Nobles' First Brush with Military Discipline
“Doesn't sound fun at all, but you're being so positive. I'm terrified of going to war and dying.”
Crush said it with the look of a man on death's row.
But did he really not get it?
Derek tilted his head, face full of confusion.
“Isn't dying in war the highest honor? Buck up. We're soldiers now.”
A sentence pieced together from every word that could rake someone's heart.
Talent, to say something like that.
“If you die, it's all o—”
“Haha, as expected from a family that guards the imperial house. Your patriotism is off the charts. I'm impressed.”
Ion jumped in quick, spotting the brewing argument, and shut it down.
And then silence fell again.
This time, it was the instructor who broke it.
■■ Broadcast to all dorms.
Uniform inspection incoming. Assemble at the small training field in front of your dorms. End of transmission.
“There'll be a ton of people anyway, so it'll take forever to gather. Let's hang back and go slow.”
Ion, with zero military experience, dropped that horrific take.
Oh man, is he nuts?
Even bolting out now might earn a chewing out—this was a training camp. Dawdling? Insane.
It was shocking, but that wasn't the end of it.
“Same here.”
“Nobles need that leisure. Noted.”
These deranged noble kids were praising the idea like it was genius.
You idiots! Trying to slack in the army—no, in a training camp? You've lost it.
It took everything not to curse them out.
“Don't you think we should head out sooner? Points are on the line.”
Couldn't bolt alone, so I tossed out a suggestion.
But all I got back were lazy noble replies.
“Too tired. Let's rest a bit. No way they dock points just for lining up first.”
“Yeah. Front row draws eyes. Back is better.”
Taylor from a baron's house and whiny Pluto's words hit like a migraine.
These psychos. This is the army!
The future if we went late was crystal clear. No giving up.
“Just trust me once and go now? Bad vibes.”
“You can go first alone...”
“If you put it that way, let's all trust Palan for once. No big loss rushing a little.”
There we go, big bro Ion.
Started with a dumb idea, but he actually listened to a mere count's son.
“If that's how you see it, fine.”
“Finish quick, crash after.”
Top dog in the room spoke, and it was law. Everyone got up and headed to the hall.
Holy shit, what is this?
Shockingly, the hall was dead quiet—everyone on the same page.
“What company, what platoon?”
Outside, an instructor in a red cap with two diamonds glared murderously.
“Company? What—”
“We haven't been informed yet!”
Crush nearly slipped, but I blocked it and gave the model answer.
“Not broadcast yet? Dorm floor and room number.”
“First floor, room 7!”
“Up to room 4 is 1st Platoon. You're 1st Company, 2nd Platoon. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Fall in four ranks deep in front of your platoon's flag.”
Flags marked platoons on the ground per his words.
“That way. Follow me.”
Led the frozen roommates to the 1st Company 2nd Platoon flag and lined up.
“Trainee, name?”
He approached—liked my moves, apparently.
Ugh, hate standing out.
Stuck with these spoiled brats, basic common sense made me ace material.
“Palan Oclo, sir!”
“You seem military-minded. Show your best this chance.”
Instructor, what the hell?
Military aspirations? Only a lunatic would want that.
“I... I'll give my utmost effort, sir!”
“Good. About a minute passed now.”
He checked his watch, smirking evilly—like a demon.
■■ Broadcast to all dorms.
Fail to emerge in 15 seconds? Entire group minus 5 points. Points tie direct to grades—judge wisely. End transmission.
Thud thud thud thud!!!
Footsteps exploded right after.
Dorm holdouts pouring out in a panic.
Shaking at penalties, huh.
Who'd want frontline? Crush of trainees flooding like an avalanche.
Notable: early groups like ours separated out.
“Need me to say it twice?!”
Voice and face savage enough to suspect a swap. Red cap triggered full PTSD.
“No soldier spirit? Instructor's job to etch it in your bones. Late trainees—all prone flutter kicks!”
Noble trainees grimaced but feared points, dropped and assumed position.
“One—soldier! Two—spirit! As you rise. Botch it? Penalty. One!”
“Sol... soldier.”
Creaky motions from trainees.
Awkward for sure. Most lived like emperors at home.
“Trainee, name?”
Instructor squatted eye-to-eye with one.
“Lekia Osen, sir.”
“Right, Lekia trainee.”
Nodded, fiddled hat... then erupted.
“Eyes front straight?! This your bedroom?! Deeper! Execute!”
Roar inches away.
Then bolder.
Thwack!
“I waited a full minute for trash like you! Lowest in the army, and you think you can slack? Out of your damn minds!”
Stomped Lekia's back flat.
Couldn't hold, collapsed. Instructor tsked.
“You're penalized. Up and fix it.”
Assistant jotted name. Real penalty.
Glared at rest, roared again.
“Not at two yet! Who rises? Two!”
“Spi... spirit!!”
Overwhelmed, now instinct kicking in over fear.
“Voice too weak! Communicate like that on battlefield? One!”
“Soldier!!!”
“Two!”
“Spi... spirit!!!”
“Can't grasp 'loud'? One!!!!”
“Soldier!!!!!”
.
.
.
Nearly 30 rounds of punishment.
Lucky us—early out spared the brutality.
Imagine caught in that... dizzying.
Chilling just thinking.
“First day mercy—ends here. Shape up. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Got it.”
Mixed replies.
Even after punishment, these noble heirs were hopeless.
“Now march to uniform warehouse. Platoons, four ranks. Execute.”
Humans adapt quick.
Formation faster than orientation.
“1st Company 1st Platoon, follow this instructor.”
Our 2nd tagged behind 1st's tail to the warehouse.
“Palan, ignoring you nearly doomed us.”
Crush, looking a decade older, spoke up.
Yeah, you get it. Good.
Hoped this woke him—but doubtful.
“Luck. And in training camp, max effort seems smart.”
“Agreed. Just two weeks decides frontline or rear.”
Ion nodded along.
Yes, solid mindset. About time.
Not even five weeks—mere taste.
Man up and grind, right?
Roomies' enlightenment felt great.
“Not bummed? Cutting 12-week officer training to two. Dad said tons of memories here.”
Derek's habitual nonsense.
Ignore—worthless.
“Arms up, chest out.”
Tape measure at warehouse, got two uniforms, bundle of gear.
Massive haul.
Socks to undies.
Live in this now, probably.
“Ugh, cheap rags on me? Insane.”
“Not silk! My skin's sensitive! Alternatives?!”
Still-clueless nobles demanded silk from distributors.
“Trainee, uniform not to taste?”
Instructor's kind visit.
Punishment-fresh fear muted their volume.
“N-no, sir!”
“Then received—dismiss. Why dawdle!”
“Yes, sir...!”
No punishment for this?
Overlooking silk drivel? Angel instructor confirmed.
Issue: Angels have limits. Our pure-evil nobles? Satan-weeping level.
“Extra pay for silk upgrade. Clan handles materials, repairs...”
“Trainee.”
Grabbed shoulder of option-upgrading fool.
Face inches close.
“Prone flutter kicks!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Now, two-week program and training camp rules.”
Changed to uniforms, no rest—straight to auditorium.
Chairs at least eased the body.
“Who dares doze while I speak?!”
Roar before starting.
Sleepy trainee jerked awake.
“Assistants: spot dozers, penalize immediate.”
Assistants mobilized.
Trainees straightened, focused.
Readied, instructor continued.
“On penalties first. You know, but camp ranks by points.”
Army grading system.
So vile, so petty.
“Graduation eve, trainees pick preferred assignments by rank. Importance obvious.”
Their futures hooked 'em—ears perked.
“Penalties: straggling, disobeying, dorm violations. Your show today? Penalty-free gets top ten easy.”
Deeply agreed.
Seriously, might be easier than thought.
Harsh, but these guys? Uniform trash tier.