Welcome to the Magical Defense Bureau! (2)
The definition of guerrilla training is a tactical exercise designed to teach soldiers how to launch surprise attacks on the enemy outside of fixed positions or established battle lines, adapting to the situation as it unfolds. That’s the first line you’ll find on NaXipedia. What I heard during my own training days sounded pretty similar, but honestly, that’s not the important part. My memory of guerrilla training is… well, I don’t remember the purpose or any of that crap. All I remember is that they worked people until they went completely insane.
“Uwaaaaaaaaagh!”
Ah, what a beautiful sight.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Why the hell did I have to get drunk that night?!
Bruno Barenfeld lay sprawled on the ground like he’d been completely drained. After being forced to participate in that madman’s training, every ounce of strength had been wrung from his body. He didn’t even have the energy left to lift a single finger.
All he could think about, over and over, was regret. If only he hadn’t drunk at the Third Prince’s birthday banquet. Or if he hadn’t provoked that lunatic Sternfeld. Or at the very least, if he hadn’t thrown up on the guy, maybe he could have avoided this nightmare.
“Ueeeeeeegh!”
Right beside Bruno, who was deep in his spiral of remorse, another recruit was currently vomiting in real time. The culprit was Elena, the only female member among the newly recruited personnel.
Ah, I want to run away.
It was a sentence that crossed his mind dozens of times a day, but right now Bruno felt it with far more desperation than usual.
“Aigoo, my back…”
Despite his groaning, the man who looked far more energetic than Bruno was Hans. Thanks to being twenty-five years old—physically in his prime—and the stamina he’d built up from years of farm work, he was holding up remarkably well through the brutal training. In fact, seeing a guy who could wield aura completely wiped out while a commoner like Hans kept going might actually make Bruno look pathetic by comparison.
“….”
Unlike Hans, the person lying motionless on the ground just like Bruno was Konrad Lebenstil. He had originally been a mercenary hired by the Third Prince’s faction—a 3-Circle mage. At twenty-five, the same age as Hans, he had zero aptitude for physical labor. He’d collapsed before PT even finished and had been exempted early, yet he was still lying there, completely out of it.
“Hmm. It looks like the muscles still aren’t getting enough stimulation.”
The one spouting such insane nonsense even after that hellish PT session was Helmut. He was the last of the trio they’d hired from the commoner village. With a refreshingly bald head—whether from shaving or natural causes—and deeply tanned bronze skin that made him look like he’d had a full-body spray tan, he was an impressively muscular giant.
While the other members took turns shouting the final cadence, causing the PT exercises to repeat several times, Helmut had deliberately shouted the last one even as the session was about to end. Even when Alvaro had given clear signals to stop, Helmut had kept yelling that they still needed more training. In the end, he was the muscle-obsessed troll who had forced everyone into mandatory rest.
“I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go back home!”
After a short break, once his stamina had recovered a little, the only thought in Bruno’s head was that he wanted to return to his family estate.
“I hate that muscle-crazed bastard, I hate this training, and I don’t even understand why a mage unit needs this kind of training! I want to go hoooome!!!”
It seemed the stress from the brutal training had finally driven him a little mad. After repeating “I want to go home” like a broken record, his complaints eventually shifted toward the person running the training—Alvaro.
“That crazy bastard already does nothing but troll people, and now he’s wearing some bright red hat that came from who-knows-where and acting even more unhinged! And what the hell is this training supposed to be for becoming a mage?! It’s harder than knight training, and there hasn’t been a single thing related to magic!”
“You seem to have a lot of complaints, Mr. Bruno?”
“Well, how could I not have com—plaints?”
Like an old, unoiled mannequin, Bruno stiffly turned his head. Of course, standing right there was Alvaro. Hadn’t they been on a break? Naturally, Alvaro hadn’t gone far, which meant he had heard every single word of Bruno’s loud, thoughtless grumbling.
“Training related to magic, you say. Right. Actually, I’ve been thinking about a certain training exercise for a while now. The afternoon session is going to be really fun, so look forward to it.”
“Um… Could we maybe cancel that?”
“No refunds, dear customer.”
Bruno had never paid any money, nor did he know what the word “customer” was supposed to mean in this context, but one thing was crystal clear: he was screwed. The rest of the unit—except for Helmut—stabbed him with intense, resentful glares.
“Anyway, morning training is over. Everyone enjoy your lunch and assemble back here at this clearing in one hour.”
With those words, Alvaro turned and walked away. Bruno remained frozen like a stone statue, staring motionless at his retreating back.
“…I’m fucked.”
It was time for afternoon training. Nice weather. Nice view.
Boom!Kwaaaaang!Shoooooo!Bang!
The screams were excellent. Everyone had such unique ways of screaming. Truly colorful.
The afternoon training consisted of letting the recruits actually experience magic before they started learning it properly. I figured it was necessary.
Why is running a real-life danmaku game on your own unit a necessary form of training? You know how in this medieval fantasy world, having a good imagination is practically a talent in itself? I’m a 21st-century modern person. I’ve consumed countless stories through movies, comics, novels, and all kinds of media. But what kind of content exists in a medieval fantasy world? At best, maybe some fairy tales written on parchment?
In short, people’s imagination and intelligence might not have changed much between the medieval era and modern times, but the foundation that imagination can grow on is overwhelmingly different. Therefore, compared to the locals of this medieval fantasy world, someone like me with a rich imagination would be able to demonstrate magic in a way that lets them learn much faster. And if they learn by getting hit, they’ll learn even faster. Simple. If you don’t know, you get hit. That’s all.
Got a problem with that? If you do, then surpass me and start giving me orders. Until then, if you bring me any other solution, I’ll respect it. Respect only.
Kwa-gwa-gwang!
Bruno still looked completely out of it. Wow, even while he’s frantically dodging magic, he’s still asking questions about it. I think his name was Konrad Lebenstil—the mercenary that Sir Essenrot found and sent over after hearing my request.
“Sir Lebenstil! I’ll explain after training is over!”
Tsk, tsk. You idiot. Instead of wasting time asking me questions, you should’ve been watching what was in front of you. You were already a defective product, and now your mind’s all over the place, so of course you’re getting hit again. Why is Sir Lebenstil treated differently? Because he’s not you, Bruno.
Anyway, the reason I could spam magic like this was obviously thanks to the artifacts I’d created. Especially the Altar Cannon. It efficiently pumped out mana even when using cheap magic stones as a power source and allowed for rapid fire. At this rate, I could keep shooting comfortably for another hour or two.
Besides, the magic I was currently using wasn’t a proper offensive spell like Fire Ball. It was training ammunition with greatly reduced destructive power, leaving only the impact. The spell loaded into it was a downgraded version of Fire Ball that I’d modified so it wouldn’t be lethal. If I had to give it a name, I’d call it Energy Bolt. Since it was based on 2-Circle magic, the mana cost for spamming it was much lower.
Whack!
“Ughk!”
Of course, that probably didn’t matter much to the person getting hit. Just now, an Energy Bolt had struck Hans square in the center of his forehead. Hmm. Even though I was the one who fired it, that looked pretty painful. Judging by that dull sound, he’s probably going to have a massive lump there. Well, it’s training, so getting hurt a bit should be fine.
Clatter!
That’s why I brought plenty of potions like this. They were cheap, but they could heal most ordinary wounds. Even if someone broke or scraped something, they should be able to return to training the next day. After all, getting hit by these wouldn’t cause any serious injuries.
“Hup! Muscles!”
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Was that Helmut? I have no idea why that guy was just standing there and taking the hits. I think that was some kind of side chest pose, but why was he striking that stance and deliberately not dodging the Energy Bolts? With that bald head and his muscle obsession, I’m starting to wonder whether I recruited people for a mage unit or for a dream of raising an otherworldly Ronnie Coleman. Surprisingly though, despite being such a muscle-brained idiot, his talent for mana was actually quite outstanding.
“Kyaaaaaaaaaah!”
The one screaming while dodging was Elena. Even though she kept screaming, she was skillfully avoiding the spells by paying attention to safe zones and using cover. I wasn’t sure if it was pure instinct or some hidden talent, but it was unexpected.
“Still, it looks like everyone’s following the training pretty well.”
Hmm. At this rate, maybe tomorrow I could switch from training Altar Cannons to the real combat versions? The original purpose of this education was to imprint the image of magic firmly into the recruits’ minds. This should be effective enough, right? As long as I don’t kill them or hit them too hard, it should be fine?
“Gwaaaaaah!”
Bruno’s death cry rang out once again. And so, the first day of training came to an end.