NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 7
Chronologically, it was the autumn of the previous year when I was eight years old, and I’m still eight in this summer, so it might be a little confusing, but the title is not a mistake.
Not long after a blunder in front of my parents—where I recited a speech in an effeminate tone, a gaffe that would be brought up until the day I die—my older brother Heinz’s greeting to his deputy went off without a hitch, and around the time spring planting was completed without issues, I found myself standing at the edge of the village.
“Hey, you brats, good to see you came.”
On a plain where nothing special ever happens, there were a few boys from farming families of similar standing to mine—the third son and younger, as well as some older youths gathered together.
Standing before us, lined up in a row, was a sturdy middle-aged man. Clad in a well-worn leather cuirass that accentuated his muscular frame, holding a finely sharpened longsword, he was Lambert. His short-cropped white hair was beginning to stand out significantly, and with his square face and steely-eyed gaze, he was none other than the leader of the self-defense unit of our Königsstuhl Manor.
“Welcome to the first self-defense unit training.”
Our reason for gathering was straightforward: we were here to participate in the self-defense unit’s selection training.
Now, as far as I’ve learned from Margit, the administrative system of the Threefold Empire of Rain is quite modern and systematic.
The chief of each territory is a powerful noble, with the heads of administrative districts below them being lesser nobles or knightly families—this is fitting indeed, but if you think about it in modern terms, it’s akin to governors, city councilors, mayors, or even civil servants operating on a hereditary system, making it almost the same.
This Königsstuhl Manor, under the jurisdiction of the Thuringian Imperial Knightly family stationed at Königsstuhl Fortress, has established an autonomous system within its boundaries.
The Thuringian Lord, who acts as the steward of the manor, is the top official, but generally speaking, he mans the castle and commands multiple estates, unable to oversee everything directly. Moreover, there simply aren’t enough of his subordinates, the cavalry and infantry, to fully protect all the manors.
Maintaining a standing army is extremely costly—it’s the kind of heavy burden that only modern nation-states can barely manage to sustain.
Of course, the cavalry units consisting of Thuringian knights, their attendants, and drafted infantry do maintain security, but they don’t stay permanently. They’re stationed at the fortress, ready to deploy when necessary.
In other words, the manor must perform its own minimal self-defense and vigilance until they arrive.
Hence, within the estate, a self-defense corps is formed.
This organization is an official group sanctioned by the steward, even granted barracks and a training ground, while receiving a stipend from the steward—essentially serving as quasi-regular troops.
Furthermore, it’s one of the few places where second sons and younger can find employment within the manor.
“I’m Lambert, leader of the self-defense unit. You may already know me from village gatherings and festivals, but since it’s the first day, I’ll introduce myself properly. After all, appearances matter—always have.”
With a wicked grin showing his menacing teeth, the man sent shivers down the spines of the children, who were captivated by the allure of swords but lacked the courage to consider their own injuries or even the possibility of death. Indeed, this giant carried an imposing air.
And rightly so. Mr. Lambert served as a mercenary in his younger days and was recruited by the steward upon his retirement to become the head of the manor’s self-defense force. According to the tales of heroism he shares at festivals, he has participated in twenty campaigns, earned commendations and rewards twelve times, and has claimed over twenty-five helmets—each belonging to a man of sufficient status to afford proper armor.
For these reasons, he is entrusted with the responsibility of recruiting members and conducting training for the self-defense unit.
“Gathered well, all of you… Huh, at least all of you have all your limbs intact. Still, I don’t know what good skinny brats like you could be.”
With a demeanor befitting an instructor, he scanned us, treating us as if we were of little consequence, his words somewhat similar to the Marine Corps style of harsh discipline—it seems this world also has its own version of boot camp mentality.
“Think you all are a bunch of fools who want to become fancy swordsmen? Idiotic lot, isn’t it?”
For the record, I wasn’t here because I particularly wanted to be. My older brother Hans was scared to come alone, so he unceremoniously dragged me out while I was busy making gaming pieces for a side job.
Though, to be fair, I wouldn’t say it’s entirely wrong to think that learning to wield a weapon could help secure survival, especially in a world where mercenaries often come knocking during the winter for sustenance or shelter.
“But let me tell you, this job isn’t so pleasant. It’s the kind of work where fingers split like twigs, entrails drag out like ropes. Thankfully, no one has died here in the past couple of years, but you’ve heard about Rucke being sent to the veterans’ hospital, haven’t you?”
Shouldering the sword as if carrying a heavy burden, Lambert casually paced back and forth in front of us, his tone one of grim forewarning. Screening out cowards is likely part of his strategy, given the limited budget of the self-defense unit.
As expected, only a fraction make it through according to rumors. Even if one successfully completes the training, it is most likely one would simply be placed as a reserve member of the self-defense unit, called upon only when necessary due to budget constraints. Still, being a reserve can improve the quality of emergency or conscripted forces, offering minor tax benefits—it’s not all bad.
“Having your arms yanked out is brutal. The ones who have survived were merely lucky. No expert can avoid death altogether.”
Somewhere between this harsh imagery, a boy enamored with the hero’s tales of glorious swordsmen let out a cry—an almost choking gasp of terror.
“So, let me show you some reality.”
In the next moment, Lambert casually swung down the sword with an ease almost as if patting someone on the head. The unmistakable sound of flesh meeting metal echoed out, followed by the sight of the boy who had previously cried out being struck. Judging from the way the boy was rolling around on the ground clutching his head, he was likely hit by the flat of the blade.
“Your lot doesn’t have it in you to do anything but run around.”
And with a wicked grin, came the inevitable pain—visibly etched on our faces.
—
Watching the children wriggle in pain and fear, it wasn’t a pretty sight, and the self-defense unit leader, Lambert, expressed his disdain with a dismissive sniff.
Make no mistake, this wasn’t created with his personal enjoyment in mind—it came from efficiency and concern for the children. After all, his descriptions of the grim realities of the self-defense work were by no means false.
Though mercenary work is infamous for its hardships, the self-defense unit faces many of the same challenges. A rogue magical species lurking near the village requires extermination, or packs of wolves and giants that the hunters alone cannot handle necessitate the use of spears.
Worse yet, when hungry bandits or mercenaries seeking winter quarters raid, the village men are rallied to form a makeshift defense. There’s no glamor here, as romantic poetry would have it.
And the consequences of fierce battles, as seen in last year’s goblin hunt, yield nothing but pain and blood. Rucke being sent to the veteran’s hospital is considered fortunate compared to the many estate residents who’ve fallen to blades over the past decade.
Combat isn’t pretty nor noble, as in stories. It’s a cold reality of killing or being killed, where bloody entrails and filth replace any poetic glory.
Thus, every few years it becomes necessary to slap some sense into these innocent children and steer them away from becoming criminals or reckless adventurers. Such measures keep them grounded as proper farmers.
Yet, should some rise to the challenge, that is fine too. These are the men willing to stand armed with guns or shovels for the sake of their family and the estate when necessary—Lambert believed they had the right to wield weapons. When it comes down to it, only they themselves can confront an incoming blade.
Training resilient men is a goal to which Lambert aspired, as it meant shaping men capable of protecting what matters.
But this year’s group appeared to be underwhelming. His carefully calibrated strikes, adjusted to cause just enough pain but ensure everyone could walk away, lacked the grit he sought. While some were weeping or wetting themselves, the bare minimum of defiance—standing up and glaring with resolve—was necessary.
In the end, the deciding factor in battle is the resolve to take down the enemy.
Just as Lambert was about to sigh at the absence of potential recruits for either reserve or active duty, a figure stood up at the edge of his vision.
Wasn’t that the kid from the Johannes family who would be turning nine? Lambert recalled, a boy noted for his good deeds, like the donation of a splendid set of game pieces to the town hall, making him well-remembered.
Seeing him rise, dirt-streaked, Lambert began estimating his potential. Though still scrawny, this child wasn’t entirely hopeless. His frame, though narrow, appeared solid and could grow into someone robust. The blood trickling from his mouth did nothing to dampen the impression of a diligent individual with a clear sense of responsibility.
Ah, he’s destined for the knight’s retinue or servant—not the self-defense corps. Lambert smirked with his prominent teeth, fully aware of how intimidating he must look to the boy.
“Oho? There’s one with some bones in him after all.”
—
The skill of “receiving blows” really is remarkable, I thought as I wiped away the blood while standing up.
Thanks to my increased resilience stats and several supportive skills, I managed to deflect the majority of the intended damage from the sword strike designed merely to incapacitate.
Otherwise, I’d probably be writhing around like the others, crying out in pain. Even with mitigation, though, this still hurt quite a bit.
“Oho? There’s one with some bones in him after all.”
Mr. Lambert, praising me with a smile, struck me as truly a competent adult. Through minor injuries, he made me keenly aware that childish fantasies of heroism could lead to death.
This pain is only possible because it’s dealt by him. No matter how finely sharpened, a training sword made of solid iron is still heavy. His careful control ensures none of us suffer broken bones, yet the pain is enough to roll around gasping.
Still, wasn’t it a bit much? Showing a wound from Mr. Rucke in the veterans’ hospital would probably have sufficed…
Thud!
Caught off guard by the praise, another strike came—this time a sweeping horizontal slash that sent me flying back. Instead of resisting the force, I let myself go limp and performed a roll, using the ground to cushion the impact.
But it still felt like being beaten by a chunk of iron. Are my teeth still intact? This mouthful of blood doesn’t feel too good.
For the second time, I managed to get up more gracefully, using the momentum of being thrown to my advantage.
Though the first strike, where I knew it was coming, wasn’t too bad, this unexpected one hit harder, making my head spin.
I see… this is what “fighting” means, huh.
Thinking back, my past life was relatively privileged. Raised in a peaceful home and environment, I rarely encountered pain except for the occasional childhood quarrel. I’ve never actually had to throw a punch to knock someone down or been punched down myself.
It’s only by experiencing it firsthand that I understand why so many NPCs in my TRPG scenarios dropped out of adventuring or soldiering.
Even if this was a controlled hit, imagine the real pain of an all-out strike. A blade piercing flesh? Arrows severing muscle and bone? A blunt weapon crushing both? Or scorching from magic?
Just imagining it sends chills down my spine. How brutally such actions can carve into one’s mind and body is terrifying enough to imagine. Let alone thinking about it happening to my family.
I now understand why people become police officers or soldiers—to protect others from such pain.
Thus, learning some measure of combat might benefit me in this world, where unjustified violence can happen at any time. To prevent my hometown from becoming one of the countless villages I saved as a PL or prepared endless challenges for as a GM…
I shook my throbbing cheek, clearing my fuzzy head by swinging it side to side. In the corner of my vision, a notification popped up: many combat-related categories had been unlocked…
—
Skills can be unlocked not merely through experience but through sheer will and determination.
I’m truly grateful for your kind words. The compliment wasn’t about being “cute” but rather being perceived as “strong,” making me feel acknowledged and encouraged.
—
January 26, 2019 – Typos corrected (thanks to caskaz).
February 15, 2019 – Text revised (thanks to Anbu Hishou).