Ch. 6
Chapter 6
“What the hell is this one?”
The Chief Instructor looked up, demanding an explanation.
“No family name, birthplace unknown—why are half the fields blank? Is he a spy?”
“Do you mean Mago, sir?”
“You know him?”
“Even the kids in the capital have heard the rumors. You hadn’t?”
“Rumors?”
He took a drag on his cigarette.
“They say he wiped out the capital’s thieves in two weeks, then marched straight into the Training Center just as he was about to claim the Boss’s seat.”
“Playing at being a Hero? Ridiculous.”
“He did it with one partner—Kinjo. Together they’re called Majo.”
“Charming nickname.”
The Instructor flipped the page himself, unimpressed.
“Kinjo Shua, eldest son of the Shua Family.”
“You know them?”
“Everybody knows the Shuas—a rich clan whose heirs keep turning out rotten. I heard they shipped the eldest abroad after one scandal too many. Watermelon Magic University, was it?”
He turned another page.
“So we’ve got a fake Hero and a makeshift Mage. Birds of a feather.”
Smoke curled from his lips.
“Maybe he’s not fake.”
“Meaning?”
“I saw Mago fight once.”
“And?”
“Marcello Arnes—the Task Force prodigy. He reminded me of her.”
“Seriously?”
“Clear as day.”
“Two monsters in one generation? That’s cheating.”
“Then let’s hope this cheat wins.”
“Amen. Just don’t let them be defective.”
At that moment, Mago and Kinjo—eating at the inn—sneezed in perfect unison.
* * *
The sixty-sixth class, myself included, began with the Attention stance.
We held it for six hours straight.
By the time the order came, the sun stood at its zenith, a white-hot hammer on our helmets.
I caught myself longing for the cool north where the sun never bit this hard.
A lapse in focus nearly buckled my knees; I locked joints and will together.
Sweat-soaked collars wilted against the navy wool, and the uniform finally felt real.
I really am back.
That lunatic decision.
Under the shade, the Chief Instructor closed his book.
His cropped black hair and angular face hadn’t changed a day.
I never expected to see that man again.
He uncrossed his legs and rose just enough to make us think break—then sat back down and reopened the book.
“One more hour.”
A trainee toppled over, still rigid at attention.
Heat hollowed my skull.
Instructors dragged the body away.
Six down.
We had started at one-hundred-fifty; already six were gone.
Another thud.
Correction: seven.
“Idiots,” the Chief Instructor muttered.
Another hour crawled by.
Seven hours total.
He shut the book, lifted the wooden rod he’d left on the ground.
No one flinched anymore.
After a long sweep of the ranks he settled the rod across his shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
The real test began.
“Belle Red, sir!”
Her hair matched her surname—bright red—and her jagged bangs framed fierce eyes.
My heart lurched like surf against a breakwater, the same jolt I’d felt meeting Kinjo again.
This time, I could save her.
“What do you bring?”
“I... I—”
Belle faltered, words stuck in her throat.
The outcome was obvious.
I was flat on the floor.
Next.
A jerk of the chin pointed to the man beside me.
He hadn’t realized the gesture meant “state your name,” so he simply dropped like the rest.
Next.
At the next chin-jerk he spat his name as if it had been shaken loose.
“Amon Coster, sir!”
“What do you bring?”
“The honor of my family!”
“Good... bring plenty of it.”
The instructor moved on without a glance.
Speaking as someone who’d already lived this once:
what they were doing now was, honestly,
so meaningless you could call it
utterly pointless.
A quick intimidation lap to glue faces to names, nothing more.
The question “What do you bring?” was just theater,
meant to make us believe the answer mattered.
Last time I’d fretted over giving the “right” response;
now I knew better.
The rookies didn’t.
They poured their souls into it, exactly as I once had.
So, next.
Quick-witted, the recruit beside Amon Coster answered.
“Kinjo Shua... sir!”
“Louder!”
“Kinjo!”
A breath.
“Shua!”
“What do you bring?”
“I can cast magic!”
Every head snapped toward him.
A real mage, in the same batch—
enough to ratchet the tension sky-high.
A few cadets later we reached the second row.
“Mago, sir!”
“No family name?”
“No, sir!”
“No parents? Or were you a slave?”
Both were true.
—Ah... n-no!
Last time I’d denied it; this time I owned it.
“Yes, sir! That’s right!”
The instructor hadn’t expected honesty.
Flustered, he covered with the next question.
“What do you bring?”
I inhaled and fired the answer.
“I have what it takes to make Special Task Force as Top Ranker!”
That drew twice the stares Kinjo had gotten.
Only the top ten could try out for the Task Force.
I had no intention of squeaking in at number ten.
* * *
06:30.
In here they called it 06:30.
Reveille blared.
The first note twisted every face into a grimace—
a noise so foul it qualified as assault.
“Rise and shine!”
The Chief Instructor’s voice punched through the four-man room door.
“Up! Now!”
Trainees greeted Training Center Day Two with open eyes—
only their eyes.
The sudden hour change had scrambled their brains.
Many had tossed all night.
They staggered up, groaning like the dying.
The door crashed open; an instructor stormed in.
“Burn wake-up time into your bodies!”
His rod thudded into anyone still horizontal—
literally burning the hour into muscle memory.
Bunk beds were no refuge; his reach was long.
Kinjo jolted awake with a yelp.
“You slugs think you can take a single goblin moving this slow?”
The instructor prowled, hunting the next victim.
His gaze locked on mine.
I sat upright, blanket folded, perfectly still.
Wake-up time.
My body had been waking itself five minutes early for years.
That was how you earned points with the Chief Instructor.
“Hey, Mago...”
I’d thought he’d let it slide.
He glared at me like he wanted me dead.
“If you’re up first, shouldn’t you wake the rest of your squad?”
I couldn’t dodge the baton either.
Breakfast was a trap; dinner, even worse.
By the second day, Night Watch duty rotated to me.
Luck stuck me with Kinjo.
“Mago, you even human?”
“Why?”
“Why? Aren’t you sleepy?”
“Around this hour I can’t sleep at all.”
“Haaah. Must be nice.”
“Kinjo.”
“Yeah?”
“Got any funny stories?”
For an entire week the Imperial First Training Center did nothing but stand still.
At attention.
At ease.
Frozen mid-push-up.
The 66th Class had already shrunk from one-fifty to a hundred.
It was dinnertime.
The moment the food arrived I wolfed down a spoonful.
I sat at a table with the other trainees; Kinjo was beside me, same as always.
“You said your name’s Kinjo Shua?”
A man with pale gold hair and the same blue eyes as Kinjo.
“Yeah. And you’re... Amon Coster, right?”
“That’s me. Kinjo, where’re you from? You look like you were nobility.”
“Born in the Capital, but when Father got his fief we moved north. After that I studied abroad.”
“Oh, I lived north of the Capital too—might’ve been neighbors.”
“I knew who you were, Amon. We were practically next-door.”
“Really? Sorry, I only had eyes for my sword work. Never heard of House Shua.”
Amon slipped in a quiet jab.
“No worries. I’d heard the Costers were monster-hunting specialists—one of the Three Great Houses—but you’ve been quiet lately. Never showed for the war. Makes me wonder why you trained at all.”
Kinjo fired back twice as sharp.
A brittle silence settled between them.
I chewed my bread and watched.
Amon Coster—second son of House Coster, one of the Empire’s three premier families.
In my last life he’d graduated top of the Training Center.
One of the talents I had to keep death from claiming.
“Well, that’s why I’m here now,” Amon said, straightening with pride.
Kinjo’s barbs hadn’t even scratched him; the duller tongue won this round.
“But why’s your friend only eating?”
He jerked his chin at me.
“Ah, Mago’s—”
“You guys should finish fast tonight,” I cut in.
“He just really likes his rice,” Kinjo finished, clearly bored.
Before the words landed, the mess-hall door slammed open.
“Emergency! Fall in on the parade ground—now!”
Of course it was the Chief Instructor.
We all knew “emergency” was a lie, a snap test of reflex, yet—
I shot outside like a spring.
The rest poured out behind me, half-dressed and panting.
“Whether you’re stuffing your face or on the latrine, when you hear ‘emergency,’ you come running! In a real strike, Mago, everyone but you would be dead. Got it?”
The slower you were, the nastiest the punishment.
No matter how gifted, these kids were still teens—green and clumsy.
I’d lived longer, done this before; nothing fazed me.
So, naturally—
“Too easy.”
Knowledge really is power.
* * *
Crimson hair.
Eyes to match.
Belle Red lifted the longsword from the ground.
She sprinted straight at an orc twice her size and stabbed wildly.
Belle’s eyes were blank, reason gone.
The orc’s body didn’t just tear—it burst.
Not sliced, exploded.
Instead of blood, yellow sand gushed out.
Only then did Belle freeze, the situation finally sinking in.
“That was a dummy, Belle Red.”
The Chief Instructor flicked his fingers, wordlessly demanding the sword back. While Belle stood frozen, another instructor rolled in a fresh orc model.
“I–I’m sorry!”
Belle doubled at the waist and offered the blade in both hands. Her crimson hair wasn’t the only thing scarlet—her pupils and cheeks blazed just as red.
“Mago. She reminds me of us.”
Kinjo muttered under his breath.
“I noticed.”
“You did?”
“She’s blind with revenge.”
“A scene like that is fine—just do it the way Belle Red did,” the instructor said, pointing at Belle, who was still prostrate. “Strike the dummy with your weapon. But if you shred another one, I’ll be annoyed—so use the back, not the edge. I need to see exactly how hopeless your skills are.”
He tossed a sword onto the ground.
Three choices now lay before them: blade, spear, and bow with arrows. All sharp, all deadly. Firearms hadn’t been issued yet, so guns weren’t an option.