Chapter 77: Southern Training Camp (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 77: Southern Training Camp (3)
Henry clutched his cheek.
A stinging shock radiated across his face. Stunned, he blinked his wide eyes and looked up at Viscount Veil.
"...Uncle?"
In Henry's memory, Viscount Veil had always been a benevolent figure. He had watched Henry grow up, granting his every request. There was even a time when Henry liked his uncle more than his own parents. The man was that important to him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined his uncle would slap him.
Tears welled in his eyes. More than the physical sting on his cheek, the mental shock of being struck by his uncle was simply too difficult to process.
Despite Henry's reaction, Viscount Veil didn't spare him a single glance. Instead, he looked at Roman and offered an awkward smile.
"My goodness, I must apologize. I should have disciplined my nephew properly. He has been spoiled since childhood and made a foolish mistake. I apologize on his behalf. For my sake, please overlook this matter."
His opponent was Roman Dmitry—a man whose potential was absolutely limitless.
Furthermore, since Roman enjoyed the favor of Marquis Benedict, Viscount Veil judged that a swift apology was the only rational decision. No matter how much he doted on his nephew, that affection didn't run deep enough to trade away his own future. Frankly, even Henry's own parents would have slapped him in this situation.
The situation was settled.
A shocked Henry and an apologetic Viscount Veil. There was no need to escalate the matter. In Roman's eyes, Henry's actions were mere child's play, far too trivial to be classified as true hostility.
Of course, had it not been for Viscount Veil's wise judgment, the matter wouldn't have ended so simply.
"Out of respect for you, Viscount Veil, I will let this go. I shall take my leave now."
"Thank you."
Viscount Veil forced a smile.
The moment Roman walked away, the Viscount turned to Henry, his eyes narrowing sharply.
"Henry, do you have any idea what you just did?"
"...But still, how could you slap me, Uncle?"
"You fool! Roman Dmitry is a talent Marquis Benedict has his eye on. The Marquis would do anything to recruit him. What on earth did you hope to gain by making an enemy out of such a man?! Henry, when will you finally grow up? Back in the Albert family, you might get away with acting like you own the world, but if you behave like that here, we won't be able to protect you."
It was a cold reality.
If the Albert family were truly a formidable household, Henry wouldn't have been deployed to the Southern Front in the first place; they would have found a way to exempt him from military service entirely.
That was the truth of their mediocre power. Henry was blind to reality, failing to recognize a rising star.
Then, a sudden idea struck Viscount Veil.
"Because of today, Roman Dmitry might hold a grudge against us. So, Henry, from now on, I will assign you to Roman for everything—from training to the reserve unit organization. You must find a way to get close to him. Keep this in mind: if you don't follow my orders, I will send you to the Western Front, even if it means dealing with your mother's wrath. Do you understand?"
At those words, Henry instinctively realized that with a single mistake, his comfortable military life had come to an abrupt end.
* * *
After the commotion settled, Roman headed to his quarters.
The accommodations had been assigned by the Southern Training Camp, and the moment he arrived, the special treatment he was receiving became glaringly obvious.
'Viscount Veil certainly went out of his way.'
On his way here, he had seen other nobles unpacking their bags in dilapidated, old buildings. Given the circumstances of the Southern Training Camp, it was an understandable sight. However, the building assigned to Roman was a pristine, modern facility—a single-story structure designed to house only one team. It was a clear testament to the sheer scale of Viscount Veil's ambition.
'A person who openly displays their ambition is easy to handle. My stay at the Southern Training Camp might not be so bad after all.'
Just as Viscount Veil desired, Roman had no intention of pulling him up to the Central Government. However, for now, their mutual interests aligned, and Roman saw no reason not to fully exploit that fact.
Creak.
He opened the door to the quarters. Inside, the soldiers had almost finished unpacking. Just as they saw Roman and prepared to salute, he lightly rang the bell hanging from the edge of the door.
Ring, ring.
Instantly, all movement from the soldiers ground to a halt.
They knew the meaning of that bell. Over the past few months of training, a single command had been deeply engraved into their minds.
"Emergency!"
"Prepare for battle!"
The neatly organized space was thrown into chaos in an instant. The soldiers dumped their belongings onto the floor, then frantically stuffed their combat gear back into their military packs. It was a spectacular sight as thirty soldiers moved in perfect unison.
Roman stepped outside.
Having dropped a metaphorical bomb inside the quarters, he watched the door with a relaxed expression, as if the ensuing chaos had nothing to do with him.
How much time had passed?
Soldiers began pouring out of the quarters.
Patter, patter.
Thud, thud, thud.
They lined up in two rows in front of Roman in the order they exited. Swift and orderly. Though they panted heavily, they stood perfectly straight, maintaining impeccable posture.
Roman spoke.
"Two minutes and thirty-nine seconds. Even considering you were in the middle of unpacking, taking over two minutes to prepare for battle is far too slow. I have told you time and time again: the enemy will not wait for us to be perfectly prepared. In a situation where we do not know when, where, or who will attack us, we must make the best preparations in the shortest amount of time to survive. If the next emergency signal takes more than two minutes, be prepared to face the appropriate punishment."
"Understood!"
"We will keep that in mind!"
The soldiers shouted back, the veins in their necks bulging.
It was truly an extraordinary sight. Among all the troops entering the Southern Training Camp, none possessed discipline as fierce as the soldiers following Roman.
A resort for nobles. The Southern Training Camp was a place far removed from true military discipline. Yet, both Roman, who gave the orders, and the soldiers, who followed them, accepted this grueling standard as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
* * *
At that same time, McBurney, the chief instructor of the Southern Training Camp, could not hold back his sighs as he prepared for the upcoming session.
"To think I'm preparing such pathetic training."
Once, he had been a veteran warrior active on the Western Front.
Out of pure loyalty to his country, he had volunteered for the Western Front, defending the Cairo Kingdom through countless battles over nearly ten years. In recognition of his exploits, he had risen to the rank of Centurion. Starting as a commoner, he had achieved the prestigious position of leading a hundred men. But his fall from grace happened in an instant.
Three years ago, the Kronos Empire crossed the border with deliberate intent.
They attacked the Cairo Kingdom as a warning, and countless soldiers defending the Western Front lost their lives. McBurney was no exception to the tragedy. Although they managed to prevent the fall of the Western Front after a desperate battle, McBurney lost his right arm—his sword arm—that day. Beyond the burning agony of his severed limb, McBurney instinctively knew at that moment that his life as a warrior was completely over.
It was exactly as he expected.
There was no place on the battlefield for a cripple. McBurney was stripped of his rank as Centurion. Fortunately, the Cairo Kingdom did not abandon him entirely.
"McBurney. In recognition of the meritorious service you have shown on the battlefield, we intend to appoint you as a training instructor at the Southern Training Camp. Though you must leave the battlefield, we hope you will continue to serve the Cairo Kingdom there."
McBurney's reality shifted. Even then, he believed there was still something he could do for Cairo.
But the reality of the South was bleak. Unlike the Western Front, the awareness of war here was at rock bottom. Most of those entering the Southern Training Camp had no intention of preparing for battle; they merely wanted to pass the time before returning home. Consequently, the training system was an absolute mess. At the Western Training Camp, even nobles were made to train alongside the soldiers. But at the Southern Training Camp, nobles were completely exempt.
While the soldiers trained under the scorching sun, the nobles took naps in the shade. Since even the commander of the Southern Training Camp turned a blind eye to this, the instructors were left to rot in frustration.
"What is the point of all this?"
With a grim face, he looked down at the training schedule.
He had planned a dense three-week training regimen starting with basic physical conditioning, but it meant little if the nobles who commanded the soldiers did not participate. War, ultimately, was a battle of wits and endurance. Commanders did not exist merely to issue orders; they had to understand their soldiers' capabilities and possess the physical stamina to move in sync with them. Those who had never experienced war did not know this. Most of them were trash who believed that simply barking orders from the rear would make a war run smoothly.
He let out a heavy sigh.
It had already been three years at the Southern Training Camp. His motivation had hit rock bottom, but he still could not turn a blind eye to reality.
"...I must at least do my duty."
It would likely be the same this time. While the nobles idled away their time, McBurney intended to at least teach the soldiers properly. On the fierce battlefield, he had learned the terrifying weight of the words 'what if' through bitter experience.
* * *
It was exactly as expected.
The next day.
The nobles who arrived at the training ground gathered in small groups under the shade of a massive tree even before the session began.
"Is that really true?"
"I'm telling you. If you visit my estate sometime, I'll show you what true pleasure is."
"You promised! I'll trust you and definitely visit, brother!"
"You are welcome anytime, little brother!"
They had already finished their introductions. Bound by the single connection of performing their military duty together, they chatted excitedly like old friends.
In stark contrast, the soldiers waited for training under the blazing sun.
Unlike the private soldiers Roman had brought, these were troops assigned by their respective families merely to fulfill their military obligations. They were far from elite. The noble families had no reason to care about the quality of troops who would be tied down on the Southern Front for two useless years. Thus, they filled their quotas with conscripts who had never received proper military training.
They were soldiers who couldn't even form a proper line.
Seeing them sweating profusely and carelessly shedding their gear, McBurney's expression was grim from the very start.
'As expected.'
Every single time, he hoped that maybe this batch would be different. If he could train soldiers with a strong sense of loyalty like those on the Western Front, he would feel a sense of pride. But as always, McBurney saw only a rabble that made the very title of 'soldier' embarrassing. If such a pathetic militia were to defend the Western Front? Without a doubt, the defensive line would collapse in less than a single day.
'How can two fronts in the same nation at war be so completely different?'
He suppressed his emotions. As the chief instructor of the Southern Training Camp, he had to remain faithful to his assigned role. Even if it degraded his professional pride, his past life had vanished along with his lost arm.
It was then.
'...?!'
The soldiers were lined up according to their respective factions. But among them, there was one group standing in perfect, rigid formation, completely unlike the other chaotic conscripts.
That was not all.
At their front stood Roman Dmitry, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his soldiers despite the scorching sun beating down from the sky.
McBurney's prediction was wrong.
This year, an anomaly from Dmitry—a man entirely different from the trash he had seen before—had entered the Southern Training Camp.