Chapter 5
Chapter 5
The Empire's Supreme Commander Has Returned - Episode 5
"Ugh."
Delam shook his head as he surveyed the barracks.
From his past memories, he remembered them being shabby but at least livable... Now that he was actually here, he realized something.
Nostalgia had a way of painting things prettier than they were.
The barracks were downright horrific.
The cots were thickly layered with straw, but the stench of fermentation rose from them—how long had it been since they were last changed?
And fifty men had to sleep here together?
At least it's not winter.
Delam was fine thanks to his mana, but the other recruits weren't so lucky. In winter, this place would be a death trap.
Thankfully, it was still autumn.
Not too hot, perfect for sleeping.
The second stroke of luck was the food.
Maybe because of the intense training?
The first meal served at the camp included meat.
Sure, it was just a few mystery chunks of salted meat floating in soup, but in this era where protein was scarce, it was practically a feast.
The first day ended like that.
They were assigned barracks, settled in, ate dinner, tidied up briefly, and then went to bed.
At least they gave us time to wash up, damn it.
Click.
Grumbling, Delam lay down and opened his locket.
The night was too dark to see his mother's portrait, but the scent from the leaf inside pierced through the darkness.
"Huuuu—"
He inhaled slowly, letting the fragrance fill his lungs.
The crisp, clean scent made him envision a golden field, bathed in a gentle breeze...
Did Mother picture this same scene when she smelled this?
He wanted to believe so.
That this locket connected him to her.
Soon after, Delam drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep—the first in a long time.
Somewhere in that field... he felt the wind brush past him.
Whoooosh.
It felt like he had only closed his eyes for a moment.
But when he opened them again, sunlight was already streaming into the barracks.
"Wake up! Wake up!"
"Get your asses up, you little shits!"
The moment the sun rose, unwelcome guests stormed in.
A flood of instructors, each armed with a club carved from birch.
Just because they were wooden didn't mean they were harmless—one look at those hexagonal edges told you everything.
A hit would leave bruises at best.
A direct strike to the head? That could be the end of you.
"Roll call starts now! You're Number 1. Shout your number in order from 1 to 50. Recruit, what's your number?"
"...Huh?"
Recruit No. 1, still half-asleep, blinked dumbly.
Farmers and shepherds were early risers by trade—they had to be up before dawn to tend to their flocks and fields. Normally, they'd be awake by now.
The problem?
They had just marched for over thirty days straight.
Of course they were barely conscious.
But the instructors didn't care.
They didn't ask twice before swinging.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
"Agh! Aaah!"
Roll call continued mercilessly.
No. 2, No. 3, No. 4, No. 5...
Each number was punctuated by screams.
A few lucky recruits managed to shout theirs correctly, but in this chaos, getting it right was nearly impossible.
Even if they did, the instructors found other excuses to beat them.
"You too— Huh?"
The instructor, halfway through the line, suddenly froze mid-swing.
His club hovered in the air—because there was nothing to hit.
The boy standing before him was perfectly still.
The instructor's hawk-like eyes scanned for flaws, but the folded blanket was neatly placed at the head of the bed, and the worn leather shoes at the foot were aligned just right.
The boy barked:
"Number 41!"
"Is that the right number?"
"Confirmed."
"If you're wrong, you get double. Still sure?"
"I'll take the risk."
"Recruit, what's your name?"
"Delam."
"Tch..."
The instructor clicked his tongue and lowered his club.
After one last scrutinizing look, he moved on.
"Number 42!"
"Wrong, you little bastard!"
"B-But the guy before me was 41—"
"Doesn't matter! Wrong! Die!"
Mark, who had tried copying Delam, got the beating of his life.
The other recruits, already bruised and groaning, glared—not at the instructor, but at Delam.
We're all getting hit, but you slip through?
You traitorous little—!
But Delam paid them no mind.
From what he remembered, bullying in training camps was rare.
Was it because camaraderie formed during training?
Or because the instructors kept watch?
No.
It's just too damn exhausting.
Bullying someone required energy.
And the camp drained every last drop, leaving just enough to shovel food into your mouth.
Hang in there, brats.
Delam smirked in silent encouragement.
It was brutal, but this would temper them.
For the battlefield.
For survival.
Life in the camp was monotonous.
Outside of meals, there were only three types of training:
Physical drills, formation drills, and indoctrination.
Not that three meant it was easy.
During physical training, everyone puked.
Even the farmers and carpenters—used to hard labor—were no exception.
It was that grueling.
Formation drills?
Moving in perfect sync on command was something none of them had ever done before.
Messing up meant a beating.
A comrade messing up? Also a beating.
Getting beaten made it harder to focus, which led to more mistakes—hell on earth.
But the worst was indoctrination.
Indoctrination was simple.
Everyone gathered in the barracks, sitting in a circle.
All they had to do was listen to the instructor's stories.
The content was straightforward:
[Our royal family is this great.]
[Our kingdom is this amazing.]
[The enemy kingdom fighting us? Absolute trash.]
Just those themes, stretched out endlessly.
And it was entertaining.
Because the stories weren't written by instructors or politicians—they were crafted by the capital's comedians.
So gripping that even conscripted recruits found their chests swelling with loyalty and patriotism.
If you could stay awake.
"Ugh...!"
"Don't nod off... don't nod off...!"
The recruits strained their eyes to stay alert.
Indoctrination came after physical and formation drills.
What happens when you're completely drained?
You will doze off.
It's only natural.
The problem? The instructors refused to accept that.
"You dare sleep while hearing of the royal family's majesty?!"
Wham!
Another recruit got clubbed.
The others pinched their thighs, but it was useless.
If sheer willpower could keep you awake, they'd already be human weapons—no training needed.
Another agonizing day ended like that.
But the recruits were more fired up than usual.
Because tomorrow, the training they'd been waiting for would finally begin!
"They're adding new training starting tomorrow, right?"
"Weapon drills, I heard."
"Heh. Finally, my time to shine."
Back in the barracks after training.
Maybe because they'd toughened up after a week, the recruits now had enough energy for small talk before bed.
The loudest chatter came from the enthusiasts—the volunteers.
That's what everyone called them.
Guys who'd enlisted willingly, chasing their big break.
They all shared one unshakable belief:
That they possessed unrivaled talent.
But had they even noticed the formation and indoctrination drills?
Those were just filler—nothing that could showcase their genius.
Weapon training, though? That was different.
"This'll be my last night in these barracks. Once they see my skills tomorrow, I'll get a private room."
"I trained under a mercenary captain. He was so stunned by my talent he begged me to be his disciple."
Zero evidence, boundless confidence!
And zero chance of it being true.
"Hold that spear straight, you little shits!"
"What's wrong with your arm? Why are you thrusting sideways? I said forward, not at your buddy's ribs!"
"Gaaah!"
"S-Sorry...!"
The first lesson began, and reality hit fast.
They realized they had zero talent.
Of course, some refused to accept it.
"Maybe the instructors just suck at teaching?"
"You little—!"
The instructors' eyes bulged at the recruit's retort.
The spears in the recruits' hands were real.
The instructors weren't mana-trained knights—just battle-hardened veterans.
Meaning if the recruits really rebelled, the instructors could die just as easily.
"Get this bastard!"
"We need to crush this attitude!"
The enraged instructors swarmed with clubs.
The recruit, panicking, dropped his spear.
What followed wasn't discipline—it was punishment.
"P-Please... Gah!"
Amid the beating, one recruit took a direct hit to the back of his skull.
His convulsing body collapsed unnaturally.
Delam shook his head.
He's done.
Delam had seen enough death on the battlefield to know.
Knights didn't just grow accustomed to death—they understood it.
Which strikes were fatal. Which hits meant the end.
That recruit had taken a hit where he shouldn't have.
"Damn it... clean this up."
"Yes, sir."
A man had died, but the senior instructor's response was cold.
The body was dragged away to some unknown place.
The other recruits were shell-shocked.
Of course they were.
The camp was brutal, but no one had died yet.
Now they'd just watched one of their own get killed.
Shiver.
The most terrified of all was someone Delam knew.
Mark, the village troublemaker.
Finally facing reality, his face was ghostly pale.
"Hey."
"W-What...?"
"Weren't you listening? Grip it like that, and you'll lose fingers when you thrust. And hold it at the middle, not the end—you trying to stab the guy in front of you?"
"I'm not!"
"Then hold it right. Starting to get it now? How stupid you've been. Damn, swapping your assigned weapon—even I didn't see that coming."
"Ah..."
"Listen to the instructors and train hard. That's the only way you'll survive the battlefield. Want to never see your parents again?"
Drip.
Tears fell from Mark's eyes without him realizing.
Unlike his fantasies, he had zero talent with the spear.
No matter how many times the instructor beat him, he didn't improve.
Desperately, he tried to rationalize:
Knights use swords.
Swords must be different...
But deep down, he knew.
It was all bullshit.
"You're Recruit Delam?"
Someone approached Delam just then.
Dressed like the other instructors but noticeably higher-ranked.
A senior instructor.
The moment he appeared, the others saluted.
Their faces were tense—this visit was unexpected.
But Delam answered calmly.
"Yes, I'm Delam."
"Come with me. Bring your spear."
"Understood."
The recruits who'd boasted about their talent had no idea how ridiculous they sounded.
Delam knew better than anyone.
Yet he didn't laugh at them.
Because secretly, he was thinking the same thing.
Alright, let's do this properly.
I'll show you what real talent looks like.
So watch, and applaud!