Chapter 33
Chapter 33
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Peter Jaeger, Taking Flight (3)
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The drum signaling the end of the mock battle echoed first, followed by the call for our battalion and the enemy battalion to straighten our ranks and return to our original positions.
The officer serving as referee grabbed the flag symbolizing the Jaeger Battalion, waved it high, and shouted.
"Jaeger Battalion victory!"
It was a simple, straightforward declaration, but nothing could have captured the outcome of this battle more perfectly.
Our battalion's only injuries were a few bruises on arms and legs from arrows or spear thrusts.
The Pommel Battalion, on the other hand, had been battered by clubs and spears until countless soldiers—including their battalion commander—were black and blue. Some were still too weak to stand on their own, groaning on the ground.
No one could argue against our victory.
Last time, when I'd beaten that punk Johan—who'd sniped at me, his senior, during the Rhineland Cadet Platoon Leader selection mock battle—the reaction had mostly been, "How could an orphan beat a noble?"
Was it because I'd racked up heroic feats on the Rhineland Front and earned the Crown Prince's favor, marking me as a promising young man?
From the seats behind me came applause and genuine admiration.
"Is that the command of the man called the Guardian God of the Rhineland Front?"
"Now I get why His Highness the Crown Prince took him under his wing. Beating a battalion commander who's served the Empire at least fifteen years longer, and so easily."
"A commander like that? I'd gladly give him my precious daughter! The young man's incredible. Don't you think, Lieutenant Colonel Richt?"
Before the student platoon leader exam—or rather, before proving my worth as a commander on the Rhineland Front—I could've never imagined hearing such encouragement and praise from nobles. It set my heart racing.
Meanwhile, the Pommel Battalion's officers, realizing their loss meant the end of their careers and promotions, trudged back to formation with dejected, defeated expressions.
In manga or novels, this is usually where they say, "You fought well," console each other, shake hands, hug, and make up.
But I'm no righteous, merciful protagonist from those stories. After a mock battle between nobles, I decided to pull off the classic: praise the loser just enough to twist the knife.
With that in mind, I removed my helmet as protocol demanded, handed it to a nearby soldier, and approached Lieutenant Colonel Pommel, who stood there in stunned dismay.
"I learned so much from this mock battle. Thank you truly, Lieutenant Colonel."
Normally, words like that are polite empty talk to spare feelings. But I meant every bit of it.
Because the tactics Lieutenant Colonel Pommel used were standard in Chekovia and other nations.
Crushing the Pommel Battalion let me confirm my proposed tactics would work against any foreign army.
And it gave real combat-like experience to a unit of green recruits—except for the NCOs who'd fought alongside me on the Rhineland Front—building their experience and confidence.
Who wouldn't love a guy who gives so freely?
But the freely giving lieutenant colonel before me clearly hated it. He ground his teeth, his voice dripping with venom.
"I never imagined you'd go so far as to make those ugly things called clubs just to win a mock battle. You were thoroughly prepared. No wonder I lost. Still, you didn't break any rules, and a commander never makes excuses. I acknowledge my defeat."
How desperate was he to demean me that he called clubs some novel invention? It was childish.
And even then, pretending to graciously admit defeat to save face? It was pathetic enough to be funny.
His military career was probably over, so he wanted to vent at the cause—me—with nonsense.
Back in Korea, playing AOA, I'd heard trash talk dismissed as the highest praise. Toughened by politics and toxicity in games, his drivel was softer than steamed pumpkin.
"Facing a veteran of your experience and renown, Lieutenant Colonel, I had to prepare meticulously—even inventing and crafting new weapons—knowing I'd be called sneaky. So please, don't be too upset."
Lieutenant Colonel Pommel flushed as my refined words boiled down to: "Even against an old washed-up has-been like you, I went all out and crushed you flat. No hard feelings."
As we exchanged a few more words, the referee officer ordered each battalion to return to positions.
The Pommel Battalion had marched in orderly fashion, but now they shuffled back haphazardly, weapons slung carelessly, no energy left for pride.
"Jaeger Battalion, left face! Forward march! Step in cadence. One, two, one, two."
My battalion wheeled crisply in drill formation and returned to the waiting area.
As we did, the spectators rose one by one, murmuring, and filed out of the mock battleground.
The site emptied in moments. Thinking I should treat my victorious battalion to a feast at my expense for celebration and encouragement, I headed back...
There, on large tables, lay a spread of delicacies I hadn't requested. And standing before them was a single woman.
Long silver hair, a slender yet toned figure impossible to forget at a glance, porcelain skin, and sharp, deep crimson eyes brimming with intelligence.
Yes.
The girl I'd seen once at the Academy, by the Rhineland Student Platoon Leader noticeboard. Her words, tone, and looks had stuck with me.
Daughter of Count von Venner, core of the Crown Prince's faction, and a key player in this novel: Laura von Venner.
I hadn't expected to see her again like this...
Unaware of my surprise, she greeted me in that cool, beautiful voice I'd glimpsed before.
"A pleasure to meet you, Sir Jaeger. I'm Laura von Venner, studying in the Knight Department."
"Captain Peter Jaeger. To what do I owe the visit?"
"After watching the mock battle, my father, Count von Venner, wished to comfort you and your men for their hard work with a modest spread to ease your fatigue. I've come to relay that—and to ask a few personal questions."
Her eyes suggested a long talk ahead. I gestured to a nearby table.
"I'm starving, so if time permits, shall we chat over a meal?"
Laura, perhaps expecting me to say I was tired from the battle and to come tomorrow, smiled faintly in relief and accepted.
I went to the head table, faced my soldiers and officers, raised my glass, and called out.
"A toast to Count von Venner for this feast, and to the Jaeger Battalion's decisive victory!"
The battalion responded, glasses high.
"Thank you, Count von Venner!"
"To the Jaeger Battalion's future!"
I circulated among companies and platoons, encouraging the officers. After about thirty minutes, I returned to Laura.
Her eyes sparkled as she asked.
"In the mock battle, the Pommel Battalion's spear wall shattered the moment they clashed with yours. It seemed due to your crossbowmen firing a volley just before contact. I don't quite grasp the principle—could you explain?"
In the novel's setting, she enjoyed studying military knowledge, but experiencing it was disorienting.
"It's simple. Pikemen train to fill gaps instantly if hit by arrows. But there's always a split second when the front line has holes. That's when the formation is weakest. Crossbows let you time the shot perfectly, creating openings right before melee—so your spearmen can plunge through."
"...I see. Then why use those clubs?"
"Pikes are easy to wield and intimidating; massed together, they're like a stone wall. But when enemy and ally clash, gaps form in that wall. Send club-wielders through, and the enemy line turns to chaos in seconds."
In real history, they'd use daggers to crawl under pikes and slash ankles, or two-handed swords to sweep or chop shafts. But my troops lacked the skill, so I focused on drill, formation marching as one, and simple clubs.
Whatever the weapon, as long as it smashed the enemy's pots, it was fine.
Clubs with pikes might even fell mounted knights better than greatswords.
Laura and I continued discussing military theory over Count von Venner's feast.
She asked about the Rhineland Front, probing my choices there in detail.
I answered clearly, at a level she could grasp. Her unexpected questions kept it tense and engaging.
That evening, Laura von Venner sought her father with a resolute expression, as if she'd made a firm decision.
"Father, I have a favor to ask."