This Is Your Treatment
A fair bit of time had passed since I'd transferred into the 2nd Combat Military Band. And here's where things get a little abrupt...
I might gripe all the time about how practice is such a pain or whatever, but deep down, I really do love music. If I didn't, there's no way I'd have survived that brutal audition prep—I'd have quit ages ago and found some other path. So learning new performance techniques was genuinely fun for me. Of course, if someone told me to actually use them in a real show, I might let out a groan depending on the difficulty.
In that sense, life in the 2nd Combat Military Band was incredibly fulfilling. More specifically, it was the lessons from our band leader, Eski Jeongnyeong, that made it so.
You could probably guess this from the moment she said she was going to train me as a sub-percussionist, but she was a percussionist herself—a master of all things percussion. So she often called me aside for one-on-one sessions... and every time, it felt like new horizons were opening up in my worldview.
Honestly, I didn't think there was much left for me to learn. If I had to nitpick, maybe a few techniques unique to a world with aura and magic? I never claimed to be some genius who'd perfectly mastered every percussion instrument... but hey, I'm a reincarnator, right? I'd absorbed all sorts of modern music techniques, and I'd grown up in an era flooded with online resources. My starting line was miles ahead of anyone born here.
Plus, I'd crammed in intense practice from childhood just to pass those auditions. And honestly, that assessment wasn't far off. Even back at the military band training unit, I'd gotten rave reviews saying I was better than most instructors. Factor in this body blessed with godlike physical prowess, and my skill was probably light-years beyond the world average.
That's what I thought... until...
...Isn't it kinda cheating to have three digits' worth of instrument experience? You immortal long-lived cheat.
Anyway, for all those reasons, every percussion session felt like discovering a whole new world. Not a day went by without me marveling, "Whoa, you can do that?" I was pouring everything I had into stealing even a sliver of her techniques... but no real breakthroughs yet.
Not that I could help it—there was just so much to learn. Eski Jeongnyeong was the only one in the empire who believed "percussionists have to master everything." There's no need for one person to handle multiple percussion instruments. Two at most, if you're pushing it. Considering the band's purpose, it was far better to hyper-specialize in one than spread yourself thin like an octopus.
But the 2nd Combat Military Band wasn't your average marching band. And of course, we had to prepare for extreme scenarios.
According to her, "If shit hits the fan, you tap-dance with your combat boots to keep the beat if you have to." In my ears, that position translated to "main percussionist." In more familiar terms, it'd be like the principal percussionist... who also takes on the concertmaster's role—normally handled by the first violin soloist in my past life's orchestras.
Unlike Earth's orchestras, military bands here didn't care one bit about melody or musicality. The core of isekai-military music was generating the right sounds at the right tempo, nonstop. So the main percussionist was already a crucial role... and for our elite squad performing on actual battlefields, it was even more vital.
If we had spare bodies, we'd want someone dedicated to conducting, even if it meant dropping an instrument. In a pure marching band, the drum major—who doesn't play—handles that. But in a combat band where you might have to fight mid-performance? Forget it.
Still... Eski Jeongnyeong was a monster with three centuries of percussion under her belt. She handled musical conducting, tactical command, combat, and her own playing—with time to spare. No wonder one of her nicknames was "Old Hag Pointy-Ears."
So I was studying as hard as I could... but I had a looong way to go. Still, no doubt about it—every day was fulfilling and packed.
"Urgh... Rookie. Come here and rub my legs."
"Yes, ma'am!"
...Of course, it was fulfilling in other ways too.
Practice brings pride, sure, but it also builds up fatigue. This body's stamina kept the physical side fine, but mental exhaustion didn't vanish on its own. After those one-on-one "lessons," it was time to unwind that mental strain.
Closed-off groups breed all sorts of abuses, and the military's at the peak. Especially in a special unit like the 2nd Combat Military Band—the structure practically invited officer-on-officer hazing compared to regular units.
If enlisted abuse is more common elsewhere, it's probably due to isolation. Officers can commute (except during training), while enlisted live together 24/7. Not the whole story, though—officers are less cut off from society, with more outside fun. Cell phones slashed incidents too; why bully when you can binge NutTube or game?
Unless you're a hardcore sadist, scrolling's way more fun. And the gap of "anyone below you" factors in a bit.
This unit reversed all that. Leave and overnight passes were super restricted—combat support meant we could get called out anytime. Sure, couldn't we just stay in the garrison area? But with sea monsters crawling inland everywhere, it was perpetual quasi-wartime. Emergencies popped up constantly. Seniors said we'd bolted with just instruments a few times, no packing.
Prime setup for bullying the newbie for kicks. In a dopamine-detox empire where theater's peak entertainment, and we couldn't even do that properly? Plus, an elite band of nothing but officers—no enlisted or NCOs, just under ten all-commissioned. Everyone's top-tier; rank and nobility mean zilch.
And as the fresh-faced baby of the group? I naturally drew tons of "rough affection."
"Yura. Why you gotta hold back when you're so good? Huh?"
"Urk..."
"...Lieutenant Shtain. Don't bully the newbie too much."
"Bully? Who's bullying? We're just close like this. Right?"
"Y-Yes... we are..."
Take headlocks and chokeholds from seniors. No real malice—just rough, boisterous types with frequent, violent skinship. Smacks to the back or ass, that sort of thing. The insidious kind: commonplace, and they're oblivious to it.
...Normally, yeah. But if the perpetrator's a stunning big-titted hell-queen sis? Even without my tastes, you'd forgive it. Hell, her tits smother your face? That's not a headlock; that's bestowing one.
Other seniors were similar. Attitudes varied, but no way they'd leave the fresh enlistee/maknae alone.
"Yuraaa~ Laundry time~"
"Yes, ma'am. Just the basket, or anything else to add?"
"Oh, wait. Gotta change my undies anyway. Toss these in too."
Regular side-dish deliveries.
"Hey, rookie. Take off my stockings."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Hah... This bitch. You touch a senior's body with those grubby paws?"
"Then how should I..."
"Figure it out—use your mouth or whatever. ...Hah, you actually did it?"
Gifting exactly what the junior craves.
"Ow, my legs hurt. Oh, nowhere to sit?"
"......Have a seat."
"Mmm, didn't have to. ...I didn't order this—you just lay down on your own? Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Teaching the indispensable senior-junior (physical) hierarchy...
And so on. Sure, even I have limits—not every abuse flies. I have tastes and dealbreakers... but so far, no issues.
Probably thanks to our commander, Eski Jeongnyeong.
"I don't ask much of you all. Teasing juniors? Fine."
"Just don't cross the lines I said."
She'd endured military life from eras way harsher, starting as a discriminated dark elf private? She'd seen horrors beyond imagining. Enough to warrant "At least keep some boundaries."
"No lower belly, no weird insertions... I trust fellow nobles won't go there."
"No arms. Mess 'em up, how do you play? Oh, legs too—gotta march."
"No drawing blood. We have healers, but mana doesn't grow on trees."
"Yeah, bruises happen. But if it's deliberate? I'll kill 'em myself."
"Anyone messing with food? Dead. For real. I'll rip out their guts and stuff 'em back in their mouth!"
She had hot buttons—probably from old traumas. Not my business, though. Key point: these rules capped the abuse.
No bruising alone slashed beatings. Limits on limbs and gut? You're left with ass-smacks, tit-beats... or pivot to mental humiliation or penalties over punches.
But this body's tireless; penalties are a breeze. The rest? Pure rewards, no explanation needed. So unit life just kept improving my quality of life.
Grateful to Eski Jeongnyeong for that perfect regulation—especially on food. ...I'd stomach Marine Corps barley tea, but Marine Corps jjajang? Even I draw the line.
'Huh, haven't pooped since arriving...?'
That stray thought sparked another tangent—
"Hey, rookie. You listening?"
I snapped back, locking eyes on the massive rack in front of me. Staring at tits instead of her face might seem pervy, but it's polite here. In the empire's West Continent culture, staring at superiors' faces—or bowing too low—is rude. Too low hides your spell-chanting mouth.
Tilt just enough to avoid staring at hers, eyes down... but keep your lips visible. ...In other words, chant "Hehe, titties" internally while ogling her chest!
"Yes, ma'am. Listening, Lieutenant Shtain."
And right now? Top-two bust in the unit. Letizia Shtain, former maknae till I arrived. Breasts so perfect, just looking extends your lifespan...
But her true talent was elsewhere.
"Where's your brain at? Drawing magic circles with your toes?"
"Sorry. I'll fix it."
Inferiority from slightly lagging skills. Compensation for years as maknae. Sadism confirming superiority via junior humiliation.
"Sorry fixes military life? Your tough body's fine with penalties, so you're rebelling on purpose?"
"No, ma'am."
"Bull. You're hopeless standing—won't learn."
She'd berate me unreasonably (ironically, she taught me that botched circle and forgot). Then—vile grin, like a lightbulb.
"Strip, you slut. Naked pushups."
"......Yes, ma'am."
Yeah. This was Letizia Shtain's true gift! Industry reward genius! Bet she started those nude parade-ground duck-walk rumors from training.
And she roomed with me. No escape—I just took her humiliations and "drills"!
How could such a... terrible fate exist? Ah, what a delicious day.
Three years since I, Yura Konstantia, pinned on lieutenant (actual) and warrant officer (nominal) and joined the 2nd Combat Military Band. Empire philosophy: "Sub-percussionists can't have ego," so nominal stayed warrant...
"Fuckin' tough bitch..."
"......?"
──I'd earned every senior's respect, freed from endless abuse.
Where's my fully automatic masochist-reward machine? Gimme it back.