Fate's Wind and the Noble Recruits
So that reaction earlier was because I played along too nicely?
Palan mulled over various guesses as he followed the yellow line.
"Man, this place is filthy huge."
Ten minutes in, and the path still showed no sign of ending.
In that time, he'd seen plenty, but what stuck with him most was the atmosphere.
Everyone's walking around clutching their swords like they're scared shitless.
Wartime tension, no doubt. Security was ironclad.
"Is that it?"
Just as sweat started beading, the yellow line ended, revealing a vast parade ground.
Already a ton of people here.
Hundreds—no, over a thousand men...
Wait, women too?
Not just one or two, either. Roughly one in every twenty, way more than expected.
Damn, so my sister could've come too.
Of course, she'd have flat-out refused even if asked. Death before enlistment.
"Just conscript the peasants with some bounty money and shove them at the front like always. Why the hell do we have to go? If it goes wrong... God, I don't even want to think about it."
"Tell me about it. Can't refuse His Majesty's orders, though."
Entering the parade ground, Palan overheard the grim chatter of noble heirs.
Guess we're all in the same boat.
Some were family successors, others—like him—pushed in with promises of rewards. Surprisingly, the heirs outnumbered the rest.
Means this deployment's a big political play.
From his life in Korea, Palan knew it well: come war's end, enlistment would be a lifelong label among nobles.
"Attention!"
Lurking in a corner—no familiar faces from lack of socializing—a booming voice from the platform seized everyone's focus.
"We will now begin the enlistment ceremony. Officer candidates, form up in ranks of fifty."
"Ranks of what?"
"More importantly, who's this guy barking orders like that?"
Classic nobles. They couldn't stomach informal speech.
"If you don't wish to enlist, step aside now. We won't force you."
Ah, shit.
Familiar gaslighting. So similar, a curse nearly slipped out.
Threatening us with swords and saying no pressure? Yeah, right.
Someone had to fill the quota. No clue how they called this "voluntary."
"You there, candidate in front."
The man pointed straight at him.
Why me, of all people?
Vague gestures could've been ignored, but he was too isolated to play dumb.
"Candidate!"
Digging up memories from training camp and private first class days, Palan snapped his right arm up. "At attention!"
Scores of eyes locked on him. The officers on stage even murmured impressed gasps.
"Form ranks of fifty. Execute!"
"Execute!"
Old habits kicked in with the echo.
The man on stage grinned openly now, eyes blazing approval.
Damn it, feels like I'm off to a bad start already.
It was chaotic, but they formed ranks. The ceremony kicked off.
"Brigadier General Cels, Training Camp Commander, will now speak."
After a dull anthem for a nation he couldn't care less about, the bigwig appeared.
Brigadier General—one star, right?
In the army, they were gods. Power absolute.
"Salute the Training Camp Commander! Loyalty!"
"Loyalty...?!"
Following the announcer's lead, Palan saluted crisply. Problem was, including him, fewer than ten did it right.
"No soldier's mindset yet. Fine. You'll learn properly here."
Up close, he caught the commander's parted hair and twisted scowl on his massive frame.
"Much to say, but time's short."
Cels swept his gaze over the candidates.
"Peace we thought eternal shattered after twenty years. Most of you won't even know what war is. Half weren't born yet."
True enough. This body's owner was just nineteen.
"As one who's seen war firsthand: it's brutal. Beyond imagination. You'll plunge into its heart soon."
Was it rank's weight? Or the personal dread ahead? The murmuring ground fell deathly silent.
"Want to survive? Train instead of whining. Regret comes too late with a sword at your throat. Good luck. Dismissed."
"Salute the Training Camp Commander! Loyalty!"
Next up: a man in exquisitely luxurious attire.
"Uh... wait, why's the proxy here?"
A few recognized him, eyes bulging, voices stammering.
Proxy?
It clicked fast.
"I will read His Majesty's imperial edict. Show respect!"
Empire-born, they'd drilled this endlessly. Platform to over a thousand knees bent in under five seconds.
"Ahem!"
Proxy confirmed readiness, drawing a scroll from a jeweled casket.
"I wished to attend personally but send this edict due to heavy state affairs."
His voice boomed via mana amplifier, like a modern mic.
Planned to come himself? Intense.
Emperor neared divinity here. His presence could've sparked chaos.
"First, I am proud of you who volunteered, embodying noblesse oblige."
Not volunteers! Shit.
Gaslighting again. He stifled a scowl—dangerous now.
"I will never forget your names. No doubt you'll lead the Empire's future."
Golden ticket from the emperor. Faces brightened instantly.
"Awkward at first, this hierarchy of orders. But I believe you'll excel."
Classic edict—wordy.
Like a principal's speech.
No dozing, though. Imperial insult meant execution.
"To the 1,307 candidates: from this moment, you are proud Imperial officer candidates. Fight with pride and for victory. End edict."
Stripping "prospective," sealing fates.
"His Imperial Majesty! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"
Thrice cheers filled the ground. No turning back now.
Then, the damn message appeared—first since possession.
Fate's wind has carried you a special privilege.
Status Window unlocked.
Acquired specialty: Physical Training.
Upon leaving military status, all privileges vanish.
May blessings await at fate's end.
"Fate my ass..."
No! Shit!!!
Timing, phrasing—pure mockery.
If fate means soldier life, just kill me! Why give a second chance at all?!
He'd thought this second life precious. Now? Not even close.
"Candidates, follow the instructors ahead to the barracks."
Ceremony over, they marched as-is up the hill to the dorms.
"Eight per room. Fill 'em up."
"What the hell is this? You expect me to live here?!"
A guy from the front, first to check a room, yelled at the instructor.
"Problem?"
"No personal space! And it's tiny. Barely fits one—how for eight?!"
Wonder what set him off.
Peeking over, Palan gawked at the room.
"Hm?"
Eight single beds and lockers, spaced neatly.
Harsh to say, but after two years in '70s-era barracks, this was hotel-level.
Military facilities this nice?
Expected bunks or platforms. Singles? Grin crept up.
"Candidate, this is the army. Back to your room."
Instructor's face hardened.
Definitely pissed.
Ominous.
He knew from experience: drill instructors thrived on guilt-by-association.
"I can't live in this dump!"
The guy kept whining. Instructor's patience snapped quick.
"Sigh. Fine. Down."
"What...?"
"One more word, demerits. You know what that means."
"Demerits" hit; guy's eyes shook.
Ties straight to training scores, right?
Lower scores meant worse postings. Worst case: front lines. Everyone knew.
"W-wait! Misunderstanding—let's talk."
"Down. Execute."
Guy bit his tongue, hands to floor.
"Rest, keep moving. Complaints? Step up."
Like battlefield spoils, he stayed prone. No one dared complain.
Why escalate and sour the mood?
Nobles gonna noble. Clicking his tongue, Palan entered Room 7, took an empty chair.
Fellow roommates trickled in, all grim-faced—odd camaraderie. Except the last, grinning.
"Uh..."
"Hm..."
Eight seated, facing off. Stunning silence.
Rainy timing—check that status thing now?
Silence would drag; he opened the unlocked Status Window.
Why so bare-bones?
Status windows meant stats—strength, intel, agility—for grinding growth. Cheat system.
This? Useless.
At least Physical Training? What even?
Casually tapped for details.
Physical Training
A strong body houses a strong spirit. For soldiers, consistent training isn't optional—it's essential. Forge your body and prove the results.
Effects: Increased muscle recovery and growth efficiency, Physical Fitness Test unlocked
Physical Fitness Test?
Military term tilted his head instinctively.
Physical Fitness Test
Rank: Unattempted
Next Rank:9th Grade
Evaluation: 3km run (15 min), 30 push-ups, 35 sit-ups
Rewards: Shop unlocked, 50p
Oh...
Unlike straight army grind, pass and get carrots. Carrots only, really.
Feels game-like now.
Shop especially intriguing.
Old body? Nailed it. This one's doughy—no abs a miracle. Back to square one. Pain ahead.
Still dead quiet?
Introverts all? Silence dragged.
No way he'd break it.
Spotlight? Hell no.
No popularity contest—substance over flash.
After tense standoff, the pretty boy spoke.
"Looks like we'll room together two weeks. Self-intros? I'm Ion Belburn of Duke Belburn's house."
Shocker. Eyes widened.
Duke's kid? Intimidating.
His count family solid, but dukes? Leagues above.
"Crush El Castle of Baron Castle."
"Palan Oclo of Count Oclo. Hope we get along."
"Derek Rahila of Count Rahila! Heh, dying to see what training's like—wish it'd start already."
Domino effect. Quick tally: four barons, one viscount, two counts, one duke. High average.
Wants training now? Already nuts.
Explained the grin amid grim faces.
"Rahila got draft orders? Thought you were exempt."
Ion eyed him puzzled.
Rahila: sword house pumping out Imperial Knights.
Famous enough in Palan's memories.
"Exempt, yeah. But soldier's my dream—great chance, so I came."
Oh... psycho.
Real volunteer. From a pampered count house.
"S-soldier dream? Cool."
"Heh, we're all soldiers now. Let's crush these two weeks. I'm pumped—gonna be fun."
No mockery—pure sincerity in face and voice.