Chapter 53: Malice from the Disciplinary Patrol

The meeting covered a great deal, mostly about the need to emphasize daily training, enforce everyday regulations, and implement a slew of policies from above. Now, in early September, the annual training plan was nearing its end; come December, new recruits would be enlisted, bringing with them a whole host of new matters.

Kevin found himself lost in a fog, unable to grasp much of what was discussed. General Ode made no effort to explain, and the others clearly understood everything without the need for clarification. Kevin dared not interrupt to ask questions—he relied solely on his memory to recall as much as possible, hoping understanding would come in time. These were, after all, matters of military action; a single misstep could spell disaster.

From the entire meeting, Kevin remembered but one major point: beginning in March next year, there would be a military exercise. Red and Blue armies would face off, and every independent unit was to dispatch seventy percent of its force to participate, leaving the rest to guard their posts. The importance of this exercise was stressed repeatedly, urging all departments to be ready.

Kevin wanted to ask, as he was a unit of one, whether he should leave a donkey behind to stand guard. But he held his tongue, and General Ode did not specify.

At the end, General Ode asked, "Does anyone have any questions?"

Kevin glanced about; no one spoke up. He gritted his teeth and stood. "General, I have a question."

"Oh, Kevin." The general seemed to remember him only then. "I forgot to introduce you to everyone. This is our new catapult officer, Kevin Lacks Purpose."

Kevin gave a sheepish smile to the assembled officers; they regarded him with barely a glance, clearly already informed.

"What do you wish to ask?" the general inquired, not unkindly.

"I’d like to know," Kevin summoned his courage, "who is my direct superior?"

The question elicited laughter from several attendees. The general smiled; the mood lightened, leaving Kevin mortified.

"Listen, in most cases, your direct superior is me," General Ode said. "Of course, in special situations, you may act in concert with other units; then you’ll follow their command."

Kevin nodded, apprehensive. A second lieutenant whose immediate boss was the general himself—was he expected to consult the general directly for every problem?

"Kevin," the general continued, speaking with earnest gravity, "your performance during the recruit drills was outstanding. Several generals wanted to poach you; it wasn’t easy for me to bring you over. The catapult is a weak point in our force, and I know it’s not easy for you alone. But we simply can’t spare the manpower right now. I can only ask you to persevere."

"Yes, sir," Kevin replied.

"After the new recruits arrive in December, we’ll see about assigning you a few," a colonel nearby added.

Kevin nodded fervently. Seeing no further questions, the general dismissed the meeting.

Kevin returned to his yard, bewildered. Three donkeys were still tethered in front of the catapult; he gazed at the machine, lost in thought.

No demands had been made of him—no strict timeline to master the catapult, no operational standards to meet. The exercise was not until March, new recruits would come in December, and it was only September. Alone, with no oversight, it seemed he could idle away his days until discharge.

This post seemed ideally suited for those content to coast. In a force of over two thousand, not everyone could be industrious. Yet such a coveted position had been given to Kevin, a newcomer?

They claimed he was a talent recruited through his own efforts, yet offered him no guidance, no training—just left him alone with the catapult. Was this the Lightning Knights’ unique method of cultivation?

Kevin, questions swirling in his mind, gazed at the catapult. He shook his head, took out the blueprints and a rag, rolled up his sleeves, and began to attempt assembly and leisurely wipe down the machine.

Working alone meant progress was slow, but there was no one to hurry him. He paused to rest, drank some water and nibbled at his food, then continued until nightfall. At last, he’d given the catapult a rough cleaning.

Yet the catapult refused to go together; consulting the blueprints, Kevin suspected some parts were missing. This would be troublesome, as he had no idea whom to ask for repairs.

With dusk upon him, he had the donkeys pull the catapult back into the garage, went to the mess for a meal, and then retired to his quarters.

In the evening, with little to occupy him, Kevin finally took out the magical notebook gifted by the ambassador to the Republic of Labozier and began to study it carefully.

Any high-level mage’s notes were extremely valuable, and, to a degree, military secrets. Each nation’s magic had its own style and distinctions, especially in combat spells. That Kevin had received the ambassador’s notebook was a mark of extraordinary favor.

Though Kevin’s innate inability to channel elemental forces meant his magical achievements would never match those of orthodox mages, a deep understanding of magic could still give him an edge against them.

The prevailing view held that the continent was suffused with elements: wind, water, fire, earth, light, and darkness. Mages cast magic by gathering elements with mental force, then shaping them with incantations or diagrams.

Put simply, if the continent were a great house, the elements would be the various parts scattered within. Mental force represented the people inside; casting magic meant grabbing nearby pieces, molding them into a spell, and hurling it at an opponent. Elements themselves lacked offensive power—only when shaped into magic could they harm.

Everyone possessed mental force, but fifty percent found it nearly impossible to use. This was akin to people without arms, unable to pick up the parts. Of the remaining fifty percent, sixty percent—like Kevin—were born unable to accept any element. In simple terms, Kevin was a person without fingers.

He couldn’t grasp parts to throw at others, but at least he could strike with his arm—pure mental force attacks. Such attacks belonged to low-level magic: magical shields and missiles; at intermediate levels, telekinesis; higher, astral projection, and so forth.

Some could only channel a single element—meaning their fingers could only pick up certain parts.

The strength of mental force merely indicated how robust one was within the house. But being robust didn’t guarantee speed in assembling parts; finger dexterity and skill mattered too. Of course, a strong person struck harder.

Casting a spell involved three steps: first, absorbing elements—grabbing parts. Second, shaping the magic. Third, launching it.

Mastering these steps made countering opponents easier. For example, if one’s arms were long and strong, one could snatch another’s parts or flood them with useless parts, crowding out their usable ones, or disrupt their assembly. One could even strike them during the process.

As for casting speed, theoretically nothing was faster than a magical missile. Mages could train certain spells to near instantaneity, but molding a part could hardly match the speed of a punch.

Seasoned combat mages practiced a handful of signature spells. Many high-level mages knew hundreds, but in battle, they used only their most familiar ones—unless showing off.

So how could Kevin, fingerless, defeat those with fingers? The difference was that his opponents could pick up bricks to hurl at him, while he could only swing his arm.

The method was simple: interrupt them as they grabbed or shaped parts. Yet this was easier said than done. Even low-level mages could cast a spell instantly if they’d perfected it. Only a fool would charge up a big spell in front of you.

To interrupt, one had to observe nearby elemental distribution, anticipate the spell to be used, and block or disrupt their collection with magical missiles. Simply attacking the person was often useless, as magical missiles were weak—a farmer’s punch, easily blocked.

The missiles needed to target the element-gathering paths and key points, many of which were airborne and available only for a brief moment, as spells were cast almost instantly. Achieving this required rote memorization.

Kevin flipped through the pages and found a long list of spell vulnerabilities—over a hundred, all common spells on the continent. Detailed descriptions on casting and potency were given, but he focused only on the critical weaknesses during element gathering.

The ambassador’s notes were no secret lore; many mages knew their own vulnerabilities. Experienced mages would alter their element collection methods, though differences were minor and fell within predictable ranges.

The notes made clear that this was but one tactic. To execute it, first, one needed keen elemental sensing—linked to mental force. Second, memorization and extensive combat experience against mages. Third, no tactic was omnipotent; skills like fireball were too small and quick to interrupt—one could only dodge or block.

It seemed Kevin’s learning would be a long process. Even if mastered, it only worked against mages. But, with nothing else to do, he was content to study.

The book also made it clear: to grow strong, effort alone wasn’t enough. One had to eat! To train battle aura, eat magical beast meat; to cultivate mental force, eat high-grade vegetables. Dual training of magic and martial arts was possible, but diet must be balanced accordingly.

Late at night, the door knocked again. Kevin opened it to find Stutt, once more accompanied by a new recruit.

"Still awake at this hour?" Stutt asked offhandedly.

"Yeah," Kevin replied, putting away the notebook. "By the way, I haven’t asked—how do I handle tomorrow’s drills?"

"Eh!" Stutt sat down. "Don’t be too upset. Once you’re more senior, you can basically ignore the patrol."

"Is that so?" Kevin replied.

"Frankly… let me tell you," Stutt turned to his recruit. "Go outside." The recruit promptly left, closing the door. Stutt lowered his voice, "Your status is actually the same as those colonels—you belong to an independent unit."

Kevin was momentarily stunned, pondering.

"Patrols only drill soldiers or low-ranking officers; when have you seen them drill colonels?" Stutt whispered. "After you left this morning, our commander laughed at your ignorance—said it’d be a waste not to drill you."

"Oh," Kevin replied coolly.

"Many envy your position," Stutt sighed. "One person, free and easy. Unlike us, working late into the night."

"You still haven’t answered my question—what about tomorrow’s drill?" Kevin pressed.

"Do as you like," Stutt replied. "If he wants to trouble you, he’ll find a way."

Kevin remained silent.

"Still, patrol punishments can’t interfere with regular training time," Stutt explained. "They take place during rest hours."

Kevin nodded.

"Alright, I’d better go. Need to make another round." Stutt rose, and Kevin saw him off.

At dawn, the whistle sounded and drills began anew. Today, Kevin rode a donkey, sword and shield in tow, following the crowd to the camp gate. Ahead were the cavalry, behind the logistics unit, and in between, Kevin on his donkey—a conspicuously odd sight.

Moments later, the cavalry galloped ahead. Kevin followed at a leisurely pace, attracting countless curious glances, but he remained calm.

A donkey’s speed could never match a horse; soon he was left far behind. Kevin was unhurried, ambling along.

As before, at that corner, the same captain saw Kevin and barked, "What are you doing? Get down!"

Kevin calmly dismounted and approached. "Sir!"

"Who told you to ride a donkey?" The captain jabbed Kevin’s chest, then winced from the pain. "What’ve you got on your chest?"

"Heart guard," Kevin replied. "It’s a bit rough around the edges."

The captain: "…"

"You seem cockier than yesterday," he sneered.

"Not at all," Kevin replied. "I’ve always respected military regulations."

"Respected? That’s nonsense!" the captain roared. "Never heard of anyone riding a donkey for drills! What do you think you are?"

He proceeded to berate Kevin at length. Kevin did not confront him, listening quietly.

"Go hold up a shield again this morning!" the captain concluded.

Kevin stood unmoved.

"Did you hear me?" the captain demanded.

"I heard," Kevin nodded.

"Move." The captain waved, taking Stutt back to camp. Kevin waited a bit, then returned as before for breakfast. This time, he ignored the captain’s command, pulled out the catapult, and sat atop it to study.

Soon, a new recruit arrived and saluted. "Sir, our captain requests your presence at the gate, with your shield."

Kevin glanced up. "I have training tasks today. No time."

The recruit hesitated, then left. Shortly after, the captain himself arrived. "Kevin! Are you training?"

"Yes," Kevin replied from atop the catapult. "Training is demanding. Regrettably, I can’t join you to hold up a shield."

"When will you have time?" the captain pressed.

"No time," Kevin answered calmly. "I’ll be training on weekends as well."

"Hmph," the captain snorted. "You really think training is a good excuse? We’ve caught plenty of people in patrol; never seen your kind."

Kevin sat on the catapult, unfazed.

"You don’t want your evaluation score, do you?" the captain mocked.

Kevin’s heart skipped—what was this score?

"If you don’t want it, so be it. Continue training." The captain turned to leave.

Kevin clenched his teeth, hesitating. He reasoned that he’d only arrived two days ago; it was wise not to make enemies. Holding up a shield was no worse than yesterday’s humiliation. In the end, he stood. "Wait, I’ll come with you."

The captain wore a victorious smile; even the recruit’s gaze brimmed with contempt. Kevin’s temper flared, doubting the importance of this score, but for now, patience was safest. The captain outranked him, and his own strength was lacking—any scuffle would end badly.

That morning, Kevin endured again, his skin thicker than yesterday. He no longer felt embarrassed by the onlookers; holding the shield, he remained composed. With no subordinates, losing face was his own affair.

After lunch, the patrol finally released him. Hours of endless chatter, yet Kevin still had no answer about how to handle the drills. He suspected someone was deliberately making trouble—perhaps someone bested during recruit exercises. The general’s son could, with a word, set the patrol on him. Kevin would never know who, and even if he did, he could do nothing.

If it happened once or twice, Kevin could endure. He’d weathered recruit training long enough to stand such patience. But if it continued, could he survive?

Reflecting, Kevin realized his ignorance of the rules was the main problem. To learn them, he could only ask around.

Thus, he went to find other battalion commanders; he recalled that one officer at yesterday’s meeting had kindly advised him to bring only his sword. Kevin sought him out first.

After inquiries, he discovered this man was the commander of the Third Cavalry Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel House. Normally, anything below regiment level was called a battalion, under which were companies and platoons. Battalions usually had three to five hundred men; the third had three hundred twenty, all cavalry. But exceptions existed—Kevin, for example, was a battalion of one.

House was surprised by Kevin’s visit, but received him. "Ah, Catapult Officer Kevin. What brings you?"

It was the first time Kevin heard himself addressed as such; he was momentarily stunned. He understood, however, that the title chosen reflected the officer’s recognition. Clearly, House regarded him not as a battalion commander, but merely as a catapult officer.

Still, "catapult officer" was better than "second lieutenant," which here was akin to calling someone a recruit.

"First, apologies for disturbing you," Kevin began, using the standard politeness; House waved it off, and Kevin got to the point: "I need to ask… I’ll keep asking… I want to ask… I won’t stop asking…"

House: "…"

Eventually, House answered two questions before citing work to send Kevin away. First, he explained the score: it was a patrol invention, used as a reference for year-end awards. At year’s end, those with the lowest scores would be publicly criticized. Put simply, if one had thick skin and cared nothing for awards, the score was meaningless.

Second, he recounted past events: some officers, angered by patrol harassment, had dragged a cavalry unit in front of the patrol camp late at night in protest. The next day, the patrol was much more subdued. In the end, the patrol was just a group of bullies, preying on the weak; they could harass new recruits, but veterans paid them little heed—let alone battalion commanders.

After leaving, Kevin deliberated, then slammed the table and resolved to be bold. He was alone, after all—he could wait them out.

That night, he dragged the catapult to the patrol camp gate, cracked the whip, and the donkeys brayed as the catapult creaked loudly. The patrol was roused, every last one.

The captain ran out in shorts, cursing, "What the hell are you doing?"

Kevin replied, "Night training."

The captain: "…"