Chapter 299: At a Crossroads (1)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 299: At a Crossroads (1)
Day one.
The recruits gathered at the designated location.
Skipping all tedious formalities, Chris immediately briefed them on the upcoming schedule.
"I sincerely congratulate you all on becoming Lord Roman Dmitry's private soldiers. From this moment on, we will officially register your enlistment through a brief procedure. We will proceed in the order your names are called. I expect your full cooperation."
Scott's turn was ninety-eighth.
The procedure took place inside a large tent set up to block the blazing sun. With ten people processed at a time, Scott's name was called before long. Inside, the tent was partitioned into individual booths. Separating the soldiers for security reasons made Scott feel inexplicably nervous.
He entered a cramped booth.
An ordinary-looking man sat across a small table, checking documents. He glanced up at Scott.
"Have a seat."
"……Thank you."
"There's no need to be so tense. This is just a simple information verification process, so as long as you answer honestly, you'll be fine. First, you are thirty-eight years old, and your name is Scott, from the Umberto Kingdom. Is that correct?"
"That is correct."
"As you know, serving as Lord Roman Dmitry's private soldier is a highly specialized position. Unlike regular soldiers, you will receive a monthly salary of 30 silver, and in special circumstances like war, additional hazard pay will be provided. Also, do you have a family?"
The sudden question caught him completely off guard.
Scott swallowed hard.
Though he was originally from the Umberto Kingdom, his family resided in the Kronos Empire. The clerk's question felt like a probing attack to uncover his connection to Kronos. Agitation flickered in his eyes. He hesitated, unsure of how to answer, but realizing a pointless lie might ruin everything, he chose the truth.
"……Yes, I do."
"Who are your family members, and where do they live?"
"I have a wife, a son, and a daughter. They live in the Kronos Empire."
"That matches our records. The reason we ask for this information is simple: if you, Mr. Scott, should perish while performing a mission for Dmitry, we will personally seek out your wife to deliver your death compensation. Do you agree to this?"
"Excuse me?"
He was entirely flustered.
Goosebumps erupted across his skin. They had already dug into his background, yet he never expected the question to lead directly to death compensation.
Feeling like a thief with a guilty conscience, Scott asked in a trembling voice, "……Is it not a problem that my family is in the Kronos Empire?"
The clerk's hands paused. He looked up at Scott with a faint smile.
"No. As long as you yourself do not cause any trouble, Mr. Scott, nothing else is a problem at all."
* * *
The first step was over.
As he walked to the next location, Scott's mind was in a whirl.
'……As long as I don't cause trouble myself, does that mean they will accept me as a member of Dmitry, regardless of my past?'
At those words, his heart grew heavy.
It seemed his identity as a spy had already been exposed, yet Roman Dmitry and his people did not make an issue of it. He had heard that since implementing the National Merit System, Dmitry had firmly established a framework for "compensation." But Scott couldn't bring himself to rejoice over the fact that a spy like him was included in it.
For now, he proceeded with the onboarding steps.
The next stop was a forge, where burly men radiated intense heat.
"Over here."
A blacksmith with a rough beard and a thick protective apron beckoned him over. The man's bulging muscles flexed as he scrutinized Scott's physical build.
"You're a veteran mercenary, so you naturally have a fine build. The problem is, your legs are slightly uneven in length, causing your posture to tilt a bit. Your fingers are also on the shorter side, making thick grips awkward for you. With a body like this, it must have been hard to use anything other than custom-made weapons, right?"
"……That is true, but why do you ask?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm taking your measurements to craft custom armaments for Young Master Roman's private soldiers."
Custom armaments.
Scott's eyes widened.
While crafting gear tailored to one's body wasn't unheard of, doing so for every single private soldier would cost an astronomical amount. In the first place, custom armaments were a symbol of wealth that only those of knightly status could afford. He had never expected to receive such luxurious treatment right from the start.
Scott asked, "Are you really custom-making gear for all the private soldiers? The cost must be immense."
"Of course it costs a fortune. Even here in Dmitry, the 'Holy Land of Blacksmiths,' custom-making gear for every single private soldier is no small feat. That's why regular soldiers have to squeeze into pre-made, off-the-shelf gear. But Young Master Roman's private soldiers are different."
Even as he spoke, the blacksmith meticulously recorded Scott's physical measurements.
"Here in Dmitry, Young Master Roman's direct forces are incredibly special. Whenever danger threatens Dmitry, Young Master Roman is always fighting on the front lines alongside them, and the same goes for his direct troops. That's why we want to be of help, even if only a little, to those who follow him, like you. Having spent our entire lives holding nothing but hammers, we can't stand back-to-back with you on the battlefield. But if we can at least craft perfect, custom-made armaments for you, wouldn't that increase your chances of survival?"
His calm voice carried deep sincerity.
The people of Dmitry, including the blacksmiths, lived their lives expressing gratitude toward Roman Dmitry every single day.
Roman Dmitry was the savior of Dmitry.
He had ushered in an era of prosperity through the development of the iron mining industry, personally resolved crises threatening the territory, and restored the people's pride. Naturally, it hadn't been entirely smooth sailing. In the aftermath of the Kronos Empire's surprise attack, some bereaved families harbored resentment toward Roman Dmitry. They threw retrospective blame at him, claiming that if he had only known how to compromise, they wouldn't have lost their loved ones to the Kronos assault.
However, those grievances didn't last.
When they heard the victory reports of Roman Dmitry attacking the Kronos Empire and taking revenge tenfold and a hundredfold, and when he returned to Dmitry to ensure the fallen were treated with the utmost honor, the people of Dmitry became absolutely certain that Roman Dmitry was a leader they could truly respect and follow. From then on, Dmitry became an internally impregnable fortress. Countless people emerged, willing to throw themselves into a raging fire with straw in their arms for Roman Dmitry's sake.
The blacksmith was one of them.
He had lost family and fallen into deep sorrow, but the fact that they had died for Dmitry remained a source of immense pride in his heart.
He was showing genuine sincerity to a man he had never met before. He knew nothing about Scott, but the simple fact that Scott would directly serve Roman Dmitry was reason enough to treat him with such care. This was the true sentiment of Dmitry's people. Having only heard rumors before, Scott struggled to process the heavy emotions welling up inside him.
"Trust me," the blacksmith said. "Just wait a little while, and I will present you with the finest armaments crafted solely for you."
* * *
The surprises didn't end there.
The crowning jewel was the lodgings. Having finished all the procedures, Scott stared at the sight before him with a dazed expression.
"……This is the lodging?"
"Yes. All of Dmitry's private soldiers are provided with private rooms to guarantee their personal space. If your family decides to settle in Dmitry, we can also arrange a separate residence where you can live together."
His eyes trembled with astonishment.
The spacious, immaculately arranged room far exceeded whatever expectations he might have had. He had heard rumors about Dmitry. He knew they treated those who dedicated themselves to the territory well, but he never imagined they would provide such a high standard of living—starting from death compensation and custom armaments to the basic living environment.
Scott found himself drawn to the bed. It wasn't a dusty, run-down cot in some cheap tavern, but a bed spacious enough to comfortably accommodate a well-built man like himself.
It was soft. Cozy and warm.
"……Honey."
Tears welled up in his eyes. If only his wife and children were here in Dmitry... how happily they would have smiled, lying on this bed together.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
This is dangerous.
His family in Kronos didn't even know they were hostages. Scott wasn't considered important enough for that yet, but if he betrayed Kronos, the empire wouldn't hesitate to slaughter them. For their sake, he had to carry out his mission as a spy. Dmitry made him dream of a beautiful future, but for Scott, a future without his family was no future at all.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and suppressed his emotions. Not even a single day had passed; he couldn't afford to waver already. He rationalized that it wouldn't be too late to make a decision after completing the training.
That night, Scott tossed and turned until late. And just like him, the other hidden spies scattered among the recruits spent their night in the exact same way.
* * *
The next morning, the first training session commenced.
Roman Dmitry addressed the recruits.
"From now on, we will conduct basic adaptation training for about ten days. There will be no dropouts. By any means necessary, everyone will complete this training from start to finish."
At the time, none of them understood the true weight of his words.
He had clearly called it "basic adaptation training," but the very first exercise Roman Dmitry initiated was a march carrying a 40-kilogram pack. A march was indeed a basic military exercise. Had it been conducted within reasonable bounds, Scott wouldn't have been flustered. The problem, however, was the terrain they were marching on and the speed of the vanguard.
Barely thirty minutes in, Scott felt his head spinning.
Pant, pant.
'This is insane.'
This training session was a mountain march. They were traversing terrain so steep they practically had to crawl, and those who knew how to use mana were strictly forbidden from utilizing it. They had to rely solely on their raw physical strength.
At first, as a veteran mercenary who had weathered all sorts of hardships, Scott thought he was keeping up well. But the pace was so blistering they were practically sprinting up the mountain. Before he knew it, he was completely out of breath.
Gasp, gasp.
They were too fast. If he slowed down for even a fraction of a second, the vanguard would pull far ahead in the blink of an eye. Whenever the formation stretched, Chris roared.
"Keep up, move it! Treat this like a battlefield! If enemies were hot on your heels, or if you were pursuing them, would you leisurely stroll just because you're carrying a 40-kilogram pack? Because you're tired?! Stamina is directly linked to survival! If you hit your physical limit and think you can't go on, then collapse foaming at the mouth! We will take responsibility and drag your unconscious bodies to the finish line!"
His thunderous voice echoed across the mountain. Scott snapped out of his daze and desperately pushed his burning legs to keep up.
The real problem, however, was the state of the senior soldiers.
While the recruits, including Scott, looked like they were on the verge of death, the senior soldiers marched with relaxed expressions, as if they were merely out for a stroll. It wasn't that they didn't feel any fatigue at all. Rather, having endured countless grueling training sessions, a march of this level had become nothing more than a "basic exercise" to them.
Scott was astounded. He had already realized during the private soldier selection that the seniors were formidable, but training alongside them was a completely different shock. Their strength hadn't been built overnight. They possessed that overwhelming martial prowess precisely because they could endure this hellish training as if it were nothing.
Panting heavily, a sudden question crossed his mind.
Normally, commanders did not train alongside their soldiers. Yet, Roman Dmitry was leading the march at the very front of the pack. He managed to gasp out a question to a senior soldier named Hunt, who was easily matching his pace.
Hunt chuckled. "In normal armies, commanders just stand in the back and scream their lungs out. But Dmitry is different. Since we must always follow our Lord and carry out missions on the front lines, our Lord is personally setting the tempo. Do you understand what that means? If we can't even match this pace, we don't have the right to follow our Lord onto the battlefield."
Only then did Scott realize.
This grueling reality was the true face of Dmitry—the very foundation of the force that had shocked the continent and won countless battles.
"Give it your all," Hunt added. "The training has only just begun."
Goosebumps erupted across his skin. As his lungs burned and his legs screamed, Scott couldn't help but fear that he might drop out before he could even begin his mission as a spy.