Count Dietrich looked down at the training ground from the hilltop finish point. He sat with his legs crossed in a chair. The supervisor standing beside him bowed and scraped as he spoke.
“Thanks to you, Count, the training center’s facilities have gradually improved and the education has become more systematic, so the ratio of excellent trainees is higher than in previous years.”
“There is no need for good facilities. It is the nature of lazy races to try to lie down anywhere they can stretch their legs.”
Count Dietrich, who had spoken cynically, took out a pipe and placed it in his mouth. The supervisor, who had been rubbing his hands together beside him, immediately pulled out a lighter.
“Allow me.”
The supervisor politely received the pipe from the Count and performed the charring. The swollen tobacco leaves caught fire. The supervisor personally placed the finished pipe into the Count’s mouth.
These days, relatively convenient cigars had become popular, but most nobles still insisted on pipes. The reason was that cigarettes were frivolous.
The Count held the smoke in his mouth for a while before speaking.
“Ensure they only survive at the bare minimum. Even if many useless things survive, it only increases the mouths to feed.”
“Of course. But the children are so untrained and barbaric… If killing were permitted, chaos could break out, so we are pruning as much as possible at this stage.”
“Any noticeable ones among the graduating class?”
“There are quite a few. One of them… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but his name is Benjamin Holland, a trainee who visited the Count’s mansion last time.”
“Ah, I remember.”
“Yes, yes. He’s a decent fellow.”
“Hmm.”
The Count nodded perfunctorily and placed the pipe back in his mouth. Boom. The final signal flare marking the end of the training was fired.
“The trainees will be returning now. Let’s see how many survived this time, haha.”
Not long after the signal flare was fired, heads could be seen coming up the hill. The arriving trainees submitted their flags and name tags to the instructors to be scored.
Exhausted trainees slumped down here and there. The injured received immediate treatment, or in severe cases, were transported away.
Suddenly, a commotion was heard from beyond the starting line. Count Dietrich turned his gaze that way.
A black-haired trainee was staggering up from below. Even from afar, his injuries looked quite severe.
One shoulder hung limp, apparently dislocated, and his injured thigh was tied up with a piece of clothing. He was also clutching his side tightly. It looked as though a bullet or blade had grazed him there.
Such injuries were commonplace here. The moment the Count was about to withdraw his gaze with disinterest, the supervisor spoke.
“It’s Heiner. I’ve heard he’s no ordinary boy.”
“Is he in the graduating class?”
“No, he should be a third-year.”
The Count looked at the trainee anew with a surprised expression. He was larger than most graduating-class trainees.
The instructor who received the flag and name tag from him found his eyes widening. The instructor asked Heiner a few questions as if in disbelief, then showed the name tags to the instructor beside him. Count Dietrich, who had been watching this, tilted his head.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure either… I’ll go and check.”
The supervisor walked over to the instructor and asked what was going on. After hearing the situation, the supervisor returned to the Count with a look of bewilderment on his face.
“That Benjamin Holland I mentioned earlier… they say he’s dead.”
“Wasn’t he in the graduating class? He participated in this?”
“If signs of delinquency or disobedience are seen, the instructors may add names to the survival game at their discretion.”
“What a waste. Why would they let an excellent trainee, raised with money until graduation, die at the last minute?”
“It was meant merely as a warning, so they are provided with good weapons as well. Also, victory in survival training doesn’t mean much to the graduating class, so they usually band together. They shouldn’t have been easily defeated…”
The supervisor hesitated for a moment, then continued as if unsure himself.
“They say all four graduating-class participants were taken down by one boy.”
“What? One boy?”
“Yes. That one. The one severely injured…”
The Count’s gaze turned back to Heiner. Heiner was receiving emergency treatment. When he removed his training uniform top, blood gushed out from his side where the bullet had grazed him.
“Heiner Valdemar, third year.”
***
After the survival training, Heiner was confined to his sickbed for some time.
His left shoulder was dislocated, his thigh had been stabbed, and a bullet had grazed his side, tearing away flesh.
He had large and small injuries all over his body. His face, battered during hand-to-hand combat, was so cut and swollen that his original features were nearly unrecognizable.
Even a seasoned doctor clicked his tongue at such injuries, wondering how he had moved with that body.
“Still, it’s impressive that this is all you got after facing those bastards, man.”
Hugo clicked his tongue and handed over a cup of water. Heiner poured the medicine into his mouth and swallowed it with water.
“How the hell did you kill them? All four at once.”
“…Just did.”
“How do you ‘just’ kill four graduating-class students? Talk sense.”
Heiner lay back down without answering. Hugo tilted his chair back and forth and asked.
“Did you do it to avenge Ethan?”
“Not particularly.”
“Either way, that’s how it turned out. Now no one will dare mess with you, man.”
Heiner closed his eyes and didn’t reply. He felt neither joy nor sorrow. He was simply tired.
Suddenly, the door burst open without a knock. Heiner and Hugo turned to the door simultaneously. Their assigned instructor stood in front of the room.
Hugo sprang up from his seat and saluted. The chair he had been sitting on clattered backward. Heiner also tried to rise from his sickbed immediately, but the instructor waved his hand.
“Stay put. How is your body?”
“I’m fine.”
Unable to simply lie there, Heiner forced his upper body up. The instructor stopped him once again as he tried to stand.
“I told you to stay put. There is an infirmary at the entrance to the first floor of Building A. Get treated there at dawn.”
“Yes, understood.”
“Also, the Count has invited you to the next dinner. Saturday evening this week, at Rosenberg Mansion.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
“Good. Get treated well and recover quickly.”
The instructor, having delivered his brief message, left the room. Silence hung for a moment. Hugo, who had been silently stunned, jumped up and turned to Heiner.
“Hey!”
Hugo spilled out words in rapid succession, his face flushed with excitement.
“Crazy, did you hear that? Did I hear right? ‘Get treated well and recover quickly’? Did that devil bastard really say that? And Building A is the instructors’ building—they’re letting you use the infirmary there?”
He looked ready to grab Heiner’s shoulders and shake him violently, but thankfully refrained, perhaps thinking of his injuries.
“And the Count’s dinner! That’s something only top graduating-class students get to attend! Holy shit, that’s insane. The Count must think highly of you. You’ve got it made, you bastard.”
Participating in Count Dietrich’s dinner meant the probability of entering his service later was high.
Count Dietrich, a high noble and the head of the military, was the supreme commander of the Special Operations Force. And the Special Operations Force was a place every trainee wanted to enter.
For training center graduates to enlist in the regular army and get promoted was like plucking a star from the sky. They had to achieve many merits in operations to prove their skills and loyalty.
But the training center’s existence was a necessary evil for the Padania Royal Family. The royal family entrusted them with all sorts of dirty work that the regular army couldn’t do, while simultaneously wishing them not to be exposed to the light.
Thus, most training center graduates died during operations without their achievements being recognized. Or they spent the rest of their lives suffering from trauma.
However, entering the Special Operations Force was an exception. Since they were placed under the Count’s direct jurisdiction, it was no different from having a path open to enlist in the regular army.
“Well, someone of your caliber deserves to make it into Special Operations. Still, it’s truly unprecedented for a third-year to be invited to the Count’s dinner.”
Heiner, listening quietly to Hugo’s words, muttered with a humorless face.
“Is it really right to take this invitation as a positive sign?”
“What’s with the random pessimism all of a sudden?”
“Benjamin and Greta were also invited to the dinner. They had a high chance of entering the Special Operations Force after graduation. From the Count’s perspective, I killed such people…”
“Hey, hey, that’s overestimating our importance. To the Count, we’re just one of many chess pieces.”
Hugo shrugged and chuckled.
“Probably pawns rather than knights.”
“…I’m at least a knight.”
“Big shot, huh?”
“Ethan would have been jealous.”
“Right. His lifelong wish was to enter the Special Operations Force. He sang so much about wanting to set foot in Rosenberg Mansion just once…”
Hugo’s face turned bitter. He let out a long breath and waved his hand.
“No point talking about it now. Get ready to meet your new roommate.”
Roommates changing was a common occurrence. They knew well how not to grieve. How to become accustomed to loss as well.
Heiner’s gaze lingered for a moment on the empty sickbed. The white sheet’s surface flickered in the dim candlelight. He soon withdrew his gaze.