Enforcing Discipline with an Iron Fist
Whether it's people or beasts, nothing teaches them their place like a good old stick. I launched myself forward without hesitation. No matter how much they'd scrambled on the front lines, these grunts without any special abilities couldn't hope to keep up with my movements.
"Wh-what the—!"
My first target was Rostador. I smashed a fist right into that bastard's face.
"Quack!"
With a scream like a duck's quack, Rostador's body crumpled. He'd passed out from a single blow.
"S-Sergeant!"
The other senior assholes stared at Rostador, who'd flopped onto the cold dirt like a sack of potatoes, their faces blank with shock. One of the slimy-looking pricks started backing away to report this little barracks mutiny to the company commander, but I drove a falcon punch straight into his gut.
"Gurgh!"
He went down making a noise just like Rostador, spewing the day's rations from his mouth. A soldier with no discipline at all. Wasting taxpayers' hard-earned money on food like that? Unacceptable.
"Clean up your own mess—eat it!"
"Guhh... My... stomach..."
"You think the duty officer's words are a joke? You look down on me 'cause I'm just a private second class!?"
These front-line rollers were this sluggish? Made me wonder what boot camp they'd crawled out of. It hit home again just how thorny a path it was to enlighten these idiots and root out military bullshit.
But someone had to walk that path. And right now, that someone was me. Frozen little Coren over there sure as hell wasn't up for it.
"Out here in the Morton Archipelago, nobody picks up after your spills! Shove it down with sheer grit!"
"Hiiik!"
I planted my foot on his finger, and the guy—face pale as a ghost—started scooping up his own vomit. Made me wanna puke just watching. Mood ruined, I booted his head.
Crack!
"Gaaah! I did what you said, why...?"
"No prayer of thanks for the meal!"
First things first—break one properly, then move on. I started beating the crap out of him head to toe. The other seniors just gawked at the nightmare unfolding, too stunned to even think of running. Smart choice. Try to bolt, and you'd inherit this bastard's baton.
"That guy's a real psycho... That necklace. Gotta be a 7th Personality cultist. They say only raving lunatics follow that shit. Spot on."
"We're fucked..."
Seemed they'd all clocked just how fucked they were. A bit late, but whatever.
"What're you all staring at? Heads down!"
My education was just getting started.
Regrettably, my "education" time was limited to nights. Too many eyes during the day to properly drill the squad.
If there's one tearjerker fact, it's how deeply the wrong mindsets were rooted in this squad. No clue how long it'd take to enlighten these avatars of ignorant bullshit, but I gave it my best shot.
Had 'em hold rifles upside down overhead while frog-jumping to pass helmets. Locked 'em under plank bunks and poked 'em with bayonets. When that didn't fix their heads, went for shock therapy—slapping each other's cheeks.
"No sign of remorse even now. Terrifying how ingrained this customary abuse is..."
"Guhh... We were wrong, so let us sleep now..."
"Blindly repeating 'we were wrong' ain't progress. Even after the duty officer's intervention, your skull's still packed with horse shit."
Otherwise, they wouldn't even try peeping on each other's jerk sessions.
"Fine. Final task. From now on, rock-paper-scissors in front of a mirror! Winner sleeps."
At that, the last holdouts among the seniors fainted dead away. Guess treatment could wait till tomorrow.
Thanks to my educational efforts, the next day passed without incident. One of two things: the seniors had a true epiphany and repented, or my threat to dismember their families and feed 'em to the pigs if they snitched worked.
Either way, no snitching vibes—relief. Our squad seniors broke into cold sweats at the sight of me. Key point: beat 'em just right, no visible bruises.
But the bootlickers weren't totally gone. 1st Squad was sorta whipped into shape, but other squads' seniors were the issue. Only me and Coren as fresh meat meant we were the oldest noobs company-wide, naturally stuck with crap duties. Like hell I'd take that lying down.
"Dos! Laundry—now."
2nd Squad leader orders me to wash their undies? I chucked the whole pile into the creek.
"Sorry, slipped while washing. But ain't the guy ordering the problem here!?"
"You little shit!"
One senior fainted and grabbed an entrenching tool.
"Fuck. War hits, we're 100% dying 'cause of him! Stockade or not, I'll kill the bastard!"
Of course, his swing never landed. Every attempt at physical punishment failed. Time to give that one some mental education too.
I flatly refused orders without a care. And nobody could punish me. More like, nobody could.
No MPs on Olba Island. Meant no room for 'em. Not even cooks—troops rotated kitchen duty.
"This shit's rookies' job anyway. You know what happens if it's crap?"
Hard labor makes sweets tempting. Dumped sugar into the veggie stew.
"Private Dos, sir! Too much!"
Coren said, face pale with fear.
"That so? Neutralize with salt then."
Dumped in an equal load. That day, the chow line overflowed. Company commander wired Tolroy Island HQ.
No real reply from HQ, apparently. Troop shortages, probably.
"Dos! Fix the drainage ditch. You. All of it!"
"Got it!"
I dug it 1 meter deep. Sergeant Haden tumbled in, sprained his ankle.
"This won't do. Captain! Next transport ship, send this guy back. I'll go mad otherwise."
"Just kill him. Say he died in combat?"
"No authority for summary execution."
Resentment toward me pierced the skies. One tried slitting my throat with a bayonet while I slept. Got personal mental education. Next day, he showed psychotic breaks.
"Finally, after ten wires, HQ replied. Next ship sends him back—with Corporal Jade showing sudden psychosis."
"Court-martial for him?"
"Probably."
I got locked in the supply warehouse. No brig, so improv.
About time.
Scenario: Engage Kyrria forces on Olba Island.
⏰ Time to Engagement:0:0:5:23
Five minutes till engagement. Casually unpacked lunch in the warehouse. Stuff from my inventory.
Item use dings quest rank, but couldn't help it. Local rations tasted like chewing rocks.
Make up for it elsewhere.
Engagement time. Outside, eardrum-shattering bomber roar erupted.
"Air raid! Air raid!"
Boom boom boom boom!
Shells swept the Kakil garrison. Vibrations shook the warehouse clear. Earth-shaking stuff. Ears rang like they'd burst.
Here we go.
I kicked the warehouse door open. Allies scrambling into view—diving into makeshift bunkers or flat on the ground. Looked up: dozen-plus bomber formation. Black dots dropping, growing larger.
Boom boom boom boom!
Monstrous shells rained everywhere. Epicenter a bit off from garrison—small mercy.
"Private Dos, sir! Get down!"
Coren rushed up, clutching a rifle. My N1 Gliko. I took it back.
"Kyrria bastards incoming! Battle stations, all!"
Air raid barely over, jungle side erupted with armed troops charging. Different uniforms from ours.
Their Kyrria vibe screamed from the frenzy. Bayonet charges like possessed maniacs.
"Charge!"
Frontline Kyrria tossed grenades our way. Raid-slowed response. Blasts had everyone clutching ears in agony.
"MG gunner! Suppress!"
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Deafening gunfire filled the field. Muzzle flashes distant, acrid smoke stinging nostrils.
I gripped my rifle instinctively. Life-and-death crossroads. Felt right at home.
"Down!"
At Coren's yell, I ducked behind the warehouse as cover. Despite MG fire, Kyrria pressed on. They'd charge through lava if needed.
Post-raid chaos, garrison messy—our counterfire sluggish. Kyrria clearly planned this hard.
Max kills here first.
I closed my eyes briefly. Etched the onrushing Kyrria in my mind.
Sweep with skill? Offset penalty with kills... Yeah. Test run.
Secretly formed a Holy Missile. Launched at the charging Kyrria frontline.
BOOM!
Massive blast swallowed five charging Kyrria troops.
Current Rank: F-
Quest rank plunged from F+ to F- in a flash.
Bigger penalty than thought.