Chapter 27
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 27
Chapter Title: Top Enrollee Hwang Tae-seong
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Three days later.
Yang Cho-gun and I headed to the Imperial Palace Martial Academy to check the admission notice.
Our names were listed right at the top, making us almost embarrassed to have come all this way to confirm.
[Top Enrollees: Hwang Tae-seong, Yang Cho-gun]
The notice instructed all admitted cadets to visit the annex before enrollment day to receive their uniforms.
We made our way to the annex of the Imperial Palace Martial Academy to pick them up.
There, we spotted quite a few familiar faces.
There was the unorthodox expert we'd called Sima Liang, and that stiff-looking guy named Jo Gi-myeong.
Since we'd met once before, we exchanged light bows.
Sima Liang seemed to treat me with a bit more caution, though I had a rough idea why.
And the next day, enrollment day arrived.
The 200 cadets lined up in the grand training grounds.
Unified in black martial uniforms and hoods, with the character for "Imperial" (皇) embroidered in yellow silk thread on the back.
Seeing 200 of them lined up in formation was quite the sight.
Suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind.
"Damn, another all-boys bathhouse?"
"What was that?"
"Nothing, just talking to myself."
All-boys middle school, high school, the military, the MMA gym packed with tough guys... and now the Shadow Squad on top of that.
The curse of all-boys schools from my past life seemed like karma I couldn't escape even in death.
Soon, the grand enrollment ceremony began.
The academy director, whom I hadn't seen in a while, was sharply dressed in his uniform and launched into a lengthy speech.
Principal's pep talks must be universal across eras.
The endless drone had me yawning involuntarily.
Then, out of nowhere, the director called out me and Yang Cho-gun by name.
"Top enrollees Cadet Hwang Tae-seong and Cadet Yang Cho-gun, come up to the platform!"
Our faces twisted like we'd been sucker-punched.
"What now...?"
The director had us stand on the platform, praising us as heroes who wouldn't tolerate injustice, who had saved countless lives and vast fortunes. He even awarded us commendation plaques for our bravery.
Along with a hefty scholarship, no less.
That scholarship felt like a poisoned chalice. But with everyone watching, we couldn't exactly refuse it.
"Now! Applause!!"
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
"Ha, haha."
With the awkward ceremony finally over, we headed to the dorms. The Imperial Palace Martial Academy was fully residential.
"You're in White Tiger Hall, Room 107."
On the way to our assigned rooms, it seemed the director's thoughtfulness had extended here too—Yang Cho-gun and I were roommates.
The problem? The dorm rooms were four-person suites.
The moment I checked who else was assigned, I couldn't help but chuckle wryly.
It was Sima Liang and Jo Gi-myeong—the ones who'd hurled the most abuse at us during the entrance exam.
The director must have crammed the top four enrollees into one room.
Sima Liang and Jo Gi-myeong looked like they'd just bitten into something foul when they saw us.
I slung an arm around Sima Liang's shoulder like we were old pals and said in a low tone,
"Fate keeps throwing us together like this. Must be more than coincidence, right?"
"Y-yeah, seems that way."
Sima Liang had instinctively sensed I was a far superior expert.
And that I wasn't from the righteous factions, either.
Unorthodox folk like him were hypersensitive to differences in martial prowess.
It had to be that way— for those in the business of paid assassinations and mercenary work, skill levels were a matter of life and death.
That's why I was subtly radiating my aura, keeping the pressure on Sima Liang.
To etch the hierarchy into his mind from the start.
"Looking forward to rooming with you, buddy."
"Y-yeah... me too."
And so began my tumultuous life at the Imperial Palace Martial Academy.
In my previous life, I never even crossed the threshold of college, and now here I am, stepping over one.
The感慨 was something else, but the problem was it felt anything but fresh and innocent.
What was it? Like re-enlisting in the army?
Just swapping the reveille bugle for a drumbeat.
The daily schedule here was identical to the military from my past life.
This is a nightmare.
I'd always had recurring dreams of returning to the army back then.
Reserve training lasting two years, or war breaking out so I couldn't go home.
I'd wake up screaming from those nightmares, but this one I couldn't escape.
The first week after enrollment was the infamous Hell Week training, waiting to break us.
It was a gate to weed out those with weak spirits.
Usually, about ten percent dropped out during this phase.
Everyone looked tense.
Not me, of course.
Back in my Demonic Cult days, the brutal Shadow Squad initiation and the grueling weight cuts for tournaments made this feel like a marine boot camp at most.
We assembled in the grand training grounds at the drumbeat reveille.
Morning calisthenics and a run—much like modern routines so far.
The only difference: the exercises resembled Tai Chi health preservation forms.
And the run wasn't some polite, orderly modern jog.
It was first-to-finish style: up to the peak of the mountain behind the academy and back.
"Faster! Faster! You walking or what? Run!"
"Skinny runts like you gonna protect the imperial family and the nation?"
The fourth-year seniors doubled as instructors, their "love" for juniors overflowing.
They looked mid-twenties but appeared middle-aged in their forties.
Is that what four years here does?
I vowed to make skincare a priority, using them as a cautionary tale.
"Huff! Huff! Gah!"
"Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!"
"C-can't... run anymore... kill me first."
"'Can't run'? Watch your tone, punk!"
Over half the first-years fell behind on day one—a miraculous dropout rate.
Stragglers gathered separately in the grounds for duck-walking to make up the deficit.
Of course, I took first place.
Yang Cho-gun, beaten by a hair, panted as he said,
"Hoo~ Never lost a lightness skill race before."
"Next time, fellow alumnus."
I patted his shoulder and headed to the mess hall.
After the race, we enjoyed a hearty breakfast.
The food quality was impressive.
Worlds apart from the half-forced cooking by Shadow Squad members back at the Demonic Cult sub-branch.
Imperial chefs? Explains the tuition.
Everyone devoured the delicacies like it was their first taste, appetites whetted by the morning run.
Watching them, I remarked,
"If it were me, I'd have us run after breakfast."
"Why?"
"Everything you ate comes right back up."
"No way they'd go that far."
Just sharing past-life wisdom, but my words jinxed it.
Post-meal? Another first-to-finish run awaited.
This course was even more vicious than the first.
Apparently, fourth-years had exclusive rights to design Hell Week.
"Run, you mutts!"
"Walking in front of me? You punks lost your minds?"
"Urp!"
"Hey! No puking!"
"Bleurgh!!"
"Blarrghhh!!"
One started vomiting, triggering a chain reaction.
"Expensive grub down the drain? Feeding the pigeons?"
"That's your parents' blood and sweat! Suck it up, punks! Heh heh heh."
Man, these seniors really love their juniors.
Compared to the Demonic Cult, though, it was downright humane.
There, they'd string a rope over a thousand-foot cliff and make you lightness-skill across.
Fallers happened, but no one bothered retrieving bodies.
Afternoon: legs like jelly, couldn't even walk straight.
So the seniors, thinking of us, ordered rock climbing.
Talk about a full-body workout.
At least basic safety gear was in place—no fatalities like in the Cult.
Thus ended the hellish first day.
Ten headed home already.
No telling how many more, but complaints were rampant.
Some chose mandatory service for free entry, others paid steep tuition.
The payers couldn't fathom enduring this humiliation for big bucks and were ready to bolt.
But talk was cheap; actual dropouts were few.
Day two of Hell Week: another run to start.
Far fewer stragglers than day one.
The intensity had eased a bit, but people adapt once they know what's coming.
We tackled log carries, tightrope walks, obstacle courses.
Everyone was wiped, but I was enjoying it.
Past-life training made this an amusement park ride.
Classmates eyed me like a monster; seniors, with displeasure.
Daily grind flew by in a week.
The cadets' eyes had changed post-Hell Week—stripped of civilian softness, now soldierly.
That's what all the rolling was for.
With Hell Week over, proper Imperial Palace martial arts instruction began.
Curriculum split into individual and group subjects.
Individual: common and elective.
Common: fisticuffs, archery, mounted horsemanship.
Electives: swordsmanship, blademanship, spearmanship. Plus shieldwork, unlike murim.
Group: formations.
First-years learned the Six Harmonies Formation from the Six Tactics manual.
Similar to murim arrays.
But murim emphasized individual skill in linked formations.
Here, it was pure battlefield mechanics—erasing individuality for machine-like unity.
Cadets dreaded group combat most.
Schedule was tight.
Morning to lunch: stamina and internal energy training.
Lunch to dinner: pick a weapon, train with its instructor.
Once weekly: all gathered for group drills.
All my preferred commons were covered, so no need for electives—but swordsmanship was mandatory.