Chapter Twenty-Three: Relentless Questioning

On Sunday, when the new recruits were ordered by their superiors to play a tedious game, the officers themselves indulged in cards for entertainment.

“One six,” someone played a card.

“A joker!” another followed swiftly.

“Must you be so ruthless?” someone else, even more so, slammed down four cards, “Forbidden spell, four aces.”

“Hmph, sealing magic, impenetrable!” someone calmly laid down a card.

“Pung!” someone placed two impenetrable cards on the table, naturally collected the other’s card, lined them up, and tossed out another, “A seven.”

“Win!” a person at the side spread out all their cards, smiled lightly, and took the opponent’s seven. The crowd gathered for a look, falling silent. This person laughed, “Come, I’ve earned the right to roll the dice. If I roll a six, I can take flight.”

“Hmph, so what if you fly?” someone sneered, “If you come, I’ll checkmate you.”

“Tch, I just need to use my cards to build a bridge, then I can easily bypass your chess piece.” The winner calmly constructed a bridge, succeeded in moments, threw the dice—indeed, a six. He crossed the bridge with his piece, laughed heartily, “Come on, pay up.”

The others were disgruntled, but could only hand over a few copper coins. Strictly speaking, gambling was forbidden in the camp, but if the sum was small, it wasn’t pursued. Besides, the place was so dull that even the officers needed some amusement.

The game they played was an obscure pastime from the Kingdom of Loubaul, an amalgamation of various games, highly entertaining but with exceedingly intricate rules that most couldn’t master. Legend had it that once, when the beastfolk invaded, the frontier commander and the shaman negotiated by playing this game to decide the outcome; the shaman, unable to grasp the rules, was so intimidated by the human cleverness that he withdrew without a fight.

Afterwards, the kingdom promoted the game heavily, but its complexity drove many nobles to ignore it. It flourished first in the military, where discipline was strong.

This game was called—Bridge.

“How are your new recruits?” Between cards, they chatted idly.

“A pile of rubbish... no, six piles.” One scoffed.

Others chimed in, “Each year the recruits get worse. The environment’s too good, all noble offspring.”

“I’ve got a real oddball,” Markus, in the group, shook his head, “He spends all day asking questions. Gives me a headache.”

“He’s just being difficult, isn’t he?” someone chuckled, “Just beat him.”

“I already did,” Markus said helplessly.

“Then beat him again. Stubborn types need stubborn handling.” Another suggested.

“That’s not the way,” Markus shook his head, “He hasn’t actually broken any rules, and doesn’t seem to be deliberately troublesome. He just thinks strangely—I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

“Catching his mistakes is easy,” someone played a card, “Runs slow? Beat him. Runs fast? Beat him. Runs neither fast nor slow? Still beat him. Shaves his beard? Beat him. Doesn’t shave? Beat him too.”

Someone nearby was astonished, “How do your recruits survive?”

“That method solves nothing,” another objected, “If you just beat them without explaining, they won’t know why, and will repeat the mistake.”

Markus shook his head, “Should I beat him and tell him, ‘Don’t ask questions anymore’?”

The group fell silent, feeling the situation was unreasonable. Someone asked, “What does he ask about?”

“He asks, since battle aura is an extension of strength, why can a sword, which has no muscles, be imbued with battle aura?” Markus repeated.

“Just tell him it’s a setting,” the other officers were unconcerned—it wasn’t their problem.

“I can’t say that,” Markus shook his head, “The trouble is, he always asks when people are around—it’s embarrassing.”

The others could only chuckle; there was no animosity among them, and they were happy to offer advice.

“Why not just answer his questions, and if you don’t know, say ‘I don’t know’?” someone suggested, “Who knows if he has connections—if you forbid him from asking, it won’t look good.”

“The simplest way is to beat him, or drill him, call midnight emergencies,” another preferred a harsh approach, “If that doesn’t work, punish the whole squad. If he asks, the whole squad suffers. After a few times, the squad will beat him themselves, you won’t need to lift a finger. That’ll cure him.”

“But you can’t beat him to death, or cripple him—upper management wouldn’t approve. He still needs to eat.” Markus sighed, “If he keeps asking questions even then, what do I do?” The military had seen unmanageable people before, some so stubborn they wouldn’t obey no matter how much they were beaten. Then you could only dismiss them. But if dismissal was for asking questions, it might be Markus who got dismissed.

“I think only two kinds of people persist in such circumstances,” someone held up two fingers, “First, future pillars of the nation. Second, pure idiots.”

“Congratulations, Markus,” someone joked, “You might have fifty percent of a pillar of the nation. Ha ha ha.”

Markus only shook his head, and the game continued.

The morning passed, recruits returned, faces bored. Markus went back and, seeing Kevin’s look, felt uneasy—Kevin seemed to have stored up a morning’s questions, waiting for the right moment.

After lunch, everyone sat to rest. Seeing nothing to do, Kevin stood and walked towards the officer, whose eyebrow twitched—he sensed what was coming.

“Sir, I want to ask... I’ll keep asking... I still want to ask... I won’t stop asking...”

Markus, face dark, answered one, found an excuse to leave, and had the recruits continue their mutual games.

Afternoon ended quickly, after dinner, everyone sat to rest. Markus deliberately avoided looking at Kevin, gazing into the distance, but still watched him from the corner of his eye. As expected, in moments, Kevin stood up: “Sir, I want to ask... I’ll keep asking... I still want to ask... I won’t stop asking...”

Markus took a deep breath, unconsciously clenched his right fist, and glanced at Kevin.

Kevin was tactful, “Then I won’t ask now.” He sat down. Kevin’s goal wasn’t to embarrass the officer, but to solve his doubts. If the officer was angry, he wouldn’t push—he’d wait for a better mood.

Markus sensed Kevin wasn’t trying to make him look bad—perhaps it was just his nature, or maybe he had a special motive. It troubled Markus, who thought for a moment and remembered Statt. They were together; perhaps he could glean something.

Markus pulled Statt into the woods and asked, “You’re close with Kevin, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Statt was nervous; Kevin had said trips to the woods always ended in a beating.

“Has he always been like this?” Markus was direct.

“No,” Statt did not dare lie, and explained the bet between Kevin and Sain in detail.

Markus’s face changed, “Are they serious?”

“Seems so,” Statt answered.

“Do you know in three months, the recruits have a demonstration? The Knight Commander of Lightning will attend as a guest. Are they planning to duel then—in front of everyone? If Sain loses, will he call someone else grandfather in front of his father?”

“I don’t know,” Statt realized the gravity.

“Bring Kevin here,” Markus waved. Statt ran off, soon brought Kevin. Markus started, “You made a bet with Sain?”

Kevin nodded calmly; the chubby recruit had already explained. He was prepared.

“You really want to be the father of the Lightning Knights’ Commander?” Markus was astonished.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Kevin replied, “If it comes to an open duel, even if I win, I won’t make him call me grandfather. I understand the consequences. You needn’t worry, sir. But I won’t call someone else grandfather, either. So I’ll work hard to improve. I believe asking questions is the best way to do that—it’s not meant to challenge you. Please understand.”

Markus: “...”

“May I ask now? Then I’ll ask... I’ll keep asking... I still want to ask... I won’t stop asking...” Kevin unleashed a torrent of questions.

Markus: “...”

The dull weekend finally ended, and the recruits’ suffering resumed. On Monday, the training load increased: heavier weights for morning runs, more laps, but everyone gritted their teeth and endured.

The morning brought more tedious swordsmanship drills, unchanged from last week, but now required bursts of battle aura: release on the strike, draw back on the return.

The physical drain was on another level—sweat poured in moments—but even so, the officers gave no extra rest. Every required repetition was performed to the letter.

Finally, the officer said, “Rest where you are.”

Many dropped to the ground, utterly spent. Mondays were the worst—furthest from the next weekend.

Kevin sat, drank water, looked at the officer—just as the officer looked back. Their eyes met, Kevin smiled, and stood.

“Sit down!” Markus barked, “Rest, no questions!”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin was resigned.

“Hahaha!” another officer laughed, “Is this the recruit you mentioned? He looks promising. Want to ask something? You can ask me!”

Kevin glanced at Markus, hesitated, then stood again, “Sir, I request permission to ask another officer a question.”

The two officers exchanged glances—this kid knew the rules, seeking permission first.

Markus waved dismissively, meaning do as you please. Kevin was instantly excited, saluted, stood straight, addressed the other officer loudly, “Sir!” and unleashed a barrage of odd questions.

The officer: “...”

He answered two, ignored the rest, then returned to his post, slightly embarrassed. Training soon resumed.

But with this precedent, Kevin’s scope for questioning expanded. In the afternoon, during another rest, Kevin stood, “Sir, I request permission to ask another officer a question.”

“Why not ask me first?” Markus felt slighted, “Do you think I’m inferior to the others?”

“No,” Kevin was anxious, and quickly asked a question.

“All right, go ask others,” Markus waved, “Remember to be polite.”

So, over the week, Kevin questioned nearly every officer in the recruit camp—sometimes during training breaks, sometimes after meals. A crisp salute, standing straight, addressing each officer loudly, then firing off a slew of questions.

By the end of the week, nearly every officer knew Kevin—some thought he might become someone great, others thought he was just comedic. Either way, most answered his questions. Some reported to Markus, asking him to restrain Kevin, and Markus relayed the message. Some didn’t care. But Kevin was no longer beaten.

The week was routine: swordsmanship on Monday, archery Tuesday, spearwork Wednesday, unarmed combat Thursday morning, weapon maintenance Thursday afternoon, more unarmed combat Friday morning, patriotic education Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday were mutual games.

The three months for recruits were always like this—utterly dull, with various drills interspersed, some invented by the officers, deemed meaningful, like piggyback running. Only the final week involved real tasks—actual field training.

No matter how harsh, life had to go on; no matter how grim, fate had to be endured. Even knowing three months of torment awaited, and only two weeks had passed, the recruits could only hypnotize themselves—time flies.

Kevin’s skills hadn’t improved much yet, but his theoretical knowledge was abundant. One day, he even found a mage officer. Normally, this was a warrior camp, no mage should be stationed, but whether he was visiting or had some task, Kevin encountered him.

Kevin immediately asked a slew of magical questions. Another officer joked, “This is our camp’s future big shot—the Question Boy.” The mage laughed, answered many, and in good spirits, gave Kevin a staff.

It was a recruit training staff, but better than nothing. With it, Kevin could instantly cast three magic missiles. He was thrilled, “At last, I can unleash the Farmer’s Triple Punch. Hahaha!”

Officers were human too—many had seen battle. Those bold enough to teach noble elites, to call them trash to their faces, were not mediocre. They had no obligation to impart everything to recruits—only to ensure they met standards. Other knowledge, if they were interested, they’d teach; if not, they wouldn’t bother.

Even if you asked, they might not tell you, but at least there was a chance. If you didn’t ask, the chance was almost zero—unless they saw your talent and fought to teach you themselves.