Why the Military's a Percussionist's Dream
People often say things like, "I could do that too," about percussionists—y'know, the folks who play the percussion section. Of course, nobody says it to your face. Anyone with social skills that wrecked would have gotten their head bashed in by a mallet and gone extinct long ago. Other instrumentalists might half-jokingly gripe about how cushy it is, but that's a different story, so I'll skip it. Bottom line: everywhere you go, folks think most percussion instruments just involve hitting them in time with the beat. And hey, it's not entirely wrong. It's like saying if you ace every question on the college entrance exam, you could stroll into the top university. No sweat.
If someone's got that attitude, no need to drag out an instrument and make them try. Just hand them any rhythm game for a couple rounds. That'll shut 'em up. But yeah, calling percussion structures simple is kinda spot on. Simple means it's not easy to pack in the fine techniques, but the playing methods themselves are pretty similar across the board. Let's be real—how different can marimba and xylophone techniques really be? They're for different vibes, so you can't play them exactly the same, and you shouldn't, but master one, and similar ones come quick. That's why percussionists often handle a wide range of instruments.
But here's the catch. In any field, if everyone's reaching a certain level without much hassle, it stops being a "spec" worth bragging about. It becomes a baseline assumption. Lacking it is the disqualifier. How baseline? Most music conservatories include snare, timpani, and marimba in their percussion entrance exams. Oh, and no, you don't pick one. Percussion isn't subdivided by instrument in admissions—it's just one big "percussion" test. So you take all three, like checking language, math, and foreign scores on the entrance exam. Some schools pile on even more. Meaning? Even high schoolers gunning for admission have to nail at least three instruments as a basic. That's why in pieces light on percussion, one person ends up covering multiple.
"Heh heh... this is sex..."
"...Yura?"
"Ah, just mumbling nonsense. Ignore it."
Lying on my bed, muttering to myself, I caught Elisia staring at me with wide eyes from where she sat cross-legged on her bed across the room, book in hand. Realizing I must've looked like a total nutcase, I straightened my face.
"Kuh... pfft..."
But it crumbled again soon enough. Couldn't hold back the laugh leaking out. How do you even stifle this? Since my roommate was reading, I tried to muffle it as best I could.
Man, I nailed coming to the army!
Never thought I'd live to say that. Sure, I'd gotten exempted in my past life, but I knew the military was hell. Guys bond over griping about it, and even chat it up with girls sometimes—who wouldn't know? If I'd heard this in Korea, I'd have called the speaker nuts too. But right now? I'm perfectly sane. Crystal clear-headed.
I turned my head to eye the item on the rickety locker: the beat-up training snare drum issued from basic training. The little drum they call it in music textbooks. And nothing else. No other instruments.
...In other words, that's it. And it was plenty. Does this even make sense? Just banging a snare gets you by in life?
No military band splits specialties into "snare" or "marimba"—not even modern Korea, as far as I know. Makes sense, though. Korea had no magic chanting synced to rhythms. Music's purpose is different, so outcomes differ. And seeing how things were going, I'd basically reserved a spot as instructor here already.
To explain why, rewind three days—to right when we arrived. Naturally, we got issued gear upon entering basic, including training instruments. But it doubled as a skill check. To weed out posers faking competence for easy training. Still, it was perfunctory. A few days in basic, and it'd show anyway.
But Selim Jungwi, the lieutenant who escorted us, couldn't contain her curiosity. She hauled over various instruments and made me play. Not doubting me—just wanting a rare show, probably. And naturally, other basic training officers were there too...
Result? Day one, I was pegged as this intake's top ace. A must-keep talent. "We need broad talent to evaluate trainees properly," or whatever. Sure, it'd mean handling more than snare eventually... but still less grind than my past life. Even conservatively, matching past practice levels, welfare here crushes it.
Korea's modern military vs. harsh, boot-camp isekai—how's the latter better? Easy: no orchestra full of sweaty bombshell sisters to bunk with. No tomboy tanned roommate with royal tits lounging vulnerably on a thin uniform in bed.
...Someone might say, "It's still the army." Especially here: military band gets rear HQ postings, but unlike Korea's, they deploy to frontlines. Not just playing—you train hard, get dragged for odd jobs. Life quality dips below civilian.
...That's what I thought at first. Turns out, not so much.
× The Imperial Army Music Training Battalion schedule splits into morning and afternoon. Mornings: standard military drills. Afternoons: instrument practice. One perk for special track trainees like us? No ensemble till regulars master basics—so free practice till then.
"Practice" my ass—it was basically recess. No constant supervisor; instructors just pop in formally now and then. Stay in the room, read a book? Fine. Not bold enough to fully slack, so we mixed rests with light practice... but yeah, plenty leisurely.
Flip side: even special track does full morning drills like everyone. Made for noble convenience, sure, but it's military training. Can't skip the grind entirely.
"Urghhh... guh..."
"Elisia, you okay?"
I looked down at Elisia sprawled on the training field—her massive chest squished against the ground was a hell of a sight.
"F-fiiiineeeee..."
"Doesn't look fine."
Today's morning capped with a run. Exhausted from prior drills, but she'd gritted through to the end. From our roommate chats, Elisia enlisted to become a "true woman." Sounds slutty, but not like "Nyaah, I'm gonna be a total bitch in heat~." In my terms: overcoming frailty to become a real soldier.
And she proved it—no half-assing any drill.
"R-really... huff... not fine... sorreh... lied... snff..."
"Yeah... figured."
Effort ≠ skill, though. Glancing around, plenty of panting trainees, but none face-planted like her. Makes sense: excluding us, two types.
Commoner recruits: vets who've served full terms, here to reenlist. Battle-hardened against monsters even. Overwhelm fresh civvie Elisia in basics, aura, everything.
Noble recruits: two years at officer academy. Minimally fit. No match for couch potatoes.
Me? Opposite of Elisia. Untouched by the grind.
"Yura... huff... how're you so fine... hngh...?"
A little sweat, tops. Insane body, even to me. Unexpected at first, threw me off... but obvious in hindsight. Recalling my chat with the goddess:
"I picked candidates from your browser history you'd love. First: top-tier physique with TS reincarnation."
Haha! Taste the protag physics, weak isekai girls! 'Girls'? Right, here it's the ladies.
Looking back, fretting over boot camp hardship seems silly. Just a month ago, but now? Body fatigue? Nah. Mentally fulfilled too. Hell, staring at folks makes my lips twitch up.
Like Elisia right now...
Whoa, pits.
Her pale tan skin peeking through the short-sleeve shirt, glistening with sweat. Hard to look away.
"...Yura?"
"Up you go."
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks."
Caught spacing out staring? She called my name. Snapped to, offered a hand—like debating whether to help.
Gripped hers, pulled her up. She wobbled straight, flashed a beaming grin.
...No matter how I slice it, once assigned, she'll get "You some lez dyke?" from seniors or attract lesbo vets. Wait... am I in a spot to worry about guy rep?
"......"
After helping her up, I glanced around. Natural eye contact with a few trainees. Positive gazes? Hardly.
They'd slugged years in units to get here; we nobles skip to equal—better—treatment on enlistment. Not just commoners; regular track nobles eyed us sour too. Not personal hate—resenting band assignment (undesired posting). Feels like wasted academy grind, then we skip it and drills? Venting at us ain't weird.
So unlike instructors, trainees' looks weren't friendly...
But no biggie. Didn't shrink from them. No need.
Ah, mix in some abuse with the contempt? Perfection.
...What? Can't a girl be a little masochist?