Your Turn to Suffer
In the North, the spear was a weapon for the lowest ranks of soldiers.
The reason was simple.
Proper spearmanship had long since fallen into obsolescence, reduced to little more than thrusting from a distance. Its length also made it a clumsy burden whenever a man needed to move with stealth.
That was why most officers of platoon leader rank and above preferred the sword. Compared to the spear, it was simply more practical.
Of course, the continent still boasted a handful of outstanding spearmen—but even they were few. Those with any real talent often set the spear aside entirely and trained with the bow instead, seeking the advantage of range.
But…
Thak.
Arteon lifted his spear.
It was the first weapon issued to him when he had been drafted into the punishment unit. Even after becoming a platoon leader, he had never set it down.
The reason was simple.
It was familiar.
In a punishment unit that marched into hell every single day, there had never been time to switch weapons and retrain. He had simply clung to the tool that fit his hands best—because that was how a man stayed alive.
“So it connects like this again…”
To think the weapon once wielded by the man called the former ruler of the North had also been a spear.
“Interesting.”
Arteon muttered under his breath as he watched the Black Butcher charge toward him.
“Graaaah!”
Blinding speed. The distance had been a full ten meters or more, yet the beast closed it in a single bound.
But—
Swaak!
Arteon flung himself sideways, landed, and reset his stance as he locked eyes with the creature.
Vargas Northern Spearmanship…
He had already sorted the forms in his mind, yet his body still refused to follow cleanly. Could a spear truly be used to fight like this?
His grip tightened around the shaft.
This time he would not run.
Both hands firm on the spear, Arteon leveled the point at the Black Butcher once more.
After all…
At this range, I hold the advantage.
“Huu…”
He exhaled slowly, steadying his breath.
He could not explain why, but this was his second life. He would remember the first—the one that had ended so hollowly—yet he would never repeat it.
“Now…”
Over the Black Butcher’s face, countless other faces layered themselves. The ones who had looked down on them like insects and spent their lives as expendable tools. The barbarians of the Kar Tribe, restless and raging to pour across the border.
A fraction of a second. In that blink, tens of thousands of memories flashed past his eyes.
Arteon watched the Black Butcher rush in and spoke.
“It’s your turn to suffer.”
He thrust the spear.
Pook!
“Tsk.”
He had hoped, but no miracle arrived.
Having lost a gold coin, Hans lay on his bunk trying to soothe the sour ache in his chest. He did not regret the bet, yet a man’s heart was still a man’s heart.
Still…
…What a waste of a soldier.
That movement. That decisiveness. Killing a superior was clearly wrong, but if the boy had known the truth of what that officer had been doing…
“The Division Commander’s going to have a headache.”
Had the kid come back alive, Hans would have had a long list of questions. Yet he soon sat up. Death among northern soldiers was ordinary. When battle came, a hundred men could fall in a single day. Lingering over the dead was a luxury he knew better than anyone not to afford.
But then—
“S-Squad Leader!”
“What is it?”
One of the soldiers who had organized the wager hurried over. He struck his right fist to his left breast in salute and spoke at once.
“Here… here’s the money…”
“……?”
Hans stared at the pouch the man held out. Inside lay a fair pile of silver—and among it—
“A gold coin?”
The very one Hans had put up. Why return it to him?
“……Don’t tell me.”
Hans’s eyes wavered. When he looked up at the soldier—
“Th-the soldier who was sentenced to punishment on Bareda Hill… he’s come back.”
Hans was already running.
Thud. Thud.
Wrapped in the silver-furred hide of a snow wolf, Arteon halted before the gates of the Northern First Division fortress and shouted up at the sentries on the wall.
“Here! I’ve brought the unit’s token down from the summit of Bareda Hill!”
“…….”
“Holy— Report this right now!”
The soldiers peering down could not hide their shock. They had seen someone approaching from afar, but none of them had imagined it would be Arteon. They had thought the possibility impossible.
Someone actually survived the Bareda Hill punishment…
And a full week later, no less. He even looked surprisingly whole. Their eyes kept catching on the snow-wolf pelt draped over him. He had left with nothing but a common dagger…
He killed a snow wolf…?
Then one of the watchers frowned and stared at Arteon’s hip. A long rod roughly the length of a man’s arm hung there, half-hidden by the fur.
“……Did he cut himself a tree branch or something?”
The hide obscured it, yet something about the object drew the eye.
“Commander says let him through!”
“Open the gates!”
At the order, the soldiers hurriedly worked the mechanism. Whether the man carried a wooden stick or not was irrelevant. What mattered was this:
He walked out of Bareda Hill alive…
Everyone murmured as Arteon entered the fortress.
Then—
“Arteon. Division Commander Velkain wants to see you. Clean yourself up and report at once.”
“……Understood.”
Only a week had passed since they dumped him on Bareda Hill. Yet—
Something about him… feels different.
The aide delivering the order could only stare, puzzled by how much the man had changed in seven days.
“……Huu.”
A shower after a full week felt like pure honey. Until now he had scrubbed himself with nothing but snow. Arteon washed the dried snow-wolf blood from his skin. No matter how carefully he had tried to clean the pelt with snow, he could never remove every trace. And wandering that frozen waste bare-skinned without the hide would have been even more impossible.
He finished roughly, scouring himself with a makeshift scrubber of twisted twigs, then pulled on the clean uniform laid out for him. In the North, nothing suited a man better than this coat of arms.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
Arteon answered Staff Sergeant Claw, who had been waiting. He followed the aide toward the Division Commander’s office.
“Division Commander. Staff Sergeant Claw reporting.”
“Enter.”
At the voice from within, Claw and Arteon stepped into the tent. Arteon looked at Velkain seated behind the desk.
…The Ogre of Benhard.
That was the nickname for Velkain’s fiery temper. Arteon also knew the man beneath it was rigorously fair. That same fairness would, within five years, cost him the political battles of the army and his life.
A man too valuable to lose.
Had Velkain remained to hold the northern front, the wars that followed would never have grown so desperate.
This time…
There was far too much that needed setting right.
Velkain spoke.
“Arteon.”
“Hearts of steel! Private Arteon! Reporting to Division Commander Velkain!”
Right fist clenched over the heart in perfect salute. Velkain gave a short nod at the crisp form.
“Everyone out.”
The surrounding aides filed from the tent. Velkain rose and regarded Arteon in silence.
Sent out naked into the wild for a full week. Ordered to climb the summit of Bareda Hill and return with the unit’s token…
Yet he looks…
So intact it was almost unsettling.
Velkain asked,
“Have you reflected?”
“I have reflected on the method I chose.”
“Do you consider the punishment unjust?”
“No, sir. The murder of a superior officer is a capital crime subject to summary execution. The sentence was appropriate.”
The exchange remained formal, stripped of emotion. Velkain found no fault in Arteon’s bearing. What startled him was something else entirely.
…A soldier with less than a year of service?
Those eyes. The way the man met his gaze without flinching—no one-year private should look like that. Even veterans who had survived five or six years on this front instinctively averted their eyes from Velkain. His appearance was rough, yes, but the faint killing intent forged through a lifetime of blood and fire was the true weight. Merely meeting that stare felt like drowning. That was the Ogre of Benhard.
And yet—
“Arteon.”
“Private Arteon!”
Arteon snapped to attention, then eased into a parade rest as he faced his commander. Velkain continued,
“From this moment, if even a single word of your answers contains a lie, I will exercise my authority as Division Commander and have you beheaded.”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Why did you kill Company Commander Moldrek?”
“…….”
Arteon’s mouth closed for a beat. Velkain’s presence was every bit as formidable as the rumors claimed. Yet Arteon did not tremble. He had dared to kill Moldrek precisely because he knew Velkain commanded this division—because he trusted the man’s fairness. That same fairness would later push Velkain out of the army’s political games, but Arteon had been certain the commander would dig until the truth surfaced.
Arteon answered,
“Company Commander Moldrek was colluding with the Kar Tribe and driving allied soldiers into death traps.”
Velkain’s eyebrow twitched—the first crack in an otherwise unreadable face.
“Evidence?”
“If you dig beneath the floor of Moldrek’s tent, you will find proof of his espionage.”
Arteon knew every one of Moldrek’s methods—how the man played both sides with the Kar Tribe, how he hid the secret documents, even the more sophisticated techniques he would develop later.
…Because I was the one who taught him.
Hiding vital papers under the tent floor was merely an old habit of Moldrek’s at this point in time. But the instant Arteon finished speaking—
“You mean these?”
Velkain tapped a stack of documents already sitting on his desk. For the first time, Arteon’s eyes wavered.
Those… when…?
His gaze flicked from the papers back to Velkain.
He already knew?
Then—
“Arteon.”
“Private Arteon!”
Velkain’s voice dropped before Arteon could form another thought. Arteon answered at full volume.
“In recognition of your summary execution of a superior officer for acts of treason, you are hereby promoted to Corporal, effective immediately.”
So surviving earned him a corporal’s rank? But Velkain was not finished.
“And…”
He paused, as if weighing something, then continued,
“Within the authority of the Division Commander, I will grant you any one request. However, since you have already been promoted, nothing related to further rank will be permitted.”
“…….”
Any one request within the Division Commander’s power. In this unit Velkain was virtually a king; nothing lay beyond his reach.
Arteon swallowed without meaning to. A flood of possibilities raced through his mind. The man could hand over dozens of gold coins without blinking.
But…
Here… money means nothing.
And knowing Velkain’s nature, this was—
A test.
A glint sparked in Arteon’s eyes. He looked straight at the commander.
“I request fifteen days of personal time, along with exclusive use of a training ground.”
“……What?”
Deep furrows cut across Velkain’s brow. He had offered anything within a Division Commander’s power. Gold would have been given. A post attainable by a corporal would have been arranged. And yet—
“Personal time and a training ground?”
“Yes, sir.”
“…….”
For a moment Velkain was speechless.
“Is that truly all you want?”
“I merely did what needed doing. That reward is more than enough. Ah—and if possible, I would like extra meat rations during that period.”
Not a tremor in the answer. Velkain’s mouth twitched; a short laugh escaped before he could stop it.
“Granted.”
He scrawled something swiftly on a sheet of paper, then held it out.
“Deliver this to Staff Sergeant Claw and let him guide you. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
“Hearts of steel!”
Arteon saluted and stepped out of the tent. The moment he was gone—
“Heh heh heh heh… Now this is an interesting one.”
Velkain finally let the laughter he had been holding burst free.