Chapter 95 – At Dusk (3)
"Hey, hey. There go the esteemed drill instructors."
"Wow, so diligent from the morning. Right?"
The third-year cadets serving as drill instructors for the first-year mock battle had to suppress their frustration as they left the dormitory early in the morning, fully prepared.
They'd had to wake up at dawn and rush through their preparations. While their fellow cadets were just waking up and heading to breakfast, they were already hauling and checking training supplies.
That alone was infuriating enough—seeing their friends stick their heads out the windows, pointing and laughing, made their blood boil.
"See you during your training, punks!"
"Krieger, memorize all those faces."
"Hide! Hide!"
"He already did."
"He says he's got them all memorized!"
"We were just joking, don't be so touchy!"
"Be kind! You'll get what's coming to you!"
The childish shouting match continued between those yelling from the dorm windows and those screaming back from below until the sleep-deprived disciplinary instructor stormed out with a scowl and began shouting just as loudly.
The third-year drill instructors met up with the fourth-years and headed to the supply depot. They hoped for a small break—but their honorable soldier and mentor, Thomas, had already arrived ahead of them and was waiting in front of the depot.
"Move fast. If everything isn't loaded by the time the first-years assemble, it won't be fun."
"Yes, sir!"
"Are you annoyed?"
"No, sir!"
"If you want to be, go ahead."
"..."
Thomas grinned with satisfaction as he watched the drill instructors manage their expressions. Everyone silently focused on the final supply check.
A small relief for Ernest and the other third-years was that fourth-years didn't work any less—everyone suffered equally. During formal events, cadets wore rank insignia, and the chain of command was enforced. But during regular training, all cadets were divided only into trainees and instructors.
Officially, the Academy didn't recognize a hierarchy based on grade level. The senior-junior relationships among cadets were merely customary. No one would stop a first-year from treating a fourth-year informally—but peers wouldn't let that slide.
"I'll go fetch the first-years. Be ready when I return."
Satisfied with their progress, Thomas left. He was about to ambush the first-years, just as he had when Ernest faced his first mock battle.
"Any issues?"
"Nope."
"All good."
"Whew! Great. Let's start loading."
Under the leadership of experienced fourth-years, preparations were quickly completed. Crossbows, wooden bolts, first aid kits, water, and even ingredients and utensils for lunch were packed.
"Anyone know how to cook?"
Cooking fell to the drill instructors too. Ernest raised his hand.
"I do."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. Just enough for campsite meals, though."
"That's more than enough."
"Krieger never fails."
Among the third-years, only Ernest could cook. It wasn't common for noble sons to learn such things.
"You all should learn basic cooking too. Someone always needs to cook during training."
"And it's easier. Better than running through forests and swamps."
"Not always easy. We still need to cook for 70 people."
Ernest regretted volunteering. He should have kept quiet. Running through the woods didn't even register as hardship to him—but cooking for 70 in the field? That was real work.
And if it was inter-grade training, that number could rise to 130.
He never imagined so many new problems would arise once he became an instructor.
"Meals are serious business."
Seeing Ernest's expression twist as if chewing something bitter, the seniors laughed bitterly. Every third-year agreed. During field exercises, they had learned just how true that was.
After Thomas's ambush, the panicked first-years were loaded into transport trucks driven by the fourth-years.
"Krieger, you're absolutely banned from driving. Got it?"
"Yeah, just relax. Please."
"I wouldn't ride in a truck you're driving."
"Thank goodness you understand us."
Even as a fourth-year, Ernest would never be allowed to drive. Unless every other instructor and officer was incapacitated, no one would entrust Ernest with a wheel—and he had no desire to touch it, either.
In truth, he could drive at a normal level now. But still, it was better for everyone if Ernest Krieger stayed off the driver's seat.
"Just chop and toss it in."
"Quickly now, hurry."
While Thomas and others trained the first-years, Ernest helped prepare lunch with a few seniors—70 servings. They began cooking the moment they got off the truck.
"Lighters are the best."
They shaved off tons of time with their efficient military lighters. Ernest was genuinely delighted to see such high-performing and safe lighters had been issued. If they'd been stuck with old models that sometimes exploded or ignited spontaneously, he'd have preferred using flint.
"Just toss it in."
"Is it okay to be this sloppy?"
"How else will we finish in time? All in?"
"Yes."
"Then stir it so it doesn't burn."
"Okay."
Everything was thrown together—meat and vegetables chopped and tossed into a massive pot, then half-heartedly stirred. Water, flour, and seasoning were added in approximate amounts.
"Feels watery… and bland."
"Add more flour and salt?"
"Yeah."
The seniors, having added too much water, were now about to ruin the stew further.
"That's a bad idea."
Thankfully, Ernest intervened just in time.
"More flour and salt will thicken and season it, but it'll taste like nothing but flour and salt."
"...That's true."
"Then what do we do?"
"Boil it down. Reduce it and the flavor will concentrate."
"Ooooooh…"
Ernest realized he was the only one here who actually knew how to cook.
These seniors—also noble sons—had clearly never done this properly.
Damn. Makes sense now.
He thought back to the food during past trainings. No wonder it always tasted so bad.
If you sauté flour with meat, it reduces the raw flour taste and adds nuttiness.
Vegetables release water, so they're best added later or stir-fried separately.
These weren't secret tips—just basics for anyone who's ever cooked.
He should've known better when they said, "just toss it all in."
Now, trying to rescue the already soupy stew, Ernest fed the fire and fanned it hard.
"It's going to burn. Stir!"
The seniors weren't clueless—they worked to prevent the pot from burning, scraping diligently.
Their efforts weren't in vain. The watery stew finally thickened nicely.
"Whew…"
"Exhausting."
Even Ernest was tired after fanning the fire nonstop. But the stew turned out decent enough to make everyone smile.
All that was left was to keep it warm and stirred until the mock battle ended.
"You really know how to cook, huh?"
"Yes, I learned from my father. I'd cook when we went camping in the woods or mountains."
"You didn't have servants?"
"No. It was just the two of us."
"…Oh, I see…"
"It's not what you think. I never lacked anything."
"…Right. Come to think of it, your father was awarded the Noble Heart medal."
"Yes, I've heard the bank says our deposited funds keep growing from interest."
As they took turns stirring, Ernest chatted with the seniors.
They'd always been quietly curious about him. After all, he was infamous at the Academy—for both incidents and achievements.
Ernest had won the Silver Horseshoe competition, graduated top of his class twice, was the first Silver Daffodil recipient, and was the son of a decorated officer.
"Is lunch ready?"
"Yes!"
Apparently, the mock battle was over. Ernest helped with serving.
"Look at that mess."
"First training."
"They're coming. Quiet now."
Seeing the disheveled first-years, they whispered until the cadets came close, then straightened up and served food with solemn faces.
Ernest handed out bread with a serious, imposing expression that made the younger students visibly nervous.
After serving, he joined Thomas and the others to eat.
Just as he feared, the food was terrible—but no one complained.
From their first year on, they'd been conditioned to believe this was intentional: "Ah, this is to simulate real field conditions!"
So even the new students grimaced but kept their gripes to themselves.
"Any special training planned this year?"
One fourth-year asked Thomas—last year had seen a spike in intensity, so they were bracing for another round.
"Someone's going to shoot at you."
"...."
Silence fell.
"Th-that's a metaphor, right?"
"No. I mean it literally."
"...."
Everyone froze. Then Thomas grinned—and they thought, "Ah, he's joking. Of course."
"You've always done the shooting. In real battle, you get shot at too."
"...."
"Of course, we won't shoot at your bodies. But we'll fire live rounds near you, from behind cover. To help you feel the fear and adapt."
"...."
"I even suggested shooting someone in the thigh or arm for realism, but they shot that down."
"...."
"That part was a joke. I wouldn't formally request something like that."
"…But you thought about it?"
"Yes."
"...."
As everyone slowly scooted away from Thomas, he chuckled lowly.
"It's good to experience it in safety. In combat, when you're hit, you either scream in pain and freeze until death, or don't feel it and bleed out while fighting."
He poked his own left arm with a finger.
"I didn't even know I'd been shot. A subordinate said I was hit, and I thought he was crazy. Turns out I couldn't move my arm and nearly died from delayed treatment."
That man who warned him died with a bullet to the head.
He'd been a good guy—though Thomas couldn't remember his name or face anymore.
"You don't need to go that far. But to recognize incoming fire and conquer fear, you need to be fired at. We'll be holding a joint drill for all grades soon."
Thomas finished his bread, stood, and looked down at the instructors.
"As I said, we'll toss you behind cover and fire for real. Don't worry—if anyone panics and runs out, we'll have you tied down so no one dies."
"T-tied down?"
"What else would 'tied down' mean? So you don't flail and get shot."
"I don't think the first-years can handle this."
Ernest spoke calmly.
"They just entered the Academy. Forcing them into this without preparation will only breed panic and fear. Readiness is required for adaptation."
Thomas looked down at him for a long moment—then slowly, creepily smiled.
"Good point. Then here's what we'll do."
Everyone tensed. Nothing he said was ever good.
"We'll have the first-years shoot."
"...."
"If they've pointed a gun and pulled the trigger at their seniors, they'll be mentally prepared for next year's drills. Plus, it doubles as their shooting practice."
"…And our safety?"
"We'll handle that."
Despite the need to revise the Academy's official training schedule, Thomas clearly wasn't letting this go.
"Heheheh…"
"..."
When Thomas fixed his gaze on Ernest with a low laugh, goosebumps shot up all over Ernest's body. What could this wicked, cruel man possibly be smiling about?
"Don't tell anyone. That's what'll make the training effective."
He grinned darkly.
He paused mid-sentence—but everyone knew what he originally meant to say:
That's what makes it fun.
Ernest officially began instructor duties in the afternoon. His first assignment was to lead a group of allied cadets to a forest training location while holding a flag.
"Huff! Huff!"
"Whew! Hah!"
Walking slowly, Ernest kept turning around to monitor the struggling first-years.
A few kept up; most were exhausted.
They really are small...
At sixteen, Ernest realized just how young and frail the fourteen-year-old first-years were.
Because he avoided social events, he had few interactions with lower grades—his only real acquaintances were few, thanks to past incidents.
Even Marie, younger and smaller, was technically his senior, having entered earlier.
This is… overwhelming.
Accustomed to dealing with elders, Ernest found the bright, trusting eyes of these juniors utterly oppressive.
So this is how the seniors felt…
He remembered how he and his peers once feared their seniors—especially the drill instructors.
Now he understood their discomfort.
"Sir."
"Yes?"
Startled from his thoughts, Ernest answered with a calm, authoritative voice.
One first-year was walking right behind him, eyes shining with admiration.
"You're the famous Cadet Krieger, right?"
"...."
That name sent a jolt of fear through him.
Why was he already a "famous" figure among kids who'd just enrolled days ago?
"There's no other 'Krieger' here, so…"
"My brother's friend just graduated and told me about you. Said everyone at the Academy knows who you are."
"..."
Of course they did.
Anyone ahead of Ernest knew the legend of the lunatic who turned the Academy upside down his first day.
"I want to be a cadet just like you."
"…I see."
He couldn't tell the truth to those hopeful eyes.
More first-years began whispering and glancing his way.
Ernest looked straight ahead and kept walking.
Uaaaaaagh…!
He screamed internally.
He wanted to show the truth—that he was just another cadet who aged up normally.
That he wasn't special.
But saying that during drills would've been weird—and disappointing the kids' bright eyes even harder.
So Ernest simply endured.
"We're all gonna die!"
"Damn that Instructor Kohler's finally lost it!"
Thomas had sworn everyone to secrecy.
Naturally, it didn't work.
Once back at the dorms, the instructors spilled everything in terror—sending third- and fourth-years into panic.
"If the drill is managed properly, no one'll get hurt."
Ernest tried to calm his peers.
"Think about it—shooting practice is dangerous anyway. If someone really wanted to, they could kill someone during regular drills."
"Wh—what kind of sick thought is that?"
"I was just stating a possibility."
"Ernest wants to kill us!"
"No I don't. Calm down."
It didn't help.
At the Royal Military Academy, the thought that someone might turn their gun on a peer or instructor during training was unthinkable—because the entire family would be ruined, not just the cadet.
So Ernest's reminder that all shooting was inherently risky shocked everyone.
"Everyone, settle down."
Then Wilfried spoke—in his deep, calm voice—and the chaos evaporated.
"The only one who'd ever do that is Ernest."
"Wilfried, even I wouldn't go that far."
"If someone had the motive, we couldn't stop them. It could happen during mock battle or even in the dorms. Like Ernest."
"Why me again…?"
"This is the Royal Military Academy. No one here would do that—except Ernest."
"..."
"Mm… hard to argue with that logic."
"Wilfried's right. Who else would do something like that?"
Everyone agreed.
"I've never pointed a loaded gun at anyone."
"But you did cripple a senior with a trap."
"..."
"And hung a classmate during mock battle."
"..."
Each comment struck deep. With so much baggage, Ernest couldn't protest.
Wilfried smiled angelically—reminding Ernest of Thomas. His face twisted.
Regardless, this new drill—just like Thomas—was clearly insane.
Yet it had been approved by Brigadier General Kramer Schaefer, the equally insane head of the training division, the certifiably insane Headmaster Armin Mannheim, and the most insane of all: Emperor Walter Ulrich Mihahil.