Chapter 39
Chapter 39
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 39
Chapter Title: Guerrilla Drills and Rookies
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The plain on the outskirts of downtown, serving as our temporary training ground, was already buzzing with rookies who'd arrived early. They stood in crooked lines, chattering noisily.
"Fuck, they say mercenary training kicks off with spear-handling on day one, so why the hell haven't they handed out spears yet?"
"You idiot, they gotta start the training first before they give us spears or whatever."
"Fuck, do you have to talk like that? Watch your goddamn mouth if you don't wanna die."
These fresh meat shields, barely out of diapers and acting like real mercenaries now that training was starting, were already growling at each other.
"I joined the White Beard Mercenary Corps 'cause they're supposed to have some real pull, but what kinda training are they gonna put us through? Gotta be brutal beyond imagination, right?"
"...You got hammered last night. They said anyone confident they could puke it up could head back."
"Hah, fuck, I should've paid for a whore to pop my cherry instead. Blame my dick for having a brain of its own—what a mess."
Swept up in the hype and joining our mercenary corps, we had a colorful mix—from trembling cuties to all sorts.
The guy in the red hat next to me, Baker, grinned ear to ear.
"Aren't those little chicks chirping and fidgeting just too damn cute, Platoon Leader?"
"You think so? Fuck, I'm already fuming thinking how to turn those worthless shits into actual humans."
Baker started wiggling his fingers weirdly, laughing like a maniac.
"Aw, c'mon. We've been fighting side by side since that scrap under Count Zaltzheim. We'll play 'drill instructors' and help out—what's there to worry about? No need to fret..."
Before he could finish, I channeled a bit of aura and smacked him upside the head.
Simple reason: I hated seeing this fresh-off-the-meat-shield-sticker punk strutting around.
"You act up too, and I'll drag your ass through guerrilla drills with them. Wanna spin like a top together?"
Baker clamped both hands over his mouth the second he heard that.
'Smart and quick when it counts.'
I clicked my tongue inwardly, then climbed onto the makeshift platform.
I clapped my hands, but the bastards barely noticed, still yapping away.
No matter the era or world, new recruits in the army are always scatterbrained pains in the ass with zero situational awareness.
"Attention, you brain-dead fuckups whose only skills are drinking and fucking!!"
I bellowed, drawing their eyes my way. I kept pouring aura into my voice so it drilled right into their eardrums.
"Nice to meet you, you worthless weaklings! I'm Martin Meyer, platoon leader of the White Beard Mercenary Corps. I'll be turning you decorative-headed posers into soldiers who can pull their weight over the next two months."
They stared at me with blank eyes, then gawked at each other in confusion.
Classic rookie dumbfuck behavior.
"No long speeches. Your platoon leader here can be a demon fresh from hell depending on your bullshit—or an angel showering you with meat and booze every day. So pick what you want!"
I said that, but in the army, not a single instructor who spouts this line turns out to be an angel.
Of course, neither would I. That's how I'd stick in their memories.
Then I had the mercenary soldiers playing drill instructors teach the chicks basic drill.
At ease, stand at attention, align forward, gather at arm's length, attention, left face, right face—the basics.
'I'd love to spin 'em with drill first, but stamina comes before that.'
"Now watch your instructor closely."
I pulled out the guerrilla calisthenics from my head and ran through moves one to fourteen.
The rookies snickered, thinking the goofy motions were a joke.
"That shit's easy as fuck. Who can't do that? I could do it blindfolded. Guerrilla training my ass—total bullshit! It's just playtime."
"Day one's super lenient. I'm liking this easy start."
"Anyone with limbs can do it, 'cept maybe retards."
Seeing that, I laughed my ass off inwardly.
Sure, each move alone is simple... but infinite loops? Doubt any of these chicks knew what that'd do.
"Alright, I'll demo the first five rounds with you. Follow along. High jumps, thirty reps—start! One, two, three, four!"
Normally, high jumps count one-two-three with a jump only on three.
But I ignored that crap, doing quick hops on two and higher on four—full motion.
Rookies handled the first fifteen okay...
"One, two, three, four, thirty... huff, huff... fuck, this sucks..."
With weights on hands and feet, thirty reps done—they were gasping, sweat pouring like rain.
I kept the momentum, ordering forty reps each of one through fourteen.
"...Save me, fuck... gonna die here, forget being mercenaries..."
"Arms hurt... legs numb, this fucking sucks..."
"Mommy, save me..."
All gasping like dying men, shooting me pleading glares full of complaints, begging for rest. But I wasn't budging.
"All up! Back to bed position, prep for eight!"
One rookie snapped, charging me mid-lie-down.
"Fuck you, asshole! Feels like dying—how the hell more eights?!"
I got his frustration...
'Gotta show rebellion's pointless—just gets you beat. Then they'll listen.'
I let him close in, then sidestepped slightly—his momentum sent him sprawling with my fist swing.
"Ugh."
I grabbed his collar, channeling aura into one hand to hoist him like a paper doll.
Big, burly guy—but effortless. He dangled limply, and the rookies buzzed, clocking my superhuman strength.
"Hey, you little shit. Figured I was all talk since I hadn't smacked you yet, huh?"
The lanky fucker hit the dirt hard from inertia—face scraped bloody, one eye swollen shut.
Elbows and knees shredded through clothes, blood streaming.
"Funny, huh? Think this is Mommy's lap where you whine and rebel for treats?"
"N-no, sir..."
"Wanna see how much beating you can take without dying or breaking bones? Tomorrow, all bruised up for more drills—sound cute? Hate it? Back to spot in five."
He scrambled back; all eyes locked on me.
"Hah, fuck... Planned easy for day one, but you lot? No dice. Eight, fifty reps. How many?"
After seeing him turn ragdoll bloody...
They steeled up, eyes fierce.
"Fifty reps!"
"Don't count the last! Execute!"
"Argh!"
"One, two, three, one!"
They swung legs left-right on my cadence.
Left, center, right.
At their toughest spot...
"One, two."
I stopped calling; faces hardened.
"Legs... tingling... save me, fuck..."
"Uwaaaagh!"
"Feels like ripping—save me or just kill me, fuck..."
Counted a minute mentally, resumed—repeated twice.
No final call, thankfully. But for day one discipline and stamina...
"Prep eleven, all squat! Eleven, thirty reps! How many?"
"Thirty!!!"
"Skip final call! Execute!"
"Argh!"
Sobs mixed with their grunts on my commands.
They'd wanna kill me post-training; I'd be the orphan scum in their eyes.
'Better sweat now than die later.'
"Watch it—that all you got?!"
"No, sir!!!"
"Give it everything! War makes this nothing! Next week's drill'll be worse!"
"Argh!!!"
Thirty elevens done—they collapsed, drenched, face-down.
"Save me, really dying..."
"No feeling in arms or legs—dying like this? Fuck, wanted more sex..."
"Mom, Dad..."
Some puked on the ground.
"Blaaaargh..."
Any more, and deaths might happen.
Plus, surviving day one beat my expectations—they had potential.
"Pathetic. Collapse at this and be proper mercenaries?"
"Argh!!! No, sir!"
"Fine, looks like more'd kill you. Thank Platoon Leader Martin's mercy. Dismissed—rest up!"
Smiles bloomed at "rest."
"Disappointed in your attitudes today, but I believe tomorrow's better."
"Sir!"
I nodded.
"Good. Special treat: all the meat you want today. Head in, eat, rest. See you tomorrow."
For two months after, I drilled them mercilessly with guerrilla PT, formations, stamina—no room for daydreams.
Soon, we joined the Reinpaltz Empire against the Montmart Kingdom.
...Past wars were games with rules. From now? Pure dogfight.