The Mad Dog of Unit 42
"An Elite Guard candidate beaten by an applicant? What is this idiot thinking!"
Bedrick kicked his squad member roughly across the ground.
Plenty of other guards stood nearby, but not one of them moved to stop him.
For the Elite Guard to lose to a mere General Guard applicant in front of hundreds of witnesses was an unprecedented disgrace. No matter that the man was a newly posted junior—this was a mistake that could not be forgiven.
Damn it all.
Bedrick raked a hand through his disheveled hair.
In an exam scored purely on how long an applicant could hold out, a candidate had gone and beaten the Elite Guard. There was no undoing it now. The man had to be recruited into the Elite Guard.
The problem was that this year's intake was already full.
The entrance ceremony was the day after tomorrow. Squeezing in one more recruit at this point made no sense whatsoever. All of it, tangled up into a nasty mess because of one gutter rat.
Then someone caught Bedrick's fist mid-swing.
It was Celine, the subordinate he favored most. She spoke with a perfectly expressionless face.
"You should deal with the situation first, sir."
"Deal with it how? The Elite Guard roster is already full."
"There is one squad that is short a member, is there not?"
"A squad that's short?"
Bedrick asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Celine nodded, unruffled.
"Yes. Unit 42."
"Unit 42? You mean the Trash Bin?"
Bedrick's brow knotted sharply.
Unit 42 was the so-called Trash Bin—a squad composed entirely of the people Bedrick despised most.
He wasn't the only one who hated it, either. Every guard in the Elite Guard avoided Unit 42 like the plague. It was nothing but a collection of problem children.
"Yes. Unit 42 is one man down."
A squad in the Elite Guard was ordinarily composed of seven members—except Unit 42 currently had only six.
One of its members had vanished during a mission, but the squad leader insisted the man was missing, not dead, and refused to fill the seat.
"Like that drunk lunatic would ever accept a replacement—. Ah, right. Of course. He won't take one."
"Correct. The Unit 42 squad leader will refuse."
"And I'd be filling the position entirely within regulations."
"Yes, sir."
The only reason the Unit 42 leader could be so defiant was that the Elite Guard commander had a particular grudge against him. But after the recent incidents, the commander's own position had become precarious.
On top of that, the entrance ceremony was in two days, and every senior official at the Academy was on edge.
If Unit 42 caused trouble under these conditions—
"Good. That's why I keep you around, Celine."
Bedrick broke into a broad smile, as if he'd never been angry at all.
"What about that one?"
Celine pointed at the junior sprawled on the floor. Bedrick's eyes went ice-cold.
"Get rid of him. Somewhere out of my sight."
The moment the order left his mouth, the guards swarmed in and hauled the blood-soaked junior out like a piece of luggage.
Watching them go with detached eyes, Celine found herself suddenly curious.
The junior who'd been marked by Bedrick, and the man about to be thrown into Unit 42—which of the two had the more twisted future ahead of him?
The latter, surely.
Celine nodded to herself without a moment's deliberation.
"Mister! You were absolutely incredible!"
Kelin's eyes were brimming with tears as though he'd been the one to win. It was rather overwhelming to witness.
"Did you see Bedrick's face? The way it just crumpled! He muttered something about an internal review, but he's got no choice but to recruit you into the Elite Guard. Even Bedrick can't erase an exam that's already been held in front of everyone!"
Left alone, he clearly wasn't going to stop making noise, so I casually steered the conversation elsewhere.
"So. Giving up again this year?"
Kelin's noisy mouth snapped shut. Then he smiled bitterly.
"Watching you taught me something. At the end of the day, the problem was my own lack of ability. I'm going with the General Guard."
"You're giving up, then?"
"No, sir. Turns out guards do sometimes get promoted up from the General Guard. I don't know much else, but I'm honest and hardworking if nothing else. Honestly, this route might have better odds for me anyway."
Kelin flashed a grin. His face was bruised, but he somehow looked relieved.
"I see."
"Aren't you supposed to say 'you'll do great' at a time like this?"
"I'm not good at empty words."
"You're a fun one, Mister."
Kelin chuckled.
Just then, the Elite Guards who had vanished returned. The goateed officer who'd been scowling like a demon earlier now wore, for some reason, a sly, oily smile.
"He's scheming something, isn't he, Mister?"
Kelin said worriedly, but I paid it little mind.
However elaborate a trap a guard might weave, how dangerous could it really be?
"Grave! Congratulations on passing into the Elite Guard."
The goateed man conceded my pass with surprising grace. And yet that oily smile only deepened.
"Come to think of it, we happen to have a squad short a member right now. I'll assign your unit straight away. You're with Unit 42."
Unit 42—
Without another word, the goateed man waved a hand dismissively, and the remaining guards began clearing the examination hall.
Kelin exploded.
"Son of a—! Unit 42! That poisonous bastard! Scheming to the bitter end!"
"Is Unit 42 a bad unit?"
"Bad doesn't even cover it! In the Elite Guard, there's a saying: if you get assigned to Unit 42, you might as well quit the job entirely!"
"Quit? Why?"
At my question, Kelin heaved a long sigh.
"Normally a squad in the Elite Guard has seven men. Unit 42 has been running with six for ages, because the squad leader insists his missing man will come back someday."
"And they just let him hold out like that?"
"They don't. There've been plenty of replacements sent over since. Every single rookie posted to Unit 42 lasted less than a week before resigning on his own. Watch yourself, Mister."
Kelin warned me with complete sincerity.
Still, I wasn't worried.
I'd survived the front lines. Whatever these people could dish out, it wouldn't come close to the men I'd dealt with at war.
Just then, a coarse voice burst out from across the hall.
"A replacement? What the hell kind of bullshit is that?"
I turned to see a rough-looking man with blond hair shaved close, glaring daggers at Bedrick. His face belonged to a thug or a street hustler, not a guard.
"Milo. Mind your manners."
"Manners? Give me a break. Pah. Think you can handle it? Our squad leader isn't exactly going to sit still for this."
At Milo's sneering, the corner of Bedrick's mouth twitched.
"I filled the vacancy in accordance with regulations."
"Our squad leader doesn't much care for regulations."
"The Unit 42 leader is still a squad leader. He can't break the rules of the Elite Guard."
"That your dying words? Better write 'em down somewhere."
Milo bared his teeth in a grin.
Bedrick's face went faintly pale, and he simply brushed Milo off without dignifying him further.
"Gah—Milo the Mad Dog! Damn it! Mister! Quit while you still can! Men who got tangled up with that one ended up crippled!"
Kelin shouted, his face drained of color.
Mad Dog, hm.
Milo apparently enjoyed the nickname—he even wore an iron dog collar around his neck.
"Mad Dog" was a fairly common moniker on the front lines. I'd personally met more than two dozen so-called Mad Dogs, and every one of them strutted around bragging about it.
But not a single one had been a genuine mad dog. Just fools posturing, pretending to be crazier than they were.
What about this one?
I found myself curious.
"Which one of you bastards is Grave?"
Milo growled, sweeping his vicious eyes across the room.
Kelin shot me a desperate look. I ignored the signal and raised my hand.
The moment Milo laid eyes on me, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. His fury was unmistakable—so vicious I almost wondered if we had some old grudge between us.
"Follow me."
Milo said it curtly and turned on his heel. Kelin grabbed my arm and whispered urgently.
"Mister! Milo the Mad Dog is genuinely dangerous! Run while you still can!"
He warned me seriously yet again. We'd only just met, but there was real sincerity in his voice.
A rare good sort. So I offered, in turn, a rare piece of honesty.
"I'll see you in the Elite Guard."
Kelin's eyes went glassy with emotion. As I walked off, he snapped into a frantic salute. What a ridiculous man.
"What a crock. Hurry up."
Milo spat a curse over his shoulder. I followed him.
Impatient by nature, apparently, Milo took short, clipped strides, muttering to himself the entire way. At times he genuinely looked insane.
The place he led me to was, to anyone's eyes, a warehouse long since abandoned. Even a passing glance told you the atmosphere was grim.
An initiation, then.
Hazing rituals were common anywhere you went.
I'd been through my share, but this was the first time anyone had launched straight into one without a word of explanation.
"Get in here."
Milo walked straight into the warehouse. There was no light inside—darkness pooled within. It was plenty eerie, but I followed without hesitation.
Inside, the warehouse was surprisingly comfortable. Empty liquor bottles lay scattered about, and there was even a bed. It seemed to be used as a hideout.
Thud! The door slammed shut with a heavy sound. Milo had locked it behind us.
He rolled his shoulders as he faced me, joints cracking with a sinister pop-pop-pop.
"This place is rotten from the damp—building materials went bad years ago, so nobody uses it anymore. No one comes here, and if one man died in here, no one would ever know."
A place where a man could die and no one would notice, hm.
"A fine spot, indeed."
"Yeah. A real fine spot."
Milo produced a wooden club from somewhere in the gloom. It was smeared with dark red stains here and there—a thoroughly unsavory implement.
"Unit 42 has a long and proud tradition."
Milo said, twirling the club lightly through the air.
"What tradition would that be?"
"Beating recruits half to death until they quit. That's the tradition."
I'd expected as much, so I gave a light nod.
"An initiation, then."
At that, the sharp corners of Milo's eyes twitched.
The ritual was familiar enough, but one thing puzzled me.
"Why are you angry?"
"Why am I angry? Ha—."
Milo bared his teeth like a rabid dog.
"Because you're not a pretty blonde, that's why."
Not a pretty blonde? At the bizarre complaint, my eyes creased of their own accord.
Milo spat onto his palm. Ptui.
"The only acceptable replacement for me is a pretty blonde with a puppy-dog face—cold on the outside, warm on the inside!!"
Milo roared, his voice thick with fury.
What a uselessly specific set of requirements.
But he was dead serious. Milo was genuinely enraged that I was not, in fact, a beautiful blonde.
Hopeless, this one.
Which suited me fine, honestly. This approach was more convenient for me anyway.
"Good timing, as it happens. I had something I needed to teach, too."
"Teach? Teach what?"
"Senior Education."
"Senior Education? What the hell kind of nonsense is that?"
"Now, I'll count to three. Lie down flat before I finish, and I'll go easy on you. One."
"What the—"
"Three."
My foot buried itself in Milo's abdomen. He didn't even manage a scream before he was rolling across the floor.
An ordinary man would have blacked out on the spot, but Milo, swaying and staggering, somehow tried to rise again.
He was sturdier than he looked.
This might actually be satisfying.
"Now then, Milo. Senior Education begins."
I whispered, seizing a fistful of Milo's hair.
There's a famous saying: if you want to know a man's true nature, hand him power.
Because the moment a man holds power, his nature comes pouring out.
That's why the world is full of bad seniors.
That said, it's rare for a bad senior to have been born rotten. They were simply never taught.
No matter how wretched a senior may be, proper education will set him straight.
With a proper course of Senior Education, even a hopeless fool who demanded a blonde beauty for a junior could become an exemplary senior.
"Isn't that right, Milo?"
"Woof woof! Woof! Woof!"
Milo had become a good boy.