Chapter Sixty-Four: Finally, Back to Regular Training

"General!" The captain of the Second Battalion came running. "Kevin is occupying our archers' range, and we can't train at all."

General Ode shook his head. "Why don't you just send him away?"

"He won't leave. He says he's received orders to remain in the barracks."

"What a nuisance." The general frowned deeply. "Alright, go deal with it yourself. If you can solve it, do so; if not, come back to me."

The captain departed at once. After a short while, the captain of the Third Battalion hurried in. "General, Kevin's practicing his driving skills in our horse riding field, and our cavalry can't train."

The general asked, "Wasn't he just at the archers' range?"

"He said he was chased out," Lieutenant Colonel House replied, spreading his hands.

"He's just a junior officer—can't you handle him? What are you all good for? Sort it out yourselves!" The general waved them off.

Soon after, the sentry reported that Kevin was requesting an audience. The general thought, 'Just the person I wanted to see.' He immediately ordered the sentry to let him in.

Kevin stepped forward, saluted respectfully, and spoke. "General! The cavalry have taken over the field, and I can't practice my driving skills anymore."

The general was silent.

"General," Kevin continued, "I understand that training space is limited, but I've just finished assembling my catapult. I need to break it in. Please understand."

"Stop with all the nonsense," the general asserted his authority. "If you want to train, do it in your own yard. Don’t cause trouble. Understood?"

Kevin nodded. "Understood, General!" He turned and left.

A little later, the captain of the Second Battalion returned. "General, Kevin is now in his own yard, but he's aiming his catapult at our archers' targets, throwing things. My soldiers are scared."

The general was speechless.

"General, perhaps we should let him train outside," the captain suggested. "A catapult really isn't suitable for the barracks. The things he's launching fly across several buildings—it's quite dangerous."

"What is he throwing? Stones?" The general frowned.

"No, he's launching smelly shoes, rotten wood, and such. Still, it's quite dangerous." The captain insisted, "Let him go outside—it's just grassland out there."

"Let him out? Absolutely not." The general sneered. "One slip and he'll disgrace me."

Just as he finished speaking, Lieutenant Colonel House entered, carrying a shoe. "General, when I came back, a shoe nearly hit me. Fortunately, it was me; otherwise, someone else would have been struck square in the face."

The general was silent.

"General, please take a look." House handed over the shoe. The general instinctively took it—a plain, sturdy cloth shoe, still warm, as if just taken off, and faintly emitting a foul odor.

The general finally stood up. "Come, let's see this Kevin."

In fact, the general was well aware of Kevin's progress with the catapult. In the barracks, nothing could escape his notice; otherwise, his grip would be far too weak. But he hadn’t expected Kevin to be so conspicuous, forcing the general himself to intervene in such trivial matters.

The general, accompanied by two lieutenant colonels and several aides, made his way to Kevin's yard. Kevin stood barefoot, sweating profusely as he operated his catapult. Where ammunition would normally be loaded, a shoe was placed, ready to be fired.

Seeing the group approach, Kevin immediately stopped his work and ran over barefoot, saluting. "General!"

The general did not reply, but glanced at the catapult. "How's your machine?"

"Still in the break-in phase," Kevin answered. "I can't guarantee accuracy yet, but at least I can launch objects. Rest assured, General, nothing I launch is harmful."

The general looked at his feet. "Where are your shoes?"

Kevin was embarrassed. "My shoe is in your hand, General. No wonder I couldn't find it. Please return it."

The general tossed the shoe to Kevin, who took it but didn't hurry to put it on, as if awaiting further instructions.

Lieutenant Colonel House spoke up, "Do you realize your shoe nearly hit me?"

"This..." Kevin was flustered. "That's my fault. I tried to keep the catapult's range within my yard, but there are many issues with the machine, and I'm not familiar with it yet, so it often overshoots. I admit responsibility and am willing to make amends."

"Make amends?" The general sneered. "How will you do that?"

"I'll give up my rest days to train day and night until the catapult meets standards," Kevin replied earnestly.

Everyone was speechless.

"General, you can observe my launching process," Kevin said, returning to the catapult. "Preparations are complete. All that's needed is to pull this lever, and the shoe in the basin will be launched. You may experience it yourself."

The general walked over. He had seen many catapults before—nothing novel. But for the sake of inspecting the equipment, he approached and pulled the lever.

The heavy front end dropped, and with a sharp sound, the rear arm shot up, hurling the shoe far away. It landed directly in the cook's vegetable cart, which was loaded with vegetables. The cook, startled by the shoe, swore loudly.

Unable to see where the shoe landed, the group could still hear the cook's curses.

"Outrageous," Kevin snapped. "How dare he speak to the general like that? Someone, bring the cook here!"

The general took a deep breath. "Enough. Take your catapult outside to train."

"Thank you, General." Kevin remained impeccably polite.

"But remember, you must report for drills daily. You are not allowed to visit other cities," the general commanded.

"Yes!" Kevin obeyed.

"That’s settled, I’m leaving," said the general, waving his hand.

"General, about the military funds..." Kevin was fearless, reasoning that he’d already offended the general—what was a bit more? But the funding problem was serious; Kevin couldn’t always bear the costs himself.

"Fine, fine," the general finally nodded. "Go find the quartermaster yourself. Didn’t you say you wanted to negotiate? Go on."

"But I’ve tried to meet the quartermaster many times, and was always refused," Kevin hoped for a more reliable guarantee.

"That’s your problem," the general said, turning away. "You’re not a child—do you need someone to escort you?"

"Yes," Kevin nodded.

"And since you can now train properly, you must pass the year-end assessment in December," the general declared. "Otherwise, you’ll be demoted to private and sent to the patrol to guard the gate."

"Yes," Kevin replied loudly, feeling little internal pressure.

After seeing the general off, Kevin put on his shoe, packed up the catapult, and wheeled it out of the barracks. After a whole morning of launching shoes, he finally received permission to train outside. Being able to leave made everything easier—including telling jokes at the tavern in the evening, perhaps. As for military funds, Kevin held little hope; he’d bring it up again at the next meeting.

Though the catapult was finally outside, it was Kevin’s first time handling it, and many of its technologies were entirely new. Innovative techniques may seem promising at first, but after some time, all sorts of problems could arise: excessive wear here, a rope stretched too far, a donkey exhausted and refusing to move—these issues could only be discovered and resolved with continuous practice.

Kevin always trained alone, but to ensure uninterrupted sessions, he brought along three donkeys, rotating teams to pull the cart—there were plenty of donkeys, after all.

The daily routine was simple: find a patch of grassland, mark points A and B. Park the cart at A and launch all projectiles toward B. Then move the cart to B, collect all the projectiles, and fire them back at A, repeating this cycle.

Kevin recorded every point of impact, along with the catapult’s settings at the time. These two catapults were modified, so their parameters differed from the standard. He had to recalibrate everything—how much to adjust the counterweights for a given distance, where to place the stones, and so forth.

This was the main technical skill in operating a catapult, quite unlike archery. An archer’s accuracy depends on many factors: steadiness, aim, and so on. Catapults require little finesse—set the parameters, pull the lever, and the rest is up to fate.

Catapults are notoriously imprecise, their targets usually buildings, large formations, enemy positions—rarely individual soldiers. Even with identical settings, the impact points scatter over a ten-meter radius, simply because the machine’s design is inherently imperfect.

The main structure is wooden; each shot causes some shaking. No matter how thick the wood, it can never meet the requirements for precision strikes.

Kevin had discussed this with Old Tert. If built entirely from iron, price aside, the weight would be more than three donkeys could haul—and would an iron catapult truly be more accurate? Perhaps, but not enough to justify the cost.

There was another option: magic. For example, the hardening spell, a basic earth technique. If an array of hardening spells could be engraved on the catapult, hardening it before each shot, accuracy might be greatly improved. The cart wouldn’t become heavier, and the donkeys could still pull it.

But ultimately, it all came down to money.

Other types of ammunition were needed as well. Ordinary stone projectiles were cheap and plentiful; that’s all Kevin had for now. A proper catapult should have oil bombs, shrapnel, and more—but none were available. Magical projectiles, or glass bombs filled with chimera acid, cost hundreds of thousands—sometimes millions—per shot. Kevin thought such things were far off; he’d better focus on the present.

Many claimed catapults were obsolete weapons, but after thorough research, Kevin felt the old models were indeed due for retirement. Yet, if successfully improved, they could still serve a purpose.