The Knight Wore a Black Beret (2)
The common-born students of the sword faculty—now called the sprouts, or the sprout squad—had not come at Lee Han bristling the way the noble students had, packed tight with rebellion from the first glance. Part of it was that his station sat even lower than theirs. Part of it was the pull of the strength he carried.
The sight had carved itself into them with unusual clarity: the vice-captain of a knight order from a famed house of the sword duel, the very man who had insulted them, broken under him in a victory so complete it left no room to argue.
He was strong.
That a man of meaner birth than their own could grow so strong was something close to a marvel. And after they met him properly, they learned the rest of it. He had never been taught the Fighting Art.
In a sense, that was only natural. Even if you began the Fighting Art at the full age of five, people said you had already started late. For the lower orders it was a thing you were never going to learn in the first place.
When the art was first instilled, drawing out the power called life force—or fighting energy—required a master to lead it forth. It also required a priest, ruinously expensive, standing by in case a child's body broke under the work. A commoner who wished to train still could not begin to pay for it.
Some claimed you could take up the Fighting Art in adulthood and train it safely then. What nonsense. A genius fit to dominate an age, or someone born to a hero's fate, might manage it. Unfortunately, most people were neither geniuses nor heroes. They were mayflies, hard-pressed to beg their way through a single day.
So they respected the instructor.
He had never learned the Fighting Art. He had been born into circumstances worse than theirs. And still he had become a knight. And he was strong. Strength was a treasure everyone longed for and almost no one reached, and he had piled it up by effort alone. Who could look at that and not admire him?
They meant to carry out the instructor's orders with everything they had. However brutal the schedule, they had sworn they would endure.
"Trainee No. 2, fall out."
…So they had sworn.
"F-fall out!!"
"Too quiet! Do the rest of the trainees have to suffer before you get your head on straight?"
"N-no, sir!!"
"I told you the only answer is 'Ack.' Is the instructor's word a joke to you, trainee?"
"A-ack!!"
"Why isn't there an answer? Is the instructor funny to you?"
"…Ack!"
"Two beats late. Trainees, PT Eight, thirty repetitions!"
"Th-thirty!!"
"Too quiet! PT Eight, one hundred!"
"One hundred!!!"
"Good. Full-body twists. Fifty."
The instructor—no, the devil—gave the order and put a whistle to his lips. Miss the rhythm of that whistle by a hair and he would find fault with that, too.
"Gyaaaaaah!!"
"Ghhhhk—!"
"M-Mother…!"
Screams flew everywhere. The movements hurt, certainly, but it was strange that students who had not neglected their conditioning should be hurting like this. Their bodies were not in any ordinary state. Small wonder.
"You have only been at it for seven hours! All of you, dig deeper!"
"A-aaack!!"
…Seven hours. They had already been doing this for seven hours, and they felt about ready to lose their minds.
Two dawns ago.
On the training ground, where morning had not yet risen and darkness still lay thick, the students of the sword faculty were gathered. Not all of them. The day before, Lee Han's summons had gone out to the sprout students alone.
…He had not even had to say it, and still they came.
"Kunta thinks it will be fun."
"…No matter how I turn it over, I do not believe so."
"And yet here you are. Young master, you really are greedy. You too."
"You wretch! Such disrespect toward our lord—!"
"Don't call me that. Call me Roen."
The aide's mouth hung open.
There were the four Lee Han had already judged a cut above the rest, and one more besides, a fellow who suited an assassin better than a knight. And then…
"Wh-why am I even…"
The assistant instructor, dragged out by force after finishing his paperwork and sinking into a sleep as sweet as honey, looked ready to cry from the injustice of it.
"Everyone's here."
Into that gathering stepped the man who had called them all.
"Hm. Doesn't look like anyone ran. Oh? You lot came too?"
Roen and the others. He had told the young masters and the chicks they didn't have to show. So why were they here?
The answer came from Garand.
"You said that in this special intensive training, Instructor, you'd teach us Gyeong properly. So of course we had to come."
"…You could have just learned it later."
With talent like theirs, they could pick it up whenever they pleased. Why insist on this? The question sat plain on his face, but they were serious.
"We could learn it, yes. We simply have no desire whatsoever to be given special treatment."
They had no wish to laze about merely because they were talented. If that had been the plan, they would have gone home to their houses and their masters. Their resolve was solid enough, and Lee Han scratched his head.
"…Hm. I needed the extra hands anyway. Works out."
Labor that rolled in of its own accord ought to be used to the bone. He was privately satisfied when—
"W-wait! W-we came too!"
"…Ah. Hello, Instructor."
"…And why are you two here?"
Why did the people he had told to stay away keep arriving?
Irene Windler and Chick No. 1—no, Levi Fault—had slipped in among the students in light training clothes. Lee Han blinked.
"Mm. I'll ask Chick No. 2 first. Why did you come?"
"…This happened because of me, one way or another. I thought I ought to take some of the responsibility."
"Hm. Admirable enough."
Irene Windler's answer was sound. She had not meant for any of it, but she was still the reason the mess had started, intention or no. A romance-fantasy possessor, sure enough. The sort of marked soul who drew incidents and accidents without even trying. Still, she had a sense of responsibility. She had come despite Lee Han's grim warning that anyone who wished could come, but that if things went wrong they might need a year of convalescence, so they should stay away if they could.
Irene Windler set her face with grim resolve…!
"So. The real reason?"
"I don't want to end up like the magic professor who insists he's twenty-eight. I thought I might get a little exercise, but if I try it alone I just can't work up the will. …Hehe."
"…I like the honesty."
Not purely admirable, then.
Arin, I'm not even embarrassed by that stubborn consistency of yours anymore.
…Even I'm starting to find my own shamelessness frightening.
Lee Han took his eyes off Irene's complicated expression and settled them on the girl whose wave-lit hair suited her so well: Levi Fault.
"What's Chick No. 1 doing here? Did Chick No. 2 drag you?"
Honestly, Irene Windler showing up was no great surprise. This one, though—why had she come all this way?
"I-I can't deny that Lady Irene invited me…. But I-I was interested, too…."
"…Hm."
Thinking on it now, the noble young lady called Levi Fault had seemed the most passionate of all those young ladies. Passionate about growing.
So there are cases like this.
Lee Han wondered whether Levi Fault might be a woman tied to Irene Windler in some way. If this world really was the sort of thing you found in a romance fantasy, or a regression story, then besides the lead there would have been supporting leads as well. And supporting leads, without exception, came with their own temperaments, their own circumstances, their own fixed aims. Might she be one of those?
…Idle nonsense.
Lee Han shook the thought off. A useless notion. A misunderstanding. A student wanted to be taught—no, a disciple. Teaching that student was a master's duty to begin with. Supporting lead or whatever else, it had nothing to do with him. Right now she was only a disciple who wanted his instruction. He could not speak for anyone else, but to him this world was reality, and there was no such thing as a side character.
So.
"This instructor always welcomes someone who wants to grow. Chick No. 1—no. Levi Fault."
"Ah!"
"But I can't give you special treatment. Harden your resolve."
"Y-yes!"
Levi Fault nodded hard, her face bright with joy, and Lee Han looked thoroughly pleased.
"—Pack your gear."
"…Yes?"
"We start with a march. A light one, for now. Thirty kilometers."
"……"
"Full kit, by the way. The pack has to be over ten kilograms. Your stamina's still thin, so I'll let you off at eight."
"……"
…It did not take Levi Fault a full minute to realize that something had gone very wrong.
A march.
Put simply, it was the act of soldiers moving in a body. The definition a soldier would give was a little different.
Walking while keeping your fighting strength intact.
That was the more accurate phrase. Which was why, on a march, the troops moved under a great deal of weight. Food and weapons, clothing and the rest of the supplies. Soldiers had to stay fluid while carrying all of it.
And so—
"All of you are too slow. From here on we move at a quick march, not a double-time! Understood? Don't crawl like grubs—walk fast!!"
…It was a damned miserable order.
"Hah—haaah! Hah…!"
Every student was gasping. They were moving in armor, and under the weight of iron swords that were anything but light. Extra arms, rations, bedrolls—there was no misery quite like this misery. It was a mercy the student armor was light. Without that, they would have lost their senses long ago.
It had still been pitch-dark dawn when they set out. Now the sun was coming up, and the heat was climbing with it. Walking thirty kilometers beneath tens of kilograms of gear—this was the moment they understood, in their bones, how wretched that was. They were dying.
"If it is hard, Kunta will carry it?"
"N-no! I'm fine, Kunta!"
"You look very tired?"
"…I am, actually. M-more to the point, are you all right, Kunta? Your load is heavier than ours."
"Still light. Sweat comes a little, though."
"……Haha."
Kunta bore more than any of them, and he was still perfectly fine. Two enormous crates were stacked on his pack. Remembering that those crates were full of rations made their legs shake.
Barbarians, a mystery-race. People said the Mystery they carried was an indomitable body and an indomitable will. Seeing it with their own eyes left them dumbstruck. It even stirred something like respect.
I-I can do it too…!
And Kunta, for all that Mystery, had never once shown a lazy hour. A sprout student gathered himself, meaning to take heart and push—
Thud. Thud!!
"You all right, student? You're not controlling your breathing."
"……"
"Hm? What's wrong?"
"…Instructor. What are you dragging just now?"
"Hm? Sacks of cornmeal and potatoes."
"Wh-why would you…"
"The students need food for a month, don't they? What Student Kunta is carrying doesn't come close."
"……"
…That was not what he had been asking.
The student was struck speechless. A pack of tens of kilograms was bad enough. Watching the instructor haul, alone, a cart stacked with dozens of sacks of cornmeal and potatoes made his head swim.
What was that?
…Terrifying.
"…Instructor, I know it's a strange time to ask, but are you actually human?"
"Haha. I can guess what you're thinking, but don't worry. I'm an extremely ordinary human being. And once this ranger course—no, this special intensive training—is over, you'll be able to turn out like me."
"……"
……He really did not think so.
The student swallowed the thought.
Then—
"Ah. I can finally see it."
"Yes?"
"Climb that, and we've reached the training ground."
"Where do you mean…"
"There. See the peak where the snow hasn't quite melted? Climb that."
"…Yes?"
"Haha. Just think of it as a light bit of hiking, for once."
"……"
The instructor pointed at a mountain 1,384 meters above the sea. They said nothing.
…Along with the perfectly serious thought that withdrawing from the academy, right this moment, might be the wiser course.