instantly on edge. From the moment the day began, they behaved with utmost discipline: standing perfectly straight, sweeping with exceptional thoroughness, moving with remarkable efficiency, and answering in ringing voices. After all, they were of noble birth, their manners and abilities far surpassing those of ordinary farmers. If they truly put their minds to it, excelling was no great challenge—only their occasional resistance stood in the way.

The morning was once again spent in spear-thrust training, but alongside the monotonous thrust-and-recover drills, a new subject was introduced: the charge.

With spear and shield in hand, they were to sprint a hundred meters at full tilt. After a brief rest, they would charge back. Another rest, and then the process would repeat. Throughout, they had to maintain correct shield and spear posture, shout loudly to boost morale, and keep their formation tight. The slowest runner would be assigned extra training—Stadter, the plumpest among them, was quickly driven to the ground, utterly spent.

The officers showed no mercy, laughing heartily and berating him as a useless lump, ordering him to finish the course regardless. The others watched in silent relief, glad it was not them.

After the solo charges, the officers organized mass charges. Marcus and the other officers assembled the recruits in a line, dividing them into squads to compete for speed. The formation had to remain straight—no straggling or breaking ranks allowed.

Every recruit looked as though the ordeal would be the end of them, but the officers were in high spirits. Each squad of six began their collective charge. With the slowest member, the “fatty,” dragging the pace, the whole squad had to match his speed, which allowed Kevin and the others to take it a bit easier, essentially jogging. As a result, they finished second-to-last among the seven squads.

In truth, they ought to have finished last, but fortune favored them: another squad stumbled during their charge, allowing Kevin’s group to overtake them and secure sixth place out of seven. For Kevin and his companions, this was a satisfactory outcome—after all, they had expected to be dead last, so finishing second-to-last felt like a triumph. The officers, however, were not pleased, and Marcus had to endure the mockery of his peers.

In the barracks, people spoke plainly. There was little in the way of concealment or euphemism—garbage was called garbage, especially from superiors to subordinates, and sometimes even between equals.

Marcus, having suffered ridicule himself, naturally vented his anger on Kevin and his squad. The hardship of the coming weekend was thus assured. Repeated charges drained them far more than the thrust-and-recover drills. By midday, when the training was dismissed, everyone looked half-dead, with Stadter in the worst state.

The officers had nothing but scorn for their exhausted faces, reminding them they hadn’t even donned armor yet. “It’s only a hundred meters!” they barked. “Soon, you’ll be running farther, in full armor, at greater speed, shouting louder, unleashing your fighting spirit the whole way, and driving your spears through wooden targets at the end.”

There was nothing for the recruits to do but pale in response.

The officers did not favor this expression. “Show some spirit!” they demanded. “Chins up, eyes bright and sharp—that’s what a soldier should look like.” The recruits had no choice but to force their eyes open even wider, resembling a troop of dead-eyed fish.

Then Marcus announced, “There will be no training this afternoon. We’ll all attend a lecture together.”

In an instant, the dead-eyed stares came alive. Many philosophers across the continent have pondered the nature of happiness, but in truth, happiness is simple. At that moment, all six recruits felt it—a happiness greater than anything found in feasting or revelry at home.

Marcus of course noticed their shining eyes and mocked them for being lazy cowards afraid of training. It didn’t matter. The six were too content to care, basking in the glow of unexpected joy.

After lunch and a brief rest, they made their way to the parade ground. In high spirits, minor disputes were easily ignored. Kevin found his attitude toward Sein softening. If nothing untoward happened, their three-month pact would likely dissolve with laughter and a handshake.

The afternoon air was pleasantly cool. The recruits, along with the veteran soldiers, gathered on the field and sat cross-legged on the ground in formation—no one minded the dirt. Silence reigned; not a word was spoken, everyone quietly thrilled at the prospect of escaping afternoon drills.

After a short wait, several senior officers entered at a measured pace and took their seats. A colonel stepped forward. “Greetings, soldiers. I am Colonel Orson, commander of the 254th Regiment. The veterans among you know me well; for the new recruits, this is likely our first meeting. You may call me Colonel Orson, or Commander Orson.”

“Today, we are honored to welcome a general of the kingdom—General Ist Vend. General Vend is a man of legendary achievement, the chief developer of our nation’s forbidden-curse weapons, and the principal designer of the Giant Staff. He is known as the father of forbidden-curse weaponry in Laubor, and the staff itself bears his name—the Ist Vend 31. Now ninety years old, he has formally retired.” Colonel Orson began to clap. “Let’s welcome General Ist to the stage.”

Thunderous applause filled the field—not that anyone was especially enthusiastic about the old man, but because military discipline required that when an officer led applause, the entire force must follow with all their might. To do otherwise risked punishment.

Most present, especially those uninterested in politics, had probably never heard of this man or even knew what a forbidden-curse weapon was. News still traveled slowly in these days, mostly through word of mouth from wandering minstrels, which was hardly sufficient. Many people still preferred listening to tales like “The Legend of Rex.”

But Kevin’s blood was already surging. As a practiced bard, he knew well what the Giant Staff represented. It was one of the key reasons Laubor had become a true great power, and why the continent had remained superficially peaceful for centuries—its destructive power was so overwhelming that if the great nations unleashed their forbidden-curse weapons, the world might be wiped clean and begun anew.

The Giant Staff was forged through advanced spell-array techniques, magical energy amplification, resonance enchantments, and many other sophisticated arts. Standing roughly ten meters tall, it was, fifty-two years ago in 1287 of the Common Era, operated by just twenty fifth-level mages of Laubor, unleashing a magical missile thirty meters in diameter with a range of two thousand kilometers and leaving a crater over a hundred meters deep.

Later, a fireball of similar size was successfully tested, powerful enough to obliterate a small town with ease. What further tests were conducted became state secrets—Kevin did not know. All he knew was that Ist Vend’s name was engraved on the staff, and that there were now thirty-one models. Rumor had it abroad that the Ist Vend 31 could deliver ultra-long-range spells directly to the imperial capital of the Lion Empire, though whether this was true remained unclear.

Regardless, Ist Vend had shattered the monopoly of grand archmages over forbidden curses, making the balance of power more dynamic than ever. Of course, all the great nations had treaties in place, and Laubor had solemnly pledged never to use forbidden curses first.

Kevin never imagined he would encounter such a figure. The ninety-year-old general was still hale and vigorous; though his hair was white as snow, his eyes were clear and sharp. He was truly a pillar of the nation. To meet him made Kevin’s enlistment worthwhile.

“Honestly, I wanted to retire quietly this time,” the general said, taking up a wind-amplifying crystal. “But Colonel Orson insisted I come out to say a few words. Sigh! I’m not much for rousing speeches, and you’ve probably all had your fill of talk about patriotism, loving the people, chivalry, and so on. I’ll just share a bit of my own story.”

“I joined the army at fifteen, as a mage. That would have been in 1264. Anyone here with some family background or roots will know what the country was like then.” The old general began his tale. “We had a large population, but little else to show on the continent.”

“The Lion Empire was the mightiest, as it is now. Founded and ruled by generations of grand archmages—hence the title ‘Mage Emperor.’ Their magical prowess was unrivaled. We tried, somewhat pathetically, to learn from them. Our third-level mages could barely cast ten spells; theirs could cast thirty different ones.”

“With fireball, for example, we could only lob it straight. They could make it curve, track, suddenly speed up or slow down, stop on a dime, or even split it. How could we compete? We simply couldn’t. Every exchange ended in mockery—not only of us, but of our country.” The general’s voice was tinged with nostalgia and regret.

“Later, the nation ordered a group of us to study abroad in the Lion Empire—by any means necessary, even as immigrants. I was among them. My orders were clear: learn whatever you can, by any means. I won’t sugarcoat it. Perhaps in front of a civilian audience, I’d use a softer term, call it ‘study abroad,’ but it’s all just wordplay. The truth is the same.”

“You needn’t look down on it. I never felt any shame. The real humiliation was what I experienced abroad. Imagine someone who only knows how to hurl a crude fireball standing before master wizards—how do you think I was regarded? We bowed our heads, fetched tea, scrubbed toilets, all for the hope of overhearing a snippet of a new incantation. Some gave up, some died destitute, some excelled and were taken as apprentices by the great mages. Some stayed, drawn by the superior comforts, even the toilets. But some, like me, chose to return.”

“I remember my commander patting my shoulder before I left and saying, ‘Whether it’s ten, twenty, or thirty years, I hope you’ll come back.’ Laubor had no way to command us once we were abroad, nor could they send assassins to kill us. All my commander could do was hope. Still, I came back, at forty years old.”

“I had a fine mentor in the Lion Empire—a ninth-level archmage, among the very elite. Being his apprentice was an honor for any mage. He told me, ‘You’re the only one of my apprentices who ever tried to leave.’ I expressed my regrets, but could only tell him, ‘I’m a spy.’”

“That kind of spirit, they couldn’t understand. To him, returning to the shabby Kingdom of Laubor was beneath contempt. Under the protection of a ninth-level archmage, not even assassins could touch me. Many others urged me to stay, to avoid doing something so beneath me. But I did it anyway.” The old general chuckled. “Back then, we Lauborans were considered nothing but ‘losers’ over there. I haven’t heard that insult in many years.”

The audience remained silent—not out of indifference, but out of discipline. Each listener was absorbed in thought.

“After returning, the king called for the development of forbidden-curse weapons, and I led the effort. The pressure was immense, both at home and abroad. The Lion Empire applied direct pressure. The Church of Light condemned us, calling our work inhuman. Forbidden curses are so named for a reason—they are taboo. The economy was in shambles, funding was scarce, and foreign nations drove up the price of magic crystals, refusing to sell to us. I once had to dig sweet potatoes to survive.”

“Fortunately, we succeeded. We withstood the pressure. The forbidden-curse experiments succeeded.” The old general seemed to breathe a long sigh of relief. “In today’s terms, I spent my whole life to deliver a single slap to the face of our detractors.”

“Now, our nation is strong. Everyone can eat meat at every meal. But honestly, we are still not strong enough. In magic, we still lag far behind the Lion Empire. No one can cast a forbidden curse alone yet. Anthony is called a grand archmage, but can only cast ninth-level spells. Gandalf—well, aside from Flash, he’s basically a berserker with a sword. We have a long road ahead if we want to become a truly great nation.” The old general heaved a sigh.

“I am old now. The future belongs to you. But remember, being a soldier is no easy thing. Are you prepared for that?”