Barracks Rules and the First Blunder
“Extra points are awarded for excelling in training beyond others or for acts of merit, but I doubt we'll be handing any out to you candidates, so no need to worry about it.”
Yeah, I figured as much.
Would be nice to get some, but no point stressing over it.
The key was avoiding deductions.
“Next, about the schedule. Normally, officer candidate training lasts 12 weeks.”
Twelve weeks—84 days if you counted straight.
Just hearing it made my breath catch.
“But due to the special circumstances of wartime, we've shortened it to 2 weeks. A real shame.”
Not a shred of regret on my end—what the hell was he talking about?
Two weeks is still too damn long.
Every single day here felt like hell to me.
“With the time cut short, we'll focus training on the essentials. But the Imperial Army doesn't need stupid officers, so the amount of academic study remains the same.”
I couldn't believe my ears. This had to be some twisted logic that defied reason.
So they're cramming 12 weeks of studying into 2?
The faces of me and the other candidates hardened like stone.
“Basic schedule: physical training until evening, then classroom sessions here from dinner until 2 a.m..”
My hands shook at this murderous timetable that could slap even Daechi-dong prep school kids into oblivion.
“Classes start today. Training begins tomorrow morning with drill and marching, so keep that in mind.”
Two sessions a day, plus studying till 2 a.m.
This is straight-up telling us to drop dead.
Wasn't the military rule that you could hit the sack by 10 p.m. at the latest?
My common sense was crumbling in real time.
“Finally, the barracks rules you'll be deducted for constantly—take notes.”
This was crucial info from experience; I wanted to jot it down, but no notebook.
Guess I'll have to memorize it.
As I braced to commit it to memory, Ion beside me pulled out a notepad and an expensive-looking fountain pen from his pocket.
Prepared much?
Couldn't pass up the chance to mooch.
“Mind if I copy your notes later? I want to write it down but don't have a pad.”
“Sure, I'll show you back at the room.”
“Thanks!”
“Worth carrying it as a habit.”
As expected from a rich kid—prepared from the jump.
“Most common deduction: lying in bed outside lights-out. Caught? Two points off, no excuses.”
“Ehhh?!”
“We can't lie down? Ridiculous!”
Shocked and despairing voices erupted from the noble brothers all around.
“Unannounced inspections: dirty room or person? Two points each, up to four total. Keep it clean.”
An endless list of deductions.
Must be a cultural shock for these nobles.
“That's it. Questions? Raise your hand.”
Hands shot up the second he finished.
Why so many questions? Ominous.
To me, the explanation was straightforward—no queries.
But our noble brothers? Faces screaming curiosity.
“You there in front. Ask.”
The pointed candidate stood.
And the question he spat out? A spectacle.
“Do we have to clean ourselves? Wouldn't it be more efficient to call our family maids?”
Were they the normal ones and I the weirdo? Their consistency was starting to make me doubt.
No, they're just nuts. Bringing maids to a training camp?
As I shook my head, something even more shocking unfolded next to me.
“Great idea. Us nobles cleaning ourselves? Absurd.”
“I'll contact the family. Tell 'em to bring snacks too.”
Pluto and Crush nodded at each other.
Didn't you guys swear to get your shit together?
Guess that was just my delusion again.
“Hah.”
The instructor—clearly sharing my frustration—scowled and pulled his cap low.
“Candidate, front and center. Execute.”
“Y-yes...?”
The questioner stepped forward with a confused look.
“Repeat: you asked if maids can clean the barracks?”
“Yes, pros do it better and cleaner. Want me to clean your room too, sir?”
Oh, madlad. Absolute psycho.
I wanted to rush out and shut that mouth myself.
“Haa, these fuckers...”
The instructor sighed, head dropping.
Fuming, obviously.
But his response? Unexpected.
“Forget that nonsense ever working. No more questions. Dismissed for dinner.”
I'd braced for a lion's roar, but he just walked out.
What... the hell? Super ominous.
He was pissed—skin-crawling levels—and yet it blew over?
Impossible.
“Let's eat. Too much drama in too little time—I'm starving.”
Once more, we marched in four-column formation to the mess hall.
Facilities here are top-notch, for real.
Self-serve: seven dishes. I piled my plate accordingly.
“Whoa, looks tasty.”
Meat for starters.
Salad too—this was solid for three squares a day.
But our picky noble brothers? Complaints incoming.
“Meat's overcooked. Tough as hell—how do they expect us to eat this?”
“Where's the cake? No dessert? Unacceptable.”
Prime punishment bait, but luckily no instructors in sight.
They honor 'don't bother a dog while it's eating,' huh?
No issues likely, so I ignored the noble bullshit and grabbed a seat.
“Enjoy your meals, everyone.”
“Dig in.”
“Not the worst.”
Quick greetings, fork up, first bite of meat.
Oh... damn good.
Sure, count's table was better, but comparing was unfair.
If army chow was this decent, my 21 months might've been less hellish.
Where I came from? Pure garbage.
Calling it food waste might piss 'em off.
Hence the frozen meals—body took a beating.
Without steady workouts, I'd have mustered out obese as fuck.
Messing with conscript grub when they had nowhere else to earn? Hard to forgive.
“Tomorrow's training worries me. Never done sports.”
Crush asked with a fretful face.
Tomorrow: drill and marching, right?
Drill was more education than training—no big physical strain.
Unless some idiot triggered group punishment.
Marching's the issue.
Marching: run till you drop, by the name alone.
“Never run normally?”
“Nah, read books instead. You too, right, Palan?”
“Yeah... sure.”
Stung equating me—national fitness test elite—with him, but undeniable.
This body was no different from Crush's.
Did a week of pre-enlistment workouts. Hope it holds.
Distance would decide.
Most nobles are skinny pigs or full pigs—high intensity's impossible.
If they tried, great—total washout meant stragglers anyway.
“Scary, but let's push together.”
“Agreed.”
Short chat, dipped bread in sauce.
What makes this so good?
Meat was meat, but sauces were killer here.
“Gonna be fun. Complete first march, get extra points?”
Tone-deaf Derek beamed expectantly.
Kid thinks training's a race?
Possible, but army drills I knew? Nah.
“You work out often, Derek?”
Ion asked, slicing meat beside me.
“Yeah, more than peers. Mountains mornings, knight training afternoons...”
We all gawked at his killer schedule.
This place might be a resort for him.
Explains the enlistment hype.
“Incredible.”
“I'd die first.”
“Huh? It's fun. Body itches without sweat.”
Itch sans sweat? Zero empathy.
We skipped replies, focused on food.
Meal wrapped quicker than expected; back to barracks.
“Ugh, perfect nap time.”
Pluto eyed his bed with lust.
Buddy, already craving bed?
Unmatched boldness.
But the real MVP spoke.
“Thought about it: if we don't get caught? One scouts 10 minutes, others nap?”
Duke heir for a reason.
Even I nodded at Ion's genius plan.
That... could work.
Our room was far from the entrance.
Spot instructor, wake 'em—plenty of buffer.
“Ooh! Future duke material. Genius idea.”
Pluto thumbs-upped the ass-kiss.
“Haha, thanks. Order by rock-paper-scissors?”
“Fine.”
“Wanna nap ASAP. Let's go.”
No hesitation—RPS started.
Wanted to object, but body and mind screamed fatigue.
Fine, foolproof setup.
Perfect cover's invincible, right?
This was airtight.
“No show, you lose!”
“No show, lose!”
...
...
Crowd meant multiple rounds; miracle—I took first.
“I'll go first.”
Scout first, then crash—smart play.
“Second's me.”
“I'll take last.”
Order set; roomies excluding me hit the sack.
These guys got guts.
Too scared for blankets, yet they burrowed right in.
The 'die for 2 weeks' crew actually croaked?
Wanted to call it out, but I joined in—no room to talk.
“Quiet.”
No ants in the hall sans bathroom-goers.
Probably slumped in chairs or boldly bedding down.
Wasn't there theory class post-dinner?
Time for a recall to the hall, yet no summons.
Not giving free time, so dinner still going?
Guard duty: boring as hell, thoughts rampant.
“Ugh.”
Halfway through 10 minutes, stretched for relief.
One minute, two...
Shift nearing, yawns building...
Knock knock!
Tap from behind—like knuckles on wood.
Whipped around—eye contact.
With the red-capped instructor outside the window, grim-faced.
Why the fuck are you... there?
Brain froze; mouth wouldn't move.
He opened the shut window.
Stepped in smooth—freeze now, we're dead.
“A-all hands, up!”
Roared loud enough for the far end to hear, waking the sleepers.
“Ugh, wha...?”
Awake roomies froze at the unbelievable scene.
You worthless shits! Move your asses outta bed!
Escape the crime needs sync—they got none.
“Thought I said no bedding down. My words not clear?”
Voice dripping rage.
This was it.
“S-sorry, sir!”
Bowed without a second thought.
“Candidate, didn't hear no-bedding rule?”
Instructor closed on Crush, fumbling out of bed.
“I... heard it.”
“Then why the fuck are you lying down!!!”
The lion's roar finally erupted.
Crush's bangs flew back.