Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Rhineland Cadet Platoon Leader Selection Exam (2)
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“Peter Jaeger Platoon, Johan von Hausenburg Platoon—proceed to the center of the drill field.”
The announcement carried no particular emotion, but it set my heart racing.
In the mock battle about to begin, if I crushed Johan's platoon with an overwhelming display of skill, the evaluation of me would shift—from an eyesore of a commoner orphan cadet to a promising future commander with real talent.
At the very least, in this mock battle, my abilities as a commander would be judged objectively, regardless of background or status.
“Jaeger Platoon! Step in unison—forward march!”
My platoon, myself included, moved with the precise height of our steps and stride length we'd trained for, flowing like a single organism.
Across from us, Johan's platoon maintained their lines and spacing, but their hands and feet moved in utter disarray as they marched.
In this era, where the very concept of drill didn't exist, our synchronized, disciplined march—hands and feet moving as one—shocked the onlookers. Even before the fight began, murmurs rippled through the crowd, mingled with sighs of dismay.
“Peter Jaeger, right? How the hell does that guy train his unit to match steps so perfectly? Did they spend the whole month just practicing that?”
“When my friends and I bet three silvers on who would win, I put it on Hausenburg... Am I gonna lose my money like this?”
“I can't see the details yet, but just from the march, they look like elite troops...”
Most people, when imagining elite units, picture soldiers with exceptional individual prowess.
But anyone with real knowledge of military science would agree that even if each soldier only has basic skills, a unit whose members synergize exceptionally well is a true elite force.
Before the modern era—where firepower and range exploded, turning massed formations into death traps—wars were battles of lines against lines, formations against formations. The collapse of those lines and formations decided victory or defeat; a broken front line meant total loss.
In such a world, synchronizing every movement through drill was incomparably vital compared to modern warfare, essential for holding any formation properly.
That's why my unit, with every motion perfectly aligned, appeared elite in their eyes.
Your shocked faces at the competence of the commoner orphan you all dismissed... It's a sight to behold.
Receiving that attention and focus, we stopped about twenty meters from Johan's platoon. The student council officer overseeing the match raised a flag, signaling halt, and spoke.
“You have five minutes from now to form your formations. Johan, Peter—you two cadets, arrange the optimal formation to defeat your opponent.”
The words had barely fallen when I turned to my soldiers and issued orders.
“From now on, form up exactly as I command. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Form four ranks of eight abreast. The eight crossbowmen take the rear, covering the spearmen ahead. On first clash, the front rank focuses solely on deflecting the enemy's spears; the rank behind thrusts to seize the advantage! Squad leaders, do everything to suppress the enemy!”
The front rank deflects the enemy attack, the second rank immediately follows with thrusts.
It might sound simple in words, but executing it is a demanding form of combat.
Because polearms are long but, unlike swords, hard to maneuver nimbly.
And when soldiers are clustered together, securing space to swing amid allies' arms, legs, and bodies is no easy task.
Of course, in my platoon, where every squad member moves by the book, such attacks are feasible until the chaos of melee erupts.
“After that, follow my commands and the deputy platoon leader's. Stay calm—they're our prey.”
The soldiers roared in response, and the flag signaling ten seconds to start rose.
Just before the match began, Johan, acting like he'd already won, taunted me with swagger in his voice.
“Know your place as a commoner and surrender to this noble now! Spare yourself the humiliation of a crushing defeat!”
Even for a noble like him, trash-talking in a mock battle was bad form.
Plus, speaking so casually to me—a mounted officer by rank—could be interpreted as insubordination outside the match.
With all the grudges piled up, a little payback before the start wouldn't hurt.
“Save your nonsense for your sleep-talk, Johan! Even a drunken lout staggering through the market speaks more politely than you!”
His face flushed red with rage, like a man deep in his cups. The overseeing officer, standing thirty meters away with a look of pity, made the declaration.
“The final mock battle of the day begins now! Fight fair and square, cadets!”
At those words, Johan and I advanced slowly, formations intact.
The distance shrank: ten meters, seven, five... until our spears were nearly within reach.
Johan, brimming with overconfident certainty that victory was his, bellowed from beside his infantry.
“Smash Peter Jaeger's platoon! It's rabble led by a commoner scum—victory is impossible for them! We will win and return triumphant!!!”
At his shout, my platoon's crossbowmen loosed their blunted bolts at the enemy front rank, who had pulled their spears back to thrust.
Eight shots for eight hits would have been ideal, but whether from our focus solely on unit cohesion or the tension of live combat throwing their aim...
Only about four or five struck true.
Yet for foes without real combat experience, fixated only on individual prowess...
“...”
“What the—? Arrows out of nowhere? Wait, front!!”
“You idiots, forget the guys hit beside you—watch the front!!”
That minor blow shattered their unity; they flailed in disarray, no longer a cohesive force.
Watching Johan's platoon—the one that scorned me—crumble was pure satisfaction, but it was too early to relax.
If we're going to smash them, as an officer, I should ruin their careers beyond repair right here.
“Now! Front rank—deflect spears! Second rank—thrust at the enemy before you on your squad leaders' marks!”
Johan tried to react as I commanded and prepared my attack, but...
My soldiers had already swept aside the half-broken enemy front rank's spears, and our second rank thrust in unison, neutralizing them.
Their spear formation was effectively shattered.
Johan's troops didn't even know proper formation fighting, but seeing their lines collapse and comrades drop to spears and arrows...
“Shit, we're done for!”
“I thought training under Platoon Leader Johan at the academy meant we'd win somehow, but we can't even touch them!”
“Damn those bastards—same rookies as us? Instructor must've scammed us!”
They hurled the highest praise while their morale plunged to rock bottom.
Seizing the opening, I drew my sidearm and charged into the broken enemy lines, shouting.
“Johan Platoon's front is routed! Everyone, follow me in a general charge! Crossbowmen, drop your bows and grab wooden swords—follow up!”
I kicked the gut of the enemy before me, toppling him, then struck his torso with my sword.
It felt like smacking a sandbag—hard shell, soft inside—with a baseball bat in both hands.
I bashed the helmet of a dazed, immobile foe to knock him out, then hammered the solar plexus of another lunging opportunistically.
My platoon followed suit, felling Johan's remaining soldiers one by one, cheering.
“We've won!”
“Drop your weapons and surrender, and we won't hit you—surrender!!”
Johan, seeing this, gripped his commander's wooden sword and rushed me, having resolved something.
But in his frenzy at his platoon's swift rout, his stance and every motion were sloppy.
I kicked his waist, sending him tumbling sideways, then pinned him as he tried to rise.
I hammered three grudge-filled punches into his defiant face, then leveled my wooden sword at his throat and declared.
“I, Peter Jaeger, have defeated Johan von Hausenburg and his platoon!”
My soldiers erupted in cheers, and the referee officer, wide-eyed in surprise, declared.
“Mock battle victor: Peter Jaeger!”
Only then, with my victory announced, did voices from the stands reach us.
“That senior's definitely the fourth-year commoner orphan, right? Hausenburg's mid-tier at best, sure, but this doesn't even look like cadets fighting. Could an instructor do that well in the same spot?”
“...Rookies with just a month of training, for real? Jaeger-senior's unit wrecked them like elites toying with newbies. Hidden talent all along?”
“Hausenburg's officer career is toast now. Jaeger's platoon was strong, but that thorough a thrashing...”
There was a hint of pity for the humiliated Hausenburg.
But their real focus was the reserve officer Peter Jaeger, whose wings had been clipped for four years as an orphan.
From the evaluations I overheard, my image as the ultimate loner fourth-year had vanished among them.
Better results than expected.
I could thrive on the front lines and climb the ranks just like this.
Bathed in their mix of goodwill and shock, I finished the final match. A week later, my platoon and I were dispatched to the Rhineland Front.