The Daily Grind (3)
Mornings in the army, it seemed, came early in every era without exception.
They woke you before the sun had even risen, and the moment you were awake, they shoved a task straight into your hands. Where the army of my past life tormented its soldiers with bugle calls and loudspeakers, this one made do with drums and shouting — proof, apparently, that no matter how far civilization advances, humanity has achieved precious little progress in the art of dragging a person out of bed.
If there was any consolation, it was that last night had been genuinely pleasant. A tent for a roof, a blanket for a bed — and above all, far less of that nose-stinging reek of blood. Measured against the past three months of my experience, this alone qualified as a leap forward worthy of the history books.
To me, right now, the inside of this tent was the Burj Al Arab. It was also the Townhouse Galleria.
"Aaarghh…!"
Not that I didn't want to savor this precious luxury of sleeping under a roof for as long as I could — but what could I do? Born a human being, a person's got to work. "In my next life, let me come back as a cat."
Ah, and this one I saw with my own two eyes: cats in this world really do have nine lives. I personally watched a creature that had been burnt to a crisp in the ruins of a sacked town pop back to life with a cheery little boing!
Even Jesus needed three days for his resurrection, and that cat managed it three times faster. And judging by the soldier who tossed it a scrap of bread, cat moms exist here too.
"Lucky bastards…."
If I had nine lives and a mother, I'd have spent my days trying this and that, too. It's not as if I rummaged through corpses because I wanted to live this way — that's all I'm saying.
From what I'd worked out, the options available to me had boiled down to three. First, becoming a Corpse Crow, like I was now. Second, begging. Third, the night streets — no two ways about it. In the end, my current situation had simply been the best of a bad lot.
"Haaah…."
Muttering stray thoughts as I marched along, I soon arrived at the Supply Officer's barracks. My new workplace. The miracle employer that provided three square meals a day and paid a daily wage of five coppers!
From what I'd gathered, a family of four got by on roughly five silver pieces a month, which meant my handsome little wage worked out to something well above minimum wage. Not bad at all.
"Whew."
A short, deep breath in front of the tent. What is the first virtue of a new employee? Eagerness, of course. Why else would I have skipped breakfast this morning and shown up with a loaf of bread in hand?
Heart grown steady, I pulled open the tent flap wearing a crooked little smile.
"Good morning, sir!"
"Mm. So you came."
Still half-asleep, apparently, he returned my greeting between gulps of black tea. Honestly, the man's luck defies belief. Is this place set in France, by any chance? I'm itching for a revolution. Absolutely dying of envy here.
"What's that you're holding?"
Doing my best to hide the ache in my stomach, I walked up to his desk — and he spotted the loaf in my hand and asked. "It's bread. I brought it to share."
It pained me, but I held it out with a bright grin. Look, I knew perfectly well that a bit of bread like this was nothing to His Worshipfulness over there. But sincerity, by its nature, lives not in the value of the gift but in the hand that offers it. I'd given it some thought: now that I'd landed a job, wouldn't it be a bonus on top of a bonus if I got chummy with my superior and could slack off a little now and then?
Viewed coldly, my situation at this moment in time, there was no better workplace to be found. Free food, a free bed, and — if luck held — even the possibility of climbing the ladder to a high position. It had apparently sorted out the problems of my age and status on its own, too. Currying favor with the Supply Officer, my new commanding officer, could cost me nothing and gain me everything.
"…I'm fine. You eat it."
But for all my sincerity, a refusal was what came back. Hmm. I don't understand this man. Do you have any idea how good this bread is? Ah, I suppose it's because it isn't cake. A revolution really does look necessary, at least once.
Still, one silver lining survived the rejection: the bread would end up in my stomach after all. Without much regret, I took my seat — and just as I raised the bread for my first bite —
"Why are you sitting down all of a sudden?"
"…Because I have work to do?"
Now, my 'work,' for the record, was the dream job of simply copying down whatever was dictated onto paper. There was no need to do that standing up, hence the sitting — and yet, why are you sitting? I had sat in that very chair for my interview just yesterday, so surely he wasn't thinking something like, a lowborn… in a chair?
"It's morning, is it not. Off to training."
"…Isn't this the supply division?"
"Are you not a soldier?"
Before I could even begin to process what fresh nonsense this was —
"Go."
Ah.
This by-the-book company-commander son of a bitch.
A week that lasted seven days had passed. Meaning, quite simply, that time had flowed with utter honesty.
"Hoo… hoo…."
One thing I'd learned over the past week: this Supply Officer — my boss — was a hopeless, dyed-in-the-wool principlist. How else does a man run training every single day without missing a single one?
Does counting grain require a sword? Does bookkeeping require jumping jacks? Are the sacks of flour planning to make a run for it?
Granted, in this world they might — but at least the sacks under my watch had sat quietly in their stacks for a full week now.
"Your arms are dropping."
"Hoo… I know…."
It wasn't that my body refused to cooperate — well, no, that was exactly it. The tip of the wooden sword in my two-handed grip kept sagging toward the ground. Lift it and my shoulders screamed; lower it and I earned a look. The former was the pain of the flesh. The latter was the pain of workplace social life. Either way, I lost.
But what could I do? When the man says chop, you chop.
"Last five."
By now I knew the ulterior motive buried in those words. Do five more, get scolded for sloppy form and handed two extra. Finish those two, and he demands one final, properly executed repetition. I could count circles around the man, but the tally was entirely at his discretion.
"Ngh!"
I raised the wooden sword and brought it down. The wind split with a short hiss along the arc of my swing, and the cloth wound around my palms slipped across the raw skin beneath. It hurt — but I didn't drop the sword. In the early days, my fingers would have given out right about here.
"……Hm?"
"Don't stop."
Son of a bitch.
Thinking, however, was not among a soldier's virtues, so I filed it away for later. First, I had to finish the man's so-called final repetition.
After training, work. After work, food. After food, sleep. And the moment my eyes opened — training, again, again, and again….
Being fed and housed — wasn't that supposed to be the army's greatest virtue? It still held true. It had merely omitted the fine print: they worked you as hard as they fed you, and housed you for the express purpose of working you some more. Truly airtight welfare.
"Hmmm…."
And now it was free time — the few meager hours a day that belonged to me. There could be no better time to get my thoughts in order.
"Something's off here…."
A genuinely strange feeling had settled over me. I looked back over the past few days of training. On the first day, I'd managed two laps around the camp before collapsing. Second day, two laps again. Third day, a barely-scraped-by three.
And today? A full four laps.
My impression that I was about to die had not changed in the slightest. It was just that the point at which I started feeling like dying kept creeping further and further back.
"Hmm…."
The wooden sword was the same story. In the beginning, merely lifting the thing required solemn resolve. Swinging it was a greater ordeal still, and stopping a swing mid-arc? Ha. Practically a national crisis, that was. So how about today?
"…It works now, is what I'm saying."
I picked up the wooden sword lying at my side. My palms stung; I shifted my grip slightly, and the pain slipped aside. Feet apart, back straight. Twisting my hips, I brought the sword up and down in one motion.
— Shwack!
No mirror, so I couldn't see myself, but judging purely by feel? Not bad. At least I wasn't being dragged around by the blade anymore, bowing to the dirt mid-swing.
"Oh…."
This was unmistakable progress. Train, and my stamina grew. Swing the sword, and my swordsmanship sharpened. And the ledgers — my actual trade? Names of goods I'd once laboriously checked character by character now flowed straight out of my fingertips the moment I heard them.
Strength. Skill. Even knowledge…. Everything I poured time and effort into was improving, each in its own way. Slowly, but steadily — and certainly.
"…Don't tell me."
I lowered the wooden sword. Hastiness was the enemy here. Because think about it — exercise makes you stronger; study makes you wiser. That's common sense anyone who isn't an idiot already knows. And I am not an idiot. Truly.
Thanks to a quick syllogism, I could conclude that even I knew at least that much common sense — but really, was there any reason my bonus ability had to arrive in a form that violated common sense? A campfire's ember and a pillar of flame conjured by a fire mage are not the same thing. Fire is fire, yes — but what lit it, and how far could the blaze grow? That, it seemed, was where the real question lay.
"A growth type…."
Said aloud, it sounded surprisingly plausible. Instead of a strong body from the start, a body that could become strong. Potential instead of a finished product. Process instead of results. A stingy way to hand out a gift, I'll admit — I mean, if you're giving anyway, why not hand over the completed version? Still, better than nothing.
No — depending on how I thought about it, it might be far better than that. A power given from the start would have a ceiling. But a power that kept growing?
"Then, could it be…?"
I slowly clenched and unclenched my fist.
"WAKE UP!"
…Silence. Not this one, apparently. What a shame.
Anyway — returning to the original point — I had never once seen my own limit. Which meant! There was a genuine chance it didn't exist. And setting a limit you've never even laid eyes on would be the height of stupidity, wouldn't it?
Granted, until five minutes ago I'd been pitying myself for a week straight of training, so I couldn't swear my objectivity was in top form. Which was exactly why I needed to verify. Would tomorrow be better than today? Could the day after improve again, on and on?
I picked the wooden sword back up. For the first time, I felt I understood what I was supposed to be doing. For two months I'd been hollering into the void for a status window — changing my pronunciation, my phrasing, occasionally even the language itself.
"Tsk."
The regret was crushing. If only I'd known sooner, I'd have added ten more swings a day from the very beginning. No — I could just start now. The sun hadn't set yet.
— Shwack.
For now, I'd keep going until I dropped from exhaustion, at least.
"Did you order this?"
The Supply Officer halted mid-step, brow furrowing at an unfamiliar sight. Where the clerk pointed, a child stood behind the tent where the empty sacks were stacked, raising a wooden sword. Lowering it. Raising it again.
Then swinging.
— Shwaaack!
After the sound of wind splitting clean in two, the child glanced down at his own feet, adjusted his stance by half a step, straightened his back, and lowered his shoulders. The corrections from that morning — things corrected in words, now being retraced with the body.
"Pardon? I wasn't the one who ordered it, sir."
"…And yet this morning you were certain your arms would fall off."
That whining voice still rang fresh in the officer's ears. Precisely: if my arms fall off, am I supposed to write the ledgers with my mouth? He'd been given five extra repetitions for the luxury of having energy left to talk back.
"…Hm."
The Supply Officer found himself recalling that first day, when he had handed the boy the sword. The way he'd stared back and forth between his own hands, not even knowing how to hold the grip.
"Well, now…."
Watching the scene with something fond in his eyes, the officer reached a conclusion. From now on, there would be no need to stop at five. Fifty repetitions should do nicely.