Chapter 2 - The Honest Warrior
As far as Ernest could remember, his father, Haires, was never exactly a warm or affectionate parent.
Haires was always extremely strict with Ernest.
Ernest was afraid of his father. Even though Haires had never once raised his hand or raised his voice at Ernest, the fear was there.
The only times Haires looked at Ernest were when he was disciplining him.
He always wore a face with sunken cheeks and dark eyelids, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, not on Ernest, always with a look of melancholy in his eyes.
Almost like a ghost.
Or perhaps a corpse.
But as time passed, Ernest came to realize that his father wasn't as cold and heartless as he had once believed.
This realization struck him in the spring of the year he turned ten, when his heart gave him trouble for the first time.
In truth, most of Ernest's memories from that time were blurry.
He couldn't remember exactly when he collapsed or when he took medicine.
However, there was one memory that remained perfectly clear.
Ernest, dulled by medication, was lying in bed, gasping for shallow breaths.
He understood with surprising clarity that he was dying—and he had already come to accept it.
Even though he was only ten years old, his condition was so dire that these thoughts didn't even seem strange.
He glanced around, drawing comfort from the faint, warm glow of a candle burning at his bedside.
Alone in a room with nothing but a single small candle, Ernest, lying there dying, could clearly see the darkness reaching out to him, flashing its teeth.
"······."
However, when Ernest noticed his father sitting hunched in a chair far from the bed, hands tightly clasped as if in desperate prayer, watching him with an intensity that bordered on pleading, he realized he had been wrong.
To Ernest, it seemed as if Haires might be swallowed up by the darkness and disappear at any moment.
The darkness that bared its teeth and reached out wasn't trying to devour Ernest—it was surely after Haires.
It was then that Ernest also understood his father wasn't a stern, unfeeling man, but rather, an incredibly sorrowful one.
The deep blackness in Haires's eyes, heavy with sadness, loneliness, despair, and fear, seemed to Ernest like an abyss swallowing up his very soul.
'Ah, I see now.'
Even while gasping and dying, seeing that heartfelt look on his father's face made Ernest smile a little, if only for a moment.
Perhaps his father's prayers had been answered, or perhaps it was simply good fortune, but Ernest eventually recovered from his illness.
Though he still had to take medicine regularly—never knowing when his heart might trouble him again—he never again collapsed and faded away as he did then.
After overcoming his illness, Ernest picked up a peculiar habit.
"Ernest. You've lit up the whole house again. What if there's a fire?"
Every nightfall, Ernest would gather all the candles and lamps in the house and, with his small body, go around lighting them one by one.
Haires scolded him for this more than once.
The small Krieger home didn't even have a single Valt Lighting fixture like other households, so it was all too easy for a fire to start by mistake.
They were never concerned about the cost of candles or oil.
Even if the Kriegers lived in a small, old house, they never once had to worry about money.
"Then I'll just be extra careful not to let anything catch fire, ok?"
After saying that to his father—whom he used to be so afraid of—Ernest moved the candlesticks and lamps to the center of the room.
He did this to prevent the flames from catching onto the curtains or tablecloth.
As with most childish ideas, it was pure and innocent in its logic.
The result, however, was that with all the candles and lamps clustered awkwardly in the very middle of the room, it became difficult to walk around, and there was no light in the places it was actually needed.
Haires scolded Ernest a few more times.
Yet unlike before, when he would only nod cautiously at anything his father said, Ernest stubbornly kept up this odd practice.
In the end, Haires had special brass candlesticks and lamps made, and had them fixed to the desk and the wall with nails so the flames wouldn't spread elsewhere, and he even had to set up a few safety measures just in case anything went wrong.
"In the end, your stubbornness has won out over me."
After several months of fierce back-and-forth, Haires finally raised the white flag to his young son.
Given that he himself, despite having money, had never bought Balt Lighting, Haires wasn't really in a position to talk about being stubborn.
At Haires's declaration of surrender, Ernest flashed his father a broad smile—the first time he could ever recall doing so.
From that moment on, the small, old Krieger home, which had always felt so gloomy, was filled with a steady, warm light, and it seemed even Haires was able to smile, if only a little.
When summer arrived, Ernest accompanied his father to the Juvenile Military Academy.
It wasn't because he was trying to enroll.
He had to go to take the Balt Aptitude Test, which was mandatory for all children once they turned ten.
If you are deemed suitable in the Balt Aptitude Test, you are called a Baltracher.
And depending on your abilities, you are assigned one of four ranks.
A third-class Baltracher can transfer Balt stored in a Balt Battery to another battery. That's all, but even so, they are highly valued as irreplaceable resources not just in various Balt Industries, but in the military as well.
A second-class Baltracher can extract Balt from a Balt Battery and handle it directly.
Typically, Baltrachers at this stage, after undergoing long and rigorous training, gain the ability to move objects without touching them.
Second-class Valtrachers rarely work in industry or research; they are usually assigned to the military.
From the moment they enlist, they are promoted to Senior Captain, so from here on, it can truly be said that their lives have changed for the better.
First-class Baltrachers have special abilities.
Using a Balt Battery, they can read people's emotions or even foresee events that will soon occur, see through objects, or heal wounds. Depending on their abilities, their careers can also vary widely.
First-class Baltrachers also start as at least Senior Captains upon enlisting, and may be promoted to Field Officer or even General Officer rank depending on the kind of power they possess.
Those with especially rare talents may go to work in research institutes.
They are the finest talents in the Empire.
And finally, there is the Master Baltracher—of whom there is only one in the world.
He is the Emperor of the Mihahil Empire, the very first Baltracher, and the only one known to handle Balt without a Balt Battery: Walter Ulrich Mihahil.
Upon turning ten, every child is required to take the Balt Aptitude Test. It's a moment that countless children—and their families—count down to with great anticipation. Children dream of becoming powerful Baltrachers who wield supernatural power, and parents hope that their child will become a Baltracher, bringing enormous wealth and honor to the family.
Just like any other child, Ernest dreamed of becoming a powerful Baltracher, and so he looked forward to this day with great excitement. Haires, on the other hand, didn't seem pleased at all. In fact, from the very beginning, Haires had never seen any reason to sell his young son as a tool to the Empire.
"S-Sorry! I didn't recognize you...!"
"It's only natural you wouldn't know. It's been ages since I retired."
That was the first time Ernest realized that his father was a retired soldier.
The soldiers conducting the Balt Aptitude Test treated Haires—who had been retired for quite some time—with utmost respect and formality. It wasn't as though Haires alone was being given special treatment; all active and retired officers of Field Officer Rank and above were regarded with respect.
In other words, Haires must have retired at least as a Field Officer.
Returning to the story of the Balt Aptitude Test—getting straight to the result—Ernest was found unsuitable.
The test measured Balt aptitude using devices classified into five sizes, depending on capacity and Balt accumulation. All Ernest managed was to make a very faint blue light flicker once within the smallest Valt testing device.
While this meant he didn't entirely lack aptitude, his ability to actually wield supernatural Balt power was virtually nonexistent. More than half of those who fail receive this same result, so there was no particular reason to be disappointed.
"What an excellent talent. Surely the great Emperor of our glorious Mihahil Empire has blessed this child. My boy, you will one day study and wield Balt, the very source of the Empire's strength, and become a hero who leads us to a brighter future."
"Thank you! Long live our glorious Emperor!"
Children who were judged to possess excellent talent at the Balt Aptitude Test had their futures decided on the spot.
Third-class candidates would become industrial workers, but even then, their pay was sufficient to revive an impoverished household.
In that sense, the emergence of a new second-class baltracher at this very moment could truly be called today's main event.
That boy would skip straight past the Juvenile Military Academy and enter the Imperial Military Academy in the capital city Grimman, where he would undergo rigorous training in the Special Training Division as a second-class baltracher.
And if all went well, he would graduate and become a Senior Captain by the age of fifteen—twenty at the latest.
The boy's parents burst into tears of joy, repeatedly expressing their gratitude for His Majesty the Emperor's benevolence.
Now, they no longer had to worry about making ends meet.
If their child distinguished himself on the battlefield, perhaps their family might even attain hereditary nobility.
"Are you disappointed?"
Haires asked, noticing that his son, who had been deemed unsuitable in the aptitude test, was staring at the boy who had become a second-class baltracher.
"...Yes, a little…"
Ernest answered with an awkward smile. Haires looked down quietly at his unusually mature young son, then silently began to walk away. Ernest followed his father, leaving the Juvenile Military Academy behind.
However, when he returned home, Ernest realized he was far more disappointed than he had thought.
Alone in his room, curled up with reddened eyes, he kept recalling the boy who had been overjoyed to become a second-class baltracher—or rather, the boy's parents, crying tears of gratitude.
"Ernest."
"...Yes, Father."
Haires called out to his son in a low tone, watching him with an inscrutable expression.
As Ernest blinked his red eyes, puzzled by his father's silent gaze, Haires finally spoke to his young son in a somewhat firm voice.
"Come with me."
Sniffling softly, Ernest hurried to follow after his father, who was already leaving the room.
Without a word, Haires led the way down to the underground storeroom.
The storeroom was a mess, cluttered with all sorts of things covered in dust and cobwebs.
Ernest had never been down there before, so he felt a bit scared, but he tried not to show it as he followed his father down the stairs.
Haires roughly shoved aside some boxes and headed to the deepest corner of the underground storeroom.
With every step, dust billowed up and shadows trembled in the darkness as if tiny insects were scurrying about, leaving Ernest no choice but to stiffen with anxiety.
"…We really ought to clean down here."
Haires muttered quietly, perhaps feeling a bit uncomfortable showing his son the disordered state of the storeroom.
He was compulsive about keeping the house spotless, but this underground storeroom was the one place he never touched.
Haires continued to the corner and pulled out a box that had been carelessly shoved away. Then, turning around, he left the storeroom. This time, Ernest was the one to lead the way up the stairs.
Haires squinted up at his young son, who was carefully climbing the steps into the light as if dazzled by the sight. Dust swirled thickly, and for a moment, it seemed as if Ernest was being wrapped in light and ascending to the heavens.
"Father?"
"…"
Standing there in the dust-filled storeroom, Ernest called out to Haires, who was gazing up at him blankly.
Haires parted his lips as if about to speak, then closed them again and slowly ascended the stairs, leaving the underground storeroom behind.
"What is this?"
Ernest was usually the type to quietly wait for his father to explain, but this time his curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't help but ask.
The box Haires had retrieved was so thoroughly covered in dust and cobwebs it looked suffocating, yet even that couldn't completely hide the luxurious details—a glimpse of black velvet and gold-plated decorations peeking through.
"…"
Haires stared silently down at the battered box, then slowly undid the latch.
Click.
The clasp of the box, untouched for who knows how long, opened with a surprisingly smooth and crisp sound. Haires slowly lifted the lid.
"…Wow…"
Ernest's eyes widened in awe at what was revealed inside. The interior of the box was lined in rich red velvet, and within it lay a deep blue officer's dress uniform and a Balt Pistol.
The Balt Pistol emitted a mysterious white sheen, its material indeterminate, and slotted beside it was a rectangular Balt Battery that gave off the same glow.
Both the form and firing mechanism were now considered obsolete.
But that hardly mattered, as this Balt Pistol had never been intended for actual combat or killing—it was not its purpose.
It was a rare item, crafted for field officers and above during the Mihahil Empire's conquest wars.
Yet, more than the Balt Pistol, what truly captured Ernest's attention was the deep blue officer's uniform.
The uniform was crumpled, as if someone had simply shed and tossed it aside, but the medals dangling from the left breast still shimmered brightly, their luster undimmed.
No less than seven medals adorned Haires's dress uniform.
If he wore it now, the weight of those medals would pull at the fabric and make it uncomfortable to move.
"..."
Haires silently gazed at the splendid uniform.
In his dry, rough eyes, countless complicated emotions seemed to swirl.
"These are rank insignia, right? What rank is it?"
Unwilling to touch the uniform, Ernest hesitantly pointed at the epaulets with a small finger and asked Haires. Haires rubbed the silver rank insignia, blackened from years of neglect, with his dust-covered hand as he spoke.
"The jewels are for company-grade officers, and if it has laurel branches like this, it indicates a field officer rank. For general officers, the insignia is made of gold, not silver."
Following Haires's explanation, Ernest tried to count the jewels on the rank insignia, though it had darkened so much as to be almost unrecognizable.
One, two, three.
"You were a colonel?"
"That's right."
Ernest's yes grew wide as he looked up at his father. Ernest knew that "colonel" was a very high rank. He didn't know the details, but he was at least aware that it was just below the general officer ranks.
If Ernest had known about the circumstances of the Mihahil Imperial Army and its decorations during the period when Haires served, he would have been even more astonished.
The House of Krieger was a small family composed solely of Haires and Ernest.
Back then, there wasn't even a military academy yet.
In other words, starting from the very bottom as a member of a humble family, Haires had worked his way up step by step, rising to the rank of colonel at a young age—in his early thirties.
The remarkable feats he achieved could be inferred from the medals of conquest, but Ernest had no idea what any of that truly meant.
The decorations granted during the Mihahil Empire's conquest wars weren't simply handed out with flimsy excuses like nowadays; only those who had truly earned them were decorated.
Seven medals—such a number would rightfully mark someone as a war hero.
As Ernest leaned in for a closer look at the medals, Haires quickly shut the box.
Though he had every reason to be proud of those decorations, Haires somehow seemed deeply uncomfortable with them.
Avoiding his son's gaze, Haires spoke in a low voice, not looking at Ernest's eyes, which were clouded with disappointment.
"…You may not be able to enter the Juvenile Military Academy anymore, but if you want, you should be able to get into the Imperial Military Academy."
Haires spoke in a flat voice, not meeting his son's eyes just as he always had in the past.
"Krieger is a hereditary noble family, and since your direct bloodline is a retired field officer, you should qualify as long as you meet the minimum requirements."
Haires's demeanor was strange, but Ernest was too caught up in the moment to notice.
"Really? Do you think I could become an outstanding soldier like you, Father?"
Like any child his age, Ernest's eyes sparkled with excitement as he looked up at his father.
Without meeting his son's gaze—so full of admiration and hope—Haires replied in a barely audible whisper.
"You could become an even greater soldier than I was. Perhaps. Yes… perhaps you could even become a Beowatcher."
"A Beowatcher?"
"The Emperor's personal guard."
The Emperor's personal guard, the Beowachter, operates outside the normal Imperial Army rank structure.
They obey only the Emperor's commands, and their sole duty is to protect the Emperor himself.
Other guards are responsible for the imperial family and the Imperial Palace.
The Beowatcher are chosen only from the most reputable high-ranking nobles and the most trustworthy military families.
Both lineage and ability must be proven, so even a company-grade officer would never dare look down on a Beowatcher soldier.
If selected for promotion and becoming an officer within the Beowatcher, one wields tremendous power—enjoying the rare privilege of being able to guard His Majesty the Emperor up close and to speak with him directly.
So, no matter how much of a war hero Haires was—even having been promoted to colonel at such a young age—it would've been nearly impossible for him to become a Beowatcher.
This was because high-ranking nobles who owned their own lands, as well as generals, poured unimaginable amounts of money and influence into lobbying to get their own children accepted as Beowatcher.
"Really? Do you really think that's possible?"
"If you work hard enough, you could make it."
But Haires told his son, his face flushed with excitement and unable to stay still, that it was possible in the most nonchalant tone—as though it were nothing special.
It was far too emotionless a voice for someone saying this just to protect a child's delicate feelings.
Still, those indifferent words were more than enough for Ernest to begin dreaming—not only of joining the Emperor's personal guard, the Beowatcher, which was the greatest honor for any soldier, but also of reaching the very pinnacle of power that every member of the imperial nobility aspired to.
"Getting into and graduating from the Imperial Military Academy won't be too difficult, but becoming a Beowatcher—that's another story,"
Haires said, standing up and brushing the dust from his hands.
"You'll probably need to graduate at the top of your class."
"At the top of my class?"
"Yes."
Ninety percent of cadets at the Imperial Military Academy are either nobles who have risen up through the Juvenile Military Academy or come from distinguished military families—the very best the empire has to offer.
Some of them have been training since the moment they learned to walk and talk.
For someone to graduate at the top of the Imperial Military Academy—that's nothing short of being the empire's finest talent.
No family name can buy that.
Haires quietly looked down at his now-clean hands.
Even after all these years, the scars remained on his rough skin.
As he gazed at a wound that ran horizontally across his left hand and wrapped all the way around the back, Haires squeezed his eyes shut.
After a moment, Haires spoke again, his voice calm.
"I'll train you myself, Ernest."
Only after saying this did Haires finally look his young son straight in the eyes.
"Graduating at the top of your class is up to you, but at the very least, you'll never lose an opportunity just because of a lack of knowledge."
After all, Haires was a remarkably talented soldier—a war hero who had become a colonel at the young age of just over thirty.
So, of course, he could teach Ernest everything he'd need to become a Beowatcher.
Ernest's eyes sparkled with admiration as he replied to his father with conviction.
"Yes, Father! I'll make sure to graduate at the top of the Imperial Military Academy!"
Truth be told, Ernest had never really thought about becoming a soldier.
Up until a moment ago—before his father mentioned it—he hadn't even known what a Beowatcher was.
But wanting to be an outstanding soldier like his father, to make him proud, and to become his father's pride, the boy was making his choice—right now, in this moment.
Haires gazed quietly at Ernest for a while before slowly nodding.
"In that case, training... No, that's not it."
He let out a soft sigh and looked out at the landscape beyond the window, where the darkness was starting to creep in.
"For now, let's get you washed up and have some dinner first."
"So does that mean we start training tomorrow?"
"No."
Haires turned to Ernest and offered a faint smile.
"Tomorrow, let's start by dealing with that wreck of an underground storeroom first."
"...Okay..."
With a slightly pale face, Ernest replied quietly, picturing the underground storeroom filled with dust, cobwebs, and bugs silently crawling in the dark corners.
Haires casually kicked the dusty box containing his uniform and pistol and shoved it in front of the underground storeroom.
Ernest had never seen his father act so careless before, and though he was startled, he said nothing.
"..."
Afterward, Haires went into the bathroom to wash his body, now covered in dust.
He kept his head bowed, simply staring blankly at the floor.
His eyes seemed like a bottomless abyss, black and sunken, as if they had absorbed and melted away countless swirling memories.