Chapter 96 - At Dusk (5)
Just as Ernest was finally getting used to his duties as a training assistant, a new schedule for shooting and target training was announced.
No one knew whose idea it was, but the training was officially named "Shooting Training" for the first years, and "Target Training" for the second through fourth years.
Basic military drills like shooting were mostly for the first years.
By second year, the practice was more about not forgetting technique than learning anything new.
Thus, from second to fourth year, all the cadets had to do in this new program was take cover and act as targets.
Hence, "target training."
"This is insane."
"As long as the training environment is properly controlled, there's no danger."
"I get that, but still..."
"And it's unsettling that this came from Instructor Kohler, but since it's his suggestion, it must be necessary too."
There was a lot of discussion about this new training. Cadets and instructors alike had opinions, but everyone agreed it was necessary. So, there were no protests.
"All situations during the training will be directly controlled by instructors."
Since the training was too intense for the sons of noble families, instructors took full control to prevent any accidents. Every cadet would participate at once, so there would be no disruption to the academy's schedule even with full instructor oversight.
Training assistants also had to participate alongside regular cadets.
Even the disciplinary aides on night duty skipped their shifts, leaving the instructors to cover night watch themselves.
On top of that, Baltrachers were brought in, and Headmaster Armin, alongside Academic Director Kramer, would oversee the training.
"If the Headmaster is out here, then nobody's dying today."
"If anything happens, the instructors will throw themselves in the way."
Cadets were reassured by Armin's presence.
The added attention meant safety would be tightly managed—even if it meant an instructor taking a bullet.
"Is this really safe?"
"Yes. I checked everything."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Yes! It's safe! Unless the Baltracher goes berserk and destroys everything, there's absolutely no way you'll get shot!"
The cadets had a lot to say about the terrifying training.
Clumped together, they bombarded training assistants like Ernest with safety questions.
Having heard the same ones dozens of times, the assistants finally snapped and started shouting that everything was perfectly controlled and nothing would go wrong.
"Quiet."
"Quiet!"
Finally, Thomas stepped forward to restore order.
He scanned the uneasy crowd with a calm voice.
"You've all fired a gun before, but never once been on the receiving end."
Normally, he would have mocked their gloomy faces, but this time, his tone was serious and strict.
With Headmaster Armin Mannheim and Academic Director Kramer Schäfer observing, he was keeping up appearances—but also, he believed in the importance of the training.
"War involves more than one side. If we fire, the enemy fires back."
Everyone understood the obvious.
But few truly grasped it.
Despite all they'd learned about war, they still didn't know what war was.
Click.
Thomas scanned the confused cadets, then suddenly undid his belt and took off his uniform—and then his shirt.
"…"
The training ground fell into a stunned silence. Though older and slightly overweight, Thomas still had a solid frame. His bare torso under the daylight revealed the truth.
Gunshot wounds.
Blade scars.
And most of all—massive burn scars that dominated everything.
His upper body had no unscarred skin.
Veteran cadets, used to his scarred face, suddenly remembered the fear they'd felt when they first saw him. This was worse.
The burns were not from combat.
After a battle, wounded and unconscious, Thomas had been mistaken for dead and tossed into a funeral pyre by enemy forces. Burned alive with corpses, he only survived by waking to the searing pain, crawling out of the flames, and shocking the enemy soldiers into flight.
Hell wasn't far away.
Hell was close—on the battlefield.
On the very ground they stood.
He survived by sheer will, treating his wounds, finding water in corpse piles, and waiting. The Imperial Army eventually found and rescued him.
Thanks to first-class Baltracher healing, he survived—though the burns were permanent.
If they'd arrived later, Thomas might've eaten corpses in desperation—only to die anyway, no longer human.
Recalling the past, Thomas smiled faintly.
Ernest flinched.
That smile resembled his father's too much.
"Experiencing it firsthand would be best, but that's too much. So I want you to at least feel what it's like to be under attack."
Thomas calmly put his shirt back on.
"All training scenarios will be tightly controlled. No panic. Focus on your task."
"Yes!"
"…Yes!"
Still rattled by what they'd seen, most cadets didn't respond in unison. Their voices scattered.
"Fourth years, go first. Set the example."
"Yes!"
This time, they answered properly. Nervous, the fourth years followed orders and crossed the shallow dirt mound at the far side of the range.
Metal plates had been placed behind the mound, and shallow pits dug beneath them. As long as no one panicked and ran, they'd be safe.
"Just crouch and stay still! Don't move a muscle!"
"Tie the straps tight! We'll be checking—don't slack off!"
Each cadet tied the rope around their waist, connecting them to the pole fixed in the pit. Instructors tested the rope's tension. There was no way to escape the line of fire without untying it.
Two Baltracher sat in each pit. When training began, they would raise a Balter shield to block any stray shots.
"Ready!"
"Standby!"
The fourth years were ready.
But the first years, who would be firing, weren't.
"You weren't supposed to bring anything but your uniform."
"S-Sorry!"
Instructors searched them, confiscating anything that could be fired.
Anything that fit in the chamber and passed through the barrel could become a bullet.
"Each of you gets ten rounds. Count each shot aloud. Fire them all. If your weapon jams or breaks, put it down and step back."
Normally, cadets were allowed to shoot freely during drills. But this time, with real people beyond the target mound, every detail was controlled.
"First years ready!"
The first year cadets had finished prepping. It was time for the historic, first round of this unprecedented training.
"Begin!"
"Ready to fire!"
"Ready to fire!"
"R-Ready to fire!"
The confident shooters now trembled. Knowing there were people beyond the mound made their hands shake.
"Fire!"
"Fire!"
"First shot!"
Bang! Bababang!
Sixty Balter guns fired at once.
Thud! Clack! Swoosh! Bang!
"Urgh!"
"Uugh…!"
Bullets slammed into the mound. Wind tore through the air. The cacophony was overwhelming.
The fourth years, now on the receiving end, winced and groaned. When firing, they only heard the gun's bang. But now—it was a storm of terrifying noise.
The ten bullets were fired quickly—often in under ten seconds.
"Haah! Haah! Damn!"
"Is it over? It's over, right?"
To the fourth years, that short burst felt like five endless minutes. They were drenched in sweat.
"Standby! Standby!"
They couldn't leave the pits right away. Only after all first years lowered their guns and passed inspection could they crawl out—sneaking a peek to confirm safety before scrambling away.
"Next! Third years!"
"Yes!"
As the fourth years exited, the third years moved in. It was a different feeling now—being the target was terrifying.
"Damn! I'm scared!"
Robert, shivering, shouted as he dove into the pit.
"Yeah, me too."
Ernest replied calmly, tying the rope around his waist.
"Liar! You're not scared!"
"Robert, it'd be weird not to be scared. Tie the rope and shut up."
"You bastard! Be scared with me! Show some empathy!"
"…"
Robert, terrified, lashed out while tying his rope. All the third years were tense. Seeing the previous round only made it worse.
The nervous first years were a disaster. Some dropped bullets, others lost count.
One even forgot to load rounds, dry-fired four times, then peered down the barrel in confusion—prompting an instructor to kick the gun away and drag the cadet off.
A Balter gun can fire even without a bullet. Peeking down the barrel can mean losing an eye.
"They left us here and gave them guns!"
"Calm down. The instructors and Baltracher are in control."
"This is insane!"
"Should we pull Robert out…?"
"No. I'm fine."
Ernest considered pulling Robert out, but Robert, surprisingly calm now, refused.
If he backed out, people would call him a coward. In first year, he might've fled. But now, as a third year, he had too much pride.
"What if I wet myself?"
"I dunno…"
"Think I will?"
"You'd never live it down."
Robert's drama ironically helped calm others.
And so the next round began.
"Fire!"
Thud! Crack! Whizz! Bang!
"Wahh!"
The sound storm made cadets scream.
Ernest ducked involuntarily.
His heart froze despite knowing he was safe.
"Gah! Cough!"
Robert hit his tether and choked, but Ernest endured.
He analyzed the sounds, trying to understand the experience.
But eventually, it all became noise—one overwhelming, numbing storm.
Most battles wouldn't have this much gunfire.
But if the enemy captured Balter guns…
Just imagining it is terrifying.
The third years, protected by dirt, metal, and the Baltracher, still came out exhausted.
All they wanted was to collapse in bed.
Second year training went smoothly, too—except one cadet cried mid-training, begging to stop.
But even that proved how effective and necessary the training was, and Armin nodded in approval.
Soon, this brutal training would spread to military academies across the Empire.
***
"It was terrifying."
"Right?"
"…"
Later, hearing about the training, Marie sympathized with Robert.
Knowing Marie had taken bullets herself, Robert couldn't complain further.
She was small, but had endured worse.
"…Sorry."
"For what?"
"N-No reason."
Marie didn't understand his apology. She tilted her head. Ernest gently patted her head. Robert did too. Marie shyly ducked her head, but didn't resist.
"It was a precious moment that made my resolve even stronger."
"What resolve?"
"To buy a hereditary title and retire immediately after commissioning."
"…Well, at least you have a goal…"
Robert was dead set on the shortest service in Imperial history: fake sincerity, buy a title, then vanish.
"Then I'll marry a beautiful blonde, live off my dad's money, and be happy forever."
"…You're disgusting."
"I miss Major Kirchner…"
"Snap out of it. Even a first-class Baltracher wouldn't be a major at that age—she's probably in her late twenties, maybe thirties."
"But she's pretty."
"You're… never mind."
"Marie, remember Robert well. This kind of sleazy man is dangerous."
"Okay. Sleazy men like Robert are dangerous."
"Hey…"
Robert, the perpetual sleazebag, pouted—but not for long. Graduation was approaching. His dream was near.
"A hereditary noble with an Imperial Academy diploma and money! I'm gonna marry a hot blonde and live the sweet life!"
He truly believed it—and he wasn't wrong. That would make him quite the catch.
"Trash."
"Shallow."
"Vulgar."
"Tsk tsk…"
Among the finest cadets of the Royal Academy, Robert's antics stood out—but not in a good way.
"Say what you want! I'm living the dream!"
He wouldn't be deterred.
"Hey, do you have an unmarried sister?"
"Get lost."
Blond cadets had a hard time fending off his "charms."
As the Empire was hit with another torrential storm, Ernest experienced his second field training.
This time, it was near Grimmann—and it was hellish.
Drenched in the rain, Ernest suddenly thought of Erika. He hadn't thought of her in a while.
But they would never meet again, so he pushed her out of his mind.
Still, her smile wouldn't leave him. Every time he saw a crescent moon, it returned—vivid and clear.
He remembered her song.
She had stolen the moon.
At the Silver Daffodil tournament, Ernest easily took first place.
Ferdinand, once considered his only rival, did poorly—his frame had grown so large, it hindered his horse.
Time flew.
Ernest became completely accustomed to being a training assistant.
While he muttered curses about Thomas in his head, his body moved dutifully.
Then came summer.
"Ernest, Robert."
"Yeah?"
"I'm graduating."
"…What?"
Suddenly, Marie announced she was graduating.
"They said I've learned all I can here."
She smiled awkwardly.
It was expected, but came too soon—even she wasn't ready.
Beneath her smile were confusion and fear.
Baltracher cadets—especially the Fiders—had no proper graduation.
They were raised like livestock and sent to the army when "ready."
Marie was fifteen.
That was young—even for a Baltracher.
"…Isn't it too soon?"
Ernest's voice trembled.
"It's early, but not unheard of."
Ernest had thought she was thirteen.
Shocked, he realized Marie was simply that exceptional.
She had the basics down, a stable temperament, and would only improve with time.
"…Anyone else graduating with you?"
Marie shook her head.
It wasn't wartime pressure.
The instructors had just decided she was done learning.
Ernest, lost in thought, was brought back by a gentle tug on his sleeve.
Marie looked up at them, paler than usual.
"Marie."
Ernest knelt and looked her in the eye.
"You have to write. That way I can write back."
"Yeah! Write to me too! And don't act all high and mighty just because you're a soldier now. Wait—aren't you being commissioned as a Senior Lieutenant?! This tiny girl!"
"…I'm not tiny."
"With that size? Please. Try growing up first, Lieutenant Marie."
She smiled faintly, finally at ease.
"If you can take leave in winter, come to my house. But send a letter first, okay?"
He said "my house" as if it were obvious.
"Okay."
She beamed.
Hesitating, Marie raised her arms hesitantly.
"Hmm?"
"What is it?"
"…"
Ernest and Robert didn't get it—so she, blushing furiously, pulled them into a hug.
Only then did they understand and return the gesture.
"Take care, Marie."
"Hang anyone who gives you crap for being an Aeblonian."
Marie held them for a long time.
Eventually, she stepped back, red-nosed and sniffling, but smiling.
"Goodbye. Let's meet again."
Born unwanted, treated like a burden, Marie now knew she wasn't alone.
So she could smile, and hope for reunion.
The next morning, without warning, Marie left the Royal Military Academy.